NDE - Throught the Tunnel
Through The Tunnel by Martin Brofman, Ph.D. A Personal Account
of NDE by a Walk-In I was at the Episcopal Hospital in
Philadelphia. I had just been told that I had a "blockage" in my
spinal cord, from the fourth to the seventh cervical vertebrae
at the level of the neck, that had been responsible for the
symptoms I had been experiencing. My right arm was paralyzed, my
legs were spastic, and there were sensations like electric
shocks running through my body when I moved my head.
I was told that I had to have an operation immediately, and that
if I lived through the operation, I might come out of it a
quadriplegic. When I asked if I had time for a second opinion, I
was told that if I coughed or sneezed at that time, I might die.
Naturally, I agreed to have the operation in a few hours.
I realized that according to what the doctors had said, I might
be dead in a few hours. I went through the stages that many
people go through when they know they are about to die. First,
there was the sense that this was a movie set, and that these
things were not really happening to me. I found myself
negotiating with what was happening, bargaining if I could, for
something different to happen. Slowly, the realization that it
was real, and happening to me, came closer and closer, until I
had to emotionally accept that I might very soon be dead.
When I accepted the unacceptable, my body shook violently as an
intensity of energy moved through me. I opened more and more to
it, and after one or two very long minutes it was complete. I
felt a calm inside that I had not known before. All my senses
were sharper. My vision was clearer. Colors were brighter.
Hearing was clearer. Sensations were more alive.
I realized that I had released a perceptual filter that had been
standing between me and the experience of life, and ironically,
it had been the fear of death. Now that I had released that
fear, I was experiencing more of life, more of being alive, even
if just for a short while longer.
I thought of the life I had lived, and the things I could have
done but didn't, and I found myself saying to myself, "I wish I
had." There were a lot of "I wish I hads." I thought to myself
that it was, in fact, a sad way to end a life, and that if I had
to do it again, there would be a lot of "I'm glad I dids." I had
to decide what I wanted to do with the short time I had left. If
I spent my remaining time worrying or feeling bad about what
was, in fact, inevitable, I would have just wasted the rest of
my life, thrown it away, and it was too valuable for that.
I decided to spend my remaining time feeling good, and just
thinking of things that helped me to feel good - the color of
the paint on the walls, the smell of flowers in the room,
anything positive. I knew I could always find something.
Finally, the time came. I was taken to the operating room, and
as I was being given the anesthetic, I thought that this might
be the last experience I would ever have. I had no idea what
might come afterwards. I had been agnostic, with no beliefs,
believing in nothing that I had not experienced. Perhaps the
next step after death was just oblivion. I let go.
I began to experience a vertigo, a sense of spinning, and it
didn't feel good, so I stabilized myself in the center of it
until I was still, and everything else was spinning around me. I
was moving through the spinning scenes, which were memories from
the life I had lived, memories which were calling for my
attention. If I put my attention on them, though, I felt myself
"pulled," because I was moving through these spinning memories,
like being pulled through a tunnel, or falling down a well, but
discovering that half-way down the well. Reaching for the walls
would not work. My only hope would be to aim for the water at
the bottom.
I had to withdraw my attention from these scenes, then, these
memories, and put my attention on the place to which I was being
drawn, aiming for it. I was headed there anyway, but aiming for
it gave me more of a sense of being in the driver's seat, and
that was a lot more comfortable for me. It was a bit like riding
a roller coaster in the front car, and pretending that you're
driving the thing along the tracks. It gives a totally different
ride, I can assure you, than being swept out of control.
The ride was long, but I had nothing else to do but go for it.
Finally, the end of the tunnel was in sight. I came out into a
kind of space, a stillness, where there was a glow of energy
addressing me. It was like a spark of life, energy glowing with
intelligence, not in a human form, just pure consciousness. It
seemed that some distance away, there was another spark just
observing the scene.
I felt as though I were having an exit interview, something
like, "Well, your trip is over now, so complete things in your
consciousness about that, and we'll move on." I looked back and
saw my life as I had lived it, completed my thoughts about
things that had happened, understood a lot of things
differently, and then expressed that I was ready. The Being
began to move away. I began to follow, and then I paused. The
Being quickly asked me what the thought was that had just
entered my consciousness. I had thought that it would be a shame
for my daughters to have grown up without their father in their
life. I had spent a large part of my life without my father in
it, and I would have liked my daughters to not have to have
experienced that. Anyway, I was ready to go. The Being said that
because my reason for wanting to return was somebody outside
myself, I would be allowed to return. Before I had the chance to
express that I didn't really want to return, there was a rapid,
confused movement, something happened, the other spark which had
been "observing" was somehow a part of it, and then I was waking
up in this body, in traumatic pain, with intense drama going on
around me in the hospital. I felt as if I had just jumped into a
movie that had been underway, but that I had not been the one in
the body before this moment. Because of the trauma and the
drama, my attention was directed to things happening in the
physical world, and the memory of what had happened before was
somehow obliterated. I had other things happening which were
demanding my attention, and besides, I did not have the belief
systems that would allow me to accept what had just happened.
Over the next year, I began to explore ideas and philosophies I
had no experience of before. I read books like "Life After
Life," and "Life After Death," and other writings which
described what people called, "Near Death Experiences," and I
began to remember what had happened. I saw the similarities to
what others had experienced, and I knew then what had happened
to me. I thought also of the similarities to what we consider
the "normal" birth process, where babies are born into bright
lights and loud sounds and being slapped, and perhaps, their
attention is so much directed to outer things that they forget
their inner experiences just before the process of being born.
>From time to time, I meet others who have made the trip, and we
compare notes. "What was it like for you?" One woman said that
before, she was certain there would be a Being on the other side
with a big book, looking at what she had and had not done, and
making checks and crosses, good marks and bad marks. When she
got to the other side, there really was a Being there with a big
book, just as she thought there would be. The only bad marks she
got, though, were for the things that she hadn't done. Her only
sin was self-denial.
My diagnosis on leaving the hospital was "Spinal Cord Tumor."
There was no treatment possible. I was given one or two months
to live, and I decided to do that living my new philosophy of
"I'm glad I did." I decided to work on myself, working in my
consciousness to release the tumor. Later, the doctors decided
that they must have made a mistaken diagnosis.
But that's another story.
By Martin Brofman, Ph.D.