Dr. John's "first death"

Dr. Bellg writes: “When I first met Dr. John Martin, I had been consulted to help manage his increasing respiratory distress from the metastatic disease that had sprouted from his colon cancer and settled in his lungs. Offering him the respect I felt he was due, I addressed him by his title when I introduced myself. Setting formalities aside he invited me to call him by his first name, but professional graces being what they are, I found that difficult so I just called him Dr. John. Smiling, he reciprocated by calling me Dr. Laurin. We immediately hit it off.

“Over the ensuing days, as he grew weaker, his family increased their vigil, maintaining more of a presence in the inpatient hospice he had recently been transferred. The atmosphere was purposely serene and he looked peaceful. One day, as I dropped by to see him as part of my daily rounds, I was surprised to find him alone.” Where is everyone? I asked.

They were too sad and it was bringing me down, so I sent them away, he joked. No, I told them I needed to rest so they stepped out for lunch.

Would you like me to come back later? I offered.

No, it’s fine. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.

Of course, I said.

“Finding a chair and pulling it to his bedside, I sat down facing him. He reached out his hand to me and I took it. We sat there for a moment with him looking down at the covers and I could tell he was gathering his thoughts to speak, so I waited for him to break the silence. Finally, squeezing my hand before releasing it, he looked up at me with direct eye contact and I could see his resolve, as if he had decided to entrust me with something very personal.

I’m not afraid to die, he said softly, because I’ve died twice before. Tilting his head slightly and squinting his eyes, he regarded me, weighing my reactions.

Tell me, I said, intentionally leaning forward and resting my hands on the arms of the chair in what I hoped was an invitational gesture encouraging him to continue. Seeming to be bolstered by my interest, he told me his story of not one death but two.

“In 1944 he was fresh out of medical school when he enlisted to serve in World War II as a field physician. As was customary at the time, to make sure she was taken care of should he not return from war, he married his longtime girlfriend before heading overseas. After a brief initial training in the United States he was transported to the European Theater.

“Barely 3 months into his overseas assignment, while heading out with part of his unit to an outpost triage area for the freshly wounded, their transform jeep was hit by mortar fire, killing the driver and severely wounding the rest of them. Two of his companions died before help could safely transport them back to the hospital, and Dr. John sustained extensive abdominal trauma. Bleeding heavily from his wounds, he passed out on the way back to the Army Hospital they had left barely two hours earlier.

“His next conscious memory was that of floating above his body in the operating room, watching as blood rushed in and pooled in the crevices of his open abdomen as quickly as they could clear it away. He knew all of the doctors and nurses as friends and colleagues and he found it incredibly strange to be watching them in such a detailed manner as they fought intensely to save him.

I can’t find the damn bleeder! He heard the surgeon say in frustration. Keep the blood coming. If you can’t get it fast enough, then I want plasma. The surgeon’s panic was only barely veiled by his intense inner determination not to lose this battle.

“Dr. John heard it all; he saw it at all. He was astonished at how aware he was as he looked. Then a sound distracted him and his attention was drawn to the slowing of his heartbeat on the monitor near his head. At the same time, he felt himself drifting farther away from the drama of the surgery. The last thing he recalled of that scene was the surgeon cursing and yelling out that they were losing him—and his own solitary thought: I must be dying.

“Then he found himself completely and peacefully enveloped in what he could only describe as a soft shroud of mist with tiny points of light blinking in and out, as they darted quickly back and forth all around him. He felt completely weightless and peaceful, void of any fear. The feeling of love was immense, almost unbearable, and recalling it now, Dr. John’s voice became fragile as he paused to fight back tears.

“Retaining his composure, after a few moments he continued. He described floating in such a beautiful and bright place of total peace that he lost all thoughts and concerns related to anything connected to his physical existence. He was aware of nothing except how good it felt to be there where he was—wherever that was. How long he lingered in this space he could not say because time had immediately lost meaning for him.

“Suddenly, though, he heard a very distinct voice say gently but firmly, You can’t stay, John. It’s not your time to die. Whether the voice was male or female he couldn’t determine, but it was commanding and he did not protest. Instinctively, he knew it would be pointless to argue.

“Feeling peaceful and detached, he felt himself descending and slowly his body came back into view as the mist surrounding him dissipated and he could once more hear the clamor and tension of the operating room. Hovering above the scene, he watched the weak representation of his pulse on the monitor slowly gaining strength as the resuscitation efforts of the surgical team reclaimed their hold on Dr. John’s physical body.

Thank God, he heard the surgeon whisper to himself as he stepped back and let an attendant wipe sweat from his brow.

“This was Dr. John’s last awareness of that particular episode. As he lay drifting in and out of consciousness on the surgical ward—a large, open room lined with several beds along each wall, separated only by curtains—he found his thoughts often drawn to that mysterious event that defied any explanation he could come up with. What he had seen and experienced had been so real. He knew that under the effects of anesthesia, he shouldn’t have been able to see his body or the surgical team the way he had. Yet it had been so clear.

“He missed the way that weightless space felt, especially when the effects of the morphine wore off. Whenever the racking pain of his surgery washed over him, he longed for the loss of physical sensation he had experienced in that cloud of total peace, as he would come to refer to it. But, as Dr. John had suggested when he started telling me about his experience, it would not be the last time he would be there.

Laurin Bellg, Near Death in the ICU, 1-6.