I died when I was nine; well, I died twice, to be exact. The doctors had to resuscitate me and rush me into surgery for an "exploratory," which is what they termed it back then (the early 60s). My spleen was ruptured beyond repair, and in those days a splenectomy was risky business. I ended up having my spleen removed, lucky that it was not my liver, as they originally thought. You can live minus a spleen but cannot live lacking a liver.
It all began when we went to my Aunt Maxine and Uncle Earl's farm for a family birthday. I didn't really want to go; I would have rather done something, anything else. I tried having a fit, but it did not work to excuse me from the family gathering about which I had such apprehensions.
We had just arrived and after pouting a bit, I decided that since I was there I might as well play with the cousins. We were running and laughing, lining up for the big rope-knot swing, when one of my cousins swung down suddenly and unexpectedly. She had her legs stretched out in front of her and went wham, right into my side! It felt as if I'd been kicked by a horse! I went flying, landing six or seven feet from where I had been standing. I was unconscious for a moment or two, crying as the excruciating pain began. The kids, thinking I was fine, were teasing me and calling me a "baby."
I staggered in to recount to my parents what had happened. They gave me a cursory once-over, decided I was okay and told me to go out and play. I was not a fragile child; I was a bit of a tomboy actually, and usually it took something extraordinary to make me cry. Because of my sniveling earlier, my parents didn't take me seriously; I think they thought it was just a ploy. When I persisted, my mother told me to go sit in the car till they were ready to leave. This was at about 2 in the afternoon.
When they finally got ready to leave, somewhere around 8:30, my mother realized that she had not seen me all day. They found me in the car, curled up like a cat, sleeping. When I had to move so we could all fit in the car, I cried out in pain, and Mom got a worried look on her face. When we got home, my Mom and Dad began poking and prodding at me to try to figure out if I was indeed badly injured or just faking it. I was ghostly pale and still in a considerable amount of pain. I suppose that they ultimately grasped that something must be badly wrong, because they sent for a family friend, who lived down the street and was a nurse. She took one look at me and rushed them out of the room.
Things took on a different feeling after that. There was an air of urgency as they dressed me, bundled me up and carried me to the car. I kept passing out, and it was very irritating, with them trying to keep me awake, me wanting the escape of sleep.
When we arrived at the hospital, it was extremely difficult for me to remain conscious. The doctors took turns poking me, and the only time I fully regained my wits was when they poked hard at the area where it hurt the most. I got mad, yelled at them and the last thing I fully recall is an orderly wheeling me into a very bright room. The nurses were talking about me as if I weren't there. I detest that!
I awoke two days later in an unfamiliar place, feeling muddled and with something very hard and heavy on my belly. I felt down there, and it was like a rock. I had never fractured a bone, so I did not recognize cast plaster. I was trussed around the middle, couldn't sit up or move much, and I freaked out! I wanted to know what had happened, and as I lay there, dazed and confused, it all began to come into focus a bit at a time.
I remembered going to the hospital, and the doctors poking at me, then going into the bright room. The next thing I recollected was rising up from my body, as I had done many times before, and bumping into the ceiling. I recalled the huge ceiling light above my body, but I was observing it from behind it. The doctors and nurses who were working on me seemed to be very upset, and they were doing CPR. I recognize that now; I didn't know exactly what they were doing at the time. They were rushing around, and one of them, the one with the blood-pressure cuff, kept saying "We're losing her!" The main doctor was yelling, "Do we have an O.R.?" What was an O.R.?
I didn't comprehend much of what was going on; I was tired and wanted to relax. I viewed them for a few minutes, and they seemed really upset, so I decided to depart from there and locate something more enjoyable to do. I drifted up and out of the hospital instantaneously, just I had previously; a thought, and I was there. I went into "the rainbow," as I had titled it. It was an indescribable expanse, a dazzling light that comprised all the colors of the rainbow and then some, and it shimmered and sparkled. It was a very thick environment, with the "air" the consistency of wet cotton. There did not seem to be a fount for the light; the space was the light. There were also beings, large and small, of many kinds. These were all expressed only as energy, and though I could recognize people I knew, it was not like "seeing" them with my eyes. I was happy to know that my animal friends were there, too! It was a warm and inviting place, where I felt a safe, secure and unprecedented love unlike anything I can describe.
As this was not the initial time I had visited "the light" - I had been traveling out of my body since before I was five - I can say that this time was dissimilar to the others. I felt entirely free, unhindered and exhilarated to be there. I knew from what the doctors had said that I was dying. I felt no grief; I just thought of how sad my family would be. Then there was someone telling me no! I had to go back; I wasn't finished yet. It was announced that there had been an error. (This was entirely unspoken, more as if I were feeling it inside my head.) So I said, "I thought you guys didn't make mistakes!" (Whoever "you guys" were.) I somberly returned to the operating room. I can still see that room in my mind's eye.
As the hospital staff subsequently told my mother, my heart stopped twice, and it was a miracle I lived through it. I had been bleeding internally since I had been injured early in the day, and it was about 10:30 at night when they operated. I would have bled to death earlier, if I hadn't curled up and gone to sleep, which allowed my blood to create a clot, which stopped the bleeding as long as I didn't move. When I was moved, it broke open again, and I began to lose blood once more. I got to the hospital in the nick of time; I am here to write this, but I could just as easily not have made it. I am very grateful to all of the people who gave blood in my name, as I was completely out of blood by the time I arrived at the hospital; I was transfused and received many quarts. My hospital stay was three weeks, and I have a huge scar on my front as a reminder of my experience.
My glimpses into the "other side" have been many and varied, but this is the only time I actually "died." I conclude that the spirit does indeed continue on after death, and this is one example of that. When my near-death occurred, there were not other public accounts of this phenomenon. There were no books that were accessible, no Oprah show. There was no other information available to me. I had my look beyond the veil, and there was no Christian "God" as they described him, and no "heaven" as they described it.
In closing, this Samhain I'd like to remind you to take seriously honoring your dead ancestors, because they may still be close enough to check up on you and what you are up to!
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