Near-death experiences from my mind
What’s on the other side?
People often talk about how near-death experiences changed them. I’m thinking about two for myself. They’re probably less dramatic than you think, but they stick to my mind these days.
About nine years ago when I just arrived in the U.S. for graduate school, I felt like a mess. The desire to study hard and secure a job was there, but I just couldn’t get out of bed each day to do my work. I was overwhelmed by the new environment and my fear of ending up as a loser.
One day, a news story caught my attention: a student was shot and killed in Los Angeles, not far from my location.
I was waiting in a bus stop under the blazing sun, without anybody around. A scene started to play in my mind’s eye: a black car appeared from the corner, rushing through the street. A man rolled down the window and pointed his gun at me. I was shot. While falling down the street, I saw the black car disappear before anyone noticed.
When I blinked my eyes and came back to the reality of scorching sunlight, I heard the voice in my head :
“I don’t want to die like this when I’m wasting my time doing nothing.”
”If I were to die like this, it would be as if I had never existed.”
”I should do something before I die.”
That was when I started really tackling my problems at hand.
…
Another story was three weeks ago and ended up a bit differently.
It was a quiet evening. I just finished a cup of smoothie with my roommate when I felt some discomfort in my heart. Restlessness took over. I walked back to my room and tested ECG with my Apple Watch. At first it turned out inconclusive. I tried again, and a yellow warning sign jumped at my eyes: atrial fibrillation.
I’ve never seen this result before — tried a couple more times and it was the same alarming outcome. I got more and more anxious, so I asked my roommate to take me to the emergency room. The ride to the hospital was probably the longest sixteen minutes I’ve experienced. My body kept shaking involuntarily, and I feared my heart might stop on our way to the hospital.
…
Fortunately, nothing too serious happened. It got me thinking a lot about death.
First off, it was very different in thinking about “Memento mori” versus when you feel like you’re actually dying.
Last year my grandma died at the age of ninety-two. About a month before, she fell down and was sent to ICU. We were both surprised and happy that she survived the ICU and were able to see her again.
When we arrived, my grandma stared at us for a while, then started sobbing, “look at how good each of you are, yet I’m dying…”
People started to comfort her, “You’re not dying. You’ll be fine.”
On the way out I commented, “If I were her, I would have more gratitude that I got to see my family again and live for at least one more day.”
Now I realize how wrong I was to judge her mental state. Death is anything but gentle. I wished I could have stayed by her side, holding her hands, and told her “I’m with you and love you,” completely allowing her to feel.
…
So what is this difference between thinking of dying and feeling?
It’s about the illusion of control. While we can plan our time and nudge ourselves into doing something meaningful, facing actual death reveals how little control we truly have.
During that sixteen minutes, I realized that I had no control whatsoever on my heart. It could have stopped beating at any moment. It is as scary as that.
Or, as Ajahn Chah said, “Death is as close as the breath.”
…
As I started getting back to my usual life, I didn’t feel the sense of urgency I had nine years ago. The urge to achieve something or to make a dent in the world no longer exists.
Given how little control we have, can we ever be certain of achieving any outcome at all?
If this sounds nihilistic, it might well be. At times, I feel as though I’m in free fall, yet I’m convinced there is no bottom.
Now, it’s spring. I was awestruck by a tree blooming with white flowers outside the building. Was the tree determined to do all of this? No, it simply flourishes when conditions are right. And it’s no denying how beautiful it is.
I sense that there is nothing I should do or stuff I have to achieve to prove my existence or worthiness. I’m simply who I am.
My whole body relaxes when I let these sensations in. I see endless possibilities before me. The only limitations are the choices I make based on what I truly want. Nothing stops me but myself.
And when I lean into that ease—or one might call boundless emptiness—something flows out. Perhaps the feeling of gratitude and connectedness. Like, I want to connect more deeply with others and with myself, a pursuit that always feels scary yet truly genuine to me.
Thumbnail photo by Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa