What I know for sure about death and dying is limited. I’m positive there’s something else. I just don’t know what. If you’ve read my blogs, especially since Ruth’s accident, you know that I believe that she stops in to let me know she’s still with me. There are no big visions or conversations just the occasional “I’m here moment”.
When I posted my last blog just past midnight as last Wednesday appeared, I followed my normal routine. I read my words one last time before posting. I attempted to add of picture that we’d taken at our fiftieth wedding celebration party. It featured the two of us and our kids and their families.
The photo had been taken by a professional photographer. It wouldn’t upload because of restrictions the photographer had placed on its access. I substituted a picture I had used before and moved on.
The final stage of the posting process has two steps. I link it to my Facebook account, and I print a copy of the story for a set of notebooks that I keep. When I post on Facebook whatever picture I use pops up while I add a brief description. When I did that on Wednesday, the photo of our 50th wedding anniversary popped up instead of the picture you saw. It was the picture I tried to use but couldn’t. The moment it appeared I was convinced that Ruth had intervened. She was just letting me know that she was near. I can’t explain it, but I totally accept it. Once I pushed “publish” the photo that you saw came back. The photo from our fiftieth anniversary disappeared. I should have taken a screen shot with my phone to verify what happened, but I didn’t. Next time I will.
And now, here’s Dani’s story. (far left)
Dani is a member of my Florida memoir writers’ group. Like all of our members, she has the opportunity to share pieces of stories from her life. She’s an American citizen but spends much of her time in Europe. German is her go to language. She speaks four.
She’s very interested in the stories that are shared within the group and we hang on every word when she tells hers. She’s lived an interesting life. She’s writing what I think will eventually become a book. Part of her European life centers on motorcycles. She’s owned more than one business that caters to motorcyclists. She’s raced them herself.
When we read to the group, we have seven minutes to share, so many stories are read over a series of several weeks. We get small doses and are left hanging sometimes. One installment from Dani ended when she crashed in a motorcycle race. She read this next piece on February 27th. Tears welled in my eyes as I listened to her words. I felt them comforting.
The moment of death was quite unspectacular, it was undramatic to the extent of being quite disappointing, I mean, nothing happened!
I was just dead.
There were no angels, no lights at the end of a tunnel, no tunnel at all, no soft white clouds, no harps or rhapsodies, no beautiful figures enclosed in white mist, no birds singing, no warm breeze, no special comfort – not even uncomfort nor heat nor pain – I mean really nothing – someone just turned the lights off – and that was it.
My life ended in a heartbeat, what a choice of words, but that is exactly what I remember about the moment of death. It happened so suddenly:
One moment I was alive and the next I was dead, and that was all …
I just simply died, my heart stopped beating, my blood stopped churning thru my veins, my systems just quit working and that was it.
It did take a moment for my brain to realize what had happened, to understand that life was over, so I did still feel something. That’s why for a few split seconds I was still thinking – I was still conscious. There was no pain, no anxiety or fear, no remorse, no longing, no repent.
I was still conscious to a certain extent.
But I had no thoughts like: “I should have…. I could have….” There was no review of my life either, not even the most important moments of my life ….it was just over, life was over without any big commotion, it was no big deal, it was just over.
The lights turned off; my thoughts stopped.
Obliviousness….
A dark, calm, tranquil END.
I felt comfortable. I must admit, I liked it – it was a nice feeling, a soothing sensation, comforting, tranquil, warm, safe, secure. No pressure, no demands, no desires, no expectations – I felt at ease…it was nice, I nestled into death, curled up and felt safe.
Nobody judged me anymore, I didn’t have to prove anything anymore, I felt accepted the way I was, no need to pretend being someone else or better than whom I was. I was me.
Everything was good and I was good. I was good the way I was. The atmosphere was pleasant; it was undemanding, understanding, empathetic, kind.
I felt that I was being accepted as I was and that everything was ok. What a valuable feeling.
I wanted this feeling to persist, I did not want death to end.
Dani’s experience is nothing like anything I’ve heard before. I’ve read, and listened to others recount the moment of their death. Most spoke of bright lights and/or dark tunnels.
Another man in our group has died three times. Each was under a different set of circumstances but each time he encountered a family member who had passed before. They told him that it wasn’t his time, and he should go back. He didn’t want to, but he did.
My mom told me a story about her youngest sister, Mildred, who went into a coma for several weeks. Mildred was about thirteen at the time. Her first words when she woke up were, “Grandma told me to come back.” Her grandmother had been dead for several years.
I don’t completely understand any of this. I’m learning as I go. When my time comes, which I hope if a long way off, if there’s a way, I’ll try to reach out to you.
Most of Ruth’s contact with me is through electronics: smoke alarms chirping, lights going off unexpectedly and then turning themselves back on, or computer malfunctions that self-correct. There are lost items that appear out of nowhere or the smell of her perfume that Elizabeth experienced. Young Jackson James turning to speak to her in a California restaurant while his mom and dad, and Aunt BZ and Uncle Sutton, looked on. He was just eighteen months old on the day she died and about a year had passed when he spoke up.
I can’t explain any of it, but there’s something else. That’s what I know for sure.