Like many nurses, I've witnessed many deaths. I've seen patients go suddenly, and seen some hang on, only to pass when a particular family member arrived- and even while still deeply unresponsive.
I've left a shift with a patient barely hanging on, and said good-bye- and amazingly, they were still there the next morning when I returned. I've seen enough to know you can never predict the time of death although there are signs when the end is near.
These things I know. But what happened to me last week is something I didn't know and had never heard of before. Naturally skeptical, I wouldn't have believed it if it hadn't happened to me.
I've heard of near death experiences, but I have never heard of a shared death experience- until it happened to me a week ago. It was profound and indescribable but here's my best effort.
The Background
My ex-husband and I had been married for nine years and divorced for over thirty. I had wanted the divorce. We had both re-married, but he had never really let go, and believed that he and I would get back together someday. I didn't have the same feelings, and we hadn't talked in years.
This past year he had been in a wheelchair and most recently in a nursing home.
Saturday
It was a Saturday, and with the help of the nursing staff, he ate breakfast and then lunch as usual.
Later that afternoon, his favorite nursing assistant sat at his bedside and shared Cheetos from a bag with him, joking and laughing.
Mid-afternoon, our daughter Jessica visited and unexpectedly found him suddenly unresponsive, still with orange Cheetos powder dust on his fingers, but with his eyes closed and not responding when she talked to him.
Jessica called the nurse in who checked his blood pressure. It was 70/45 with a heart rate of 130. Jessica texted me from the nursing home and I immediately thought sepsis. He had a large pressure injury and had lost so much weight in the past two years.
Within the hour a hospice nurse arrived and said that a form must be filled out, a DNR. Jessica protested "But he's already a DNR. I signed this form in the hospital, and I'm his power of attorney."
"I'm sure you did, and I'm sorry, I don't know what happened, but you need to sign it now or we'll have to call an ambulance and transport him to the hospital"
That evening, everyone went to say their good-byes, pray with him, play his favorite music...but finally everyone left to go home. Through it all he remained peaceful and unresponsive. Each ragged and irregular breath seemed like his last. When they left, his blood pressure was 60/30.
Sunday
The next morning everyone woke up and checked their cell phones, surprised there had been no calls from the nursing home.
We decided I would go take the grandchildren to the movies and Jessica would go to the bedside.
Jessica sat with him for hours, while he continued to breathe. Meanwhile....
At the Movies
At the movies, we settled in to watch an action film complete with a teen-age heartthrob and a romantic sub-plot. It turned out to be a perfect escape from reality. Until halfway through the movie, that is.
A distracting impression came to me "Something's happening. His condition is changing. He's going."
I pushed the thought away as imagination, but it was hard to ignore. I felt like I was being asked to do something. I hesitated and almost said no...but then said yes.
I closed my eyes and the movie theater disappeared. I was with him in a different time and space. There was no sound. I could see him, or the essence of him, to my left.
He was wrapped like a mummy, with only his head uncovered. His features were not clear, like an image in an old mirror and with a sepia filter. The outer layers of fabric around his form were loose and flowing, a linen-like material but more flowy. It had no end- the fabric just merged into the dark background space around him.
He was moving upwards to the light above his head. I looked at it. A beautiful, diffuse light that was more than light-it was a place, a space, an energy. It was freedom and release and forgiveness and acceptance. I was glimpsing eternity.
He was saying "I have to go. I can't hang on" not in voice or words but clearly and to me. More clear than voice or words, a knowing.
Then I understood I was there to help him pass. He had to go and somehow I was part of it. My spirit surged and I sent my energy to help propel his spirit upwards. To pass. "It's good, yes, go. Go in peace".
It was the most profound, indescribable and most peaceful feeling I have ever, ever experienced.
Then it was over.
The movie came back, the smell of popcorn and the noise returned- the now very annoying, intrusive sounds of a scene with car squeals and gunshots.
Did this just happen? Had I imagined it all? Projected the vision? No one would believe me, and I wasn't sure I believed it.
Time: 1:32
I needed to know the time. I reached inside my purse for my phone, shielding the light from my granddaughters on either side of me. It was 1:32. Time of death: 1:32. I pictured a doctor or trained nurse coming in soon to declare the time of death and knew they would be wrong. Because I knew. The time of death was 1:32.
I decided to text my daughter at the bedside. But what should I text?
"Your dad just died"? No." Did your Dad just die?" No.
I texted simply "Weird feeling" to send out a feeler. Immediately her response came back "I think he just died".
"I know" I texted back "I felt it". Felt? What an insufficient word for what had just happened. I realized how hard this was going to be to tell anyone. It transcended words.
Time: 1:34
I looked again at the time. 1:34.
She texted me again: "I haven't called the nurse yet. Don't tell the kids."
Later Jessica would share with me "He opened his eyes just before he died and his lips moved." To which I thought, "Yes, I know. My eyes were opened as well."
I was humbled that somehow I was included in his passing. Humbled because I was chosen (?) allowed? to witness his passing. To glimpse eternity as a mere mortal.
I am less skeptical and not afraid of death. I want to share my story to help others who may have had similar experiences and I hope it gives comfort.
Best wishes,
Nurse Beth
