She was transferred to another hospital where she would receive 24-hr constant dialysis. After five days, the doctors in the ICU decided to wake her from the coma, though they kept her fairly heavily sedated and restrained so that she would not attempt to remove the breathing and feeding tubes that were in place. She began to show extreme progress, and within a few days more, the breathing tube was removed. However, within four hours of its removal, she began to struggle to breathe again, and the doctors decided she was not yet ready to breathe without assistance, so she was reintubated. Over the course of the next week, she was placed back in an induced coma, given paralytic drugs to allow the ventilator to completely control her breathing, and awakened yet again. At approximately 10:45 PM on April 12, my wife developed a serious and uncontrollable bleed in her abdomen. Though they attempted to save her, there was simply nothing they could do. Her family and friends were called in and gathered to say goodbye.

Shortly before she passed, though I was convinced she could not hear me and was not likely conscious in even the most basic sense, and though I had never before believed in spirituality or the afterlife, I whispered in her ear, 'This is not over between you and me, not by a long shot. When you get to where you're going, you wait for me, because I'm coming. I'm going to find you. This isn't goodbye. This is just 'See you, soon''. The machines keeping her alive were shut off, I stroked her hair and smiled at her, in case she could see me through her half-open eyes, as she took her final breaths. She was pronounced dead only a few minutes before midnight.

The following two days did not feel real. I felt hollow, weak, completely dead inside. I could not fathom my life without her, the love of my life. While we had both been extremely independent before we met, we had since become each other's entire world. She was my best friend, my closest confidant, my greatest support. I thought, 'How can I exist when I have only ever existed for her?'

The following Thursday evening, in all that I can describe as a daze, I sat at our kitchen table and wrote a suicide note. I then retrieved a length of jute rope from the garage, tied it into a hangman's noose (without ever having tied one, previously), secured it to an open rafter in my basement, placed a step stool beneath. I tightened the noose around my neck and removed one foot from the stool. As I was readying myself to kick the stool out from beneath me, I heard my wife's voice, screaming. 'What the hell do you think you're doing? Don't you DARE make me come back again!'

I stopped myself, completely stunned. I began seeing blurred images I couldn't fathom in my mind's eye, hearing what sounded like a million voices speaking at once. I removed the noose, collapsed to the floor, and cried for what seemed like hours. After two days of feeling nothing, feeling as though I had died that day, I now felt her.

Weeks passed. We had a lovely memorial ceremony and a reception (she had been very vocal about her final wishes, the entire time we'd been together--and she wanted a party!), and everyone began to live their lives again. Despair and grief were felt by all, and many tears were shed, but life, as they say, goes on.

Occasionally, I heard my wife's voice, usually as if calling me from the other room (using the pet name she had for me, nonetheless). I could feel her when I called her, when I needed her. I talked to her all the time, sometimes feeling her hold onto me as if in answer to questions I was asking. And I began having a recurring dream, in which we lay in bed talking as we had every night, her head in a very specific place on my chest as always, I lightly tickling the small of her back under an old t-shirt of mine she slept in (and it was more a dress on her than shirt). We'd talk about all things big and small, different every night in this dream as it had been in life--about plans for the future, vacations we'd like to take, the events of our days, etc. This dream was always hyper-real: I felt the weight of her head on my chest, the heat of her breath on my neck, my hands could feel her warm, smooth skin as I caressed it. As I began to feel drowsy in the dream, she would raise her head, look me in the eye, and say, 'you know, you have to wake up, right?' I would wake from this dream, already in tears, shaking like a leaf. After nearly a week, the end of the dream began to change--instead of telling me I had to wake, she would put her hand on my face and say, 'I'm sorry, baby.' After waking, I could swear I felt her hand still upon my face.

This dream caused me much distress--on the one hand, I was grateful, as I could be together (even just in a dream) with my wife, once again. On the other, waking from this dream had become a nightmare, in itself. In this absolute grief, I contacted a psychic medium--though I did not believe that such people were credible, that all psychics were frauds, I rationalized my decision to visit one by telling myself that if there were any chance, whatsoever, that I can directly contact my wife, I must do this. The medium was kind and understanding over the phone, asking I give him no information about me, the person I wished to contact, or my recent experiences so as not to bias his reading, and we scheduled an appointment for Monday, May 9.

At the beginning of our appointment, the medium explained that he would act as a conduit for us to speak. Though he did not receive his information aurally, he would be given a series of images, some like snippets of movies, and he would interpret these to me. He also explained that I could talk and ask any questions directly to the spirit with whom he was in contact, that they would hear me and answer me directly through him. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, a placid look upon his face that quickly contorted into expressions of confusion, understanding, even pain. His eyes shot wide open, as if he were frightened by a gunshot, and he uttered one word--one he could not know, as it was only ever known to me an my wife: he called me by her pet name.

He began to cry, sob even, explaining to me that none of what he was experiencing should be happening. He could hear her. And she had, just as in life, a lot to say, yelling to make sure she had his fully attention. He said he was seeing things as through her eyes, feeling the emotions she felt. He said he cried because he had never felt as much love for another as she was feeling for me. Again and again, he surprised me, repeating the inside jokes only known to me and my wife, describing places we had gone and activities we had done, repeating to me, verbatim, the final words I whispered, nearly silently, in her ear as she lay dying. He uttered, as if reading them himself, passages from the many hand-written letters I had written my wife since her death, letters that existed only in a leather-bound notebook I carried on my person at all times. He told me she held me every night, and explained the dream I had been experiencing every night, something of which I hadn't told a soul, noting even the slight differences in them each evening, saying that this WAS really her, that she WAS there with me and we were experiencing these dream together. And he said she was waiting for me. That though I would not 'transition' any time soon, she would continue to wait, as I had asked of her, that she would continue to be there when I called, that she would lay with me and hold me every night, and that she would be the one to retrieve me upon my death.

I couldn't deny that what he was saying was real, that what he said must be coming from her, and I immediately changed my views on death and the afterlife. The fear of death that had been bred into me through instinctive survival, that was coded in my very genes, vanished instantly. I now longed for the time we could be together again, that we could spend eternity together, as we were meant to be.

The medium had mentioned to me that she had been talking to me, all along--that I just couldn't hear her, or could not hear her clearly. He likened it to a bad telephone connection, that the normal, everyday noise of the world coupled with my inability to quiet my own thoughts was distorting the connection. That I could hear her, really hear her (as he had), if I could quiet myself and my mind.

I attempted this that very night, but to no avail. I simply could not quiet my mind enough, and found I tired quickly after my attempts. I slept well, dreaming the same dream as I had before, ending in the morning with my wife smiling at me, asking, 'so, same time tomorrow?'

And the following day was wonderful. I felt clear, contented by the knowledge that I would be with my wife, once again. That we would be, for eternity, as we were always meant: together.

That evening, May 10, 2016, began as any other previous: I returned home from work, showered, watched a few minutes of television to wind down from the day, kissed the picture of my wife I keep by my bed, and climbed into bed. I decided to attempt to clear my mind again, that perhaps, with regular practice, I could someday be successful, and someday hear my wife's beautiful voice again. After what seemed like two minutes, everything quieted, everything darkened. I was keenly aware of my body, of laying in my bed under the comforter, but all was still. Soon, the sound of my heart faded, and I found myself, in my mind, in this absolute blackness.

Sensing the slightest movement, I saw what appeared to be a slowly-rolling, smoky fog blooming before me, its wispy curls and tendrils dancing slowly, expanding, shining in dark but vivid blues and reds and purples. Slightly off center, but toward its core, the tiniest pinpoint of brilliant, white light appeared, expanding as slowly as the fog itself.

And I heard her. She spoke only one word, in the form of a coy, teasing question: 'Ready?'

Immediately, I was shot forward toward the light, pulled as if an unbreakable chain were attached to my stomach. The light grew to an immense size as I approached at what felt like lightning speed. My innards felt as if they were ready to drop out from inside me, similar to that feeling of intense gravity as a roller coaster crests its apex and begins its first plunge downward. But I did not have a body. I could feel this chain pulling me, faster and faster, but I was not solid. Soon, I was swallowed by the light as a dying star swallows its surrounding planets, and I found myself in a tunnel, moving more quickly than before, accelerating still. The walls of the tunnel were lined with what appeared to be large subway tiles or bricks, and a diffuse, amber light with no origin made them glow golden--it reminded me of the 'yellow brick road' from the Wizard of Oz, but it encircled me in a cylinder that twisted and turned. I could hear what I thought was the sound of air rushing past me as I shot through this tunnel, but I had no ears to hear. The white light burned in the distance, but it seemed so far away.

And then, as quickly as I had been accelerating, I stopped, hindered immediately as if by an unbreakable, invisible wall. I hovered there, mid-tunnel, for what seemed like seconds before feeling myself being pulled the opposite direction, just as quickly as I had been pulled forward. The tunnel soon receded, the light and smoky fog disappearing to my view. Suddenly, I was looking at myself, from above. I saw myself as I was in bed, clutching both the picture of my wife and her favorite sweatshirt (I had taken to sleeping with as if a child's security blanket since her passing) to my chest, my face pale, the sun shining through the window above the headboard. And then...

My eyes shot open. I was back in my body, feeling as though I had just landed from a fall of several stories. I gasped for breath, choked, as though I had not been breathing for some time, my lungs stinging with every inhalation. And I felt cold, absolutely frigid. Though I had been laying under a heavy down comforter, and though I had my home's thermostat set to a comfortable 70 degrees Fahrenheit, I shivered violently, my skin covered in goosebumps. Only then did I notice the alarm clock was screaming loudly--I had slept, if that's what I had done, through 11 minutes of the alarm's screeching (something I have never, in my life, done before).

I shut off the alarm, regained my breath, and stood as I covered myself in a blanket I had kicked off the bed. My legs were weak and I was unsteady. My body felt heavy, as if the earth were solid iron and my feet were magnetized. I was tired, exhausted, as if I hadn't slept, and I was keenly aware of being in my body, feeling as though I were stitched into my skin. The feeling of that invisible chain remained, not pulling me, but held taut, as if tethered to some distant point to which I may be pulled back at any second. And one thought came to mind, over and over and over again: 'That's the way.'

But the way to where, to what? As I began to fret over this experience, over its meaning, whether I had actually traveled somewhere of if I had dreamed it, dreamed everything, the phone rang, the caller ID announcing it was the medium I had seen only days before. I answered the phone, and, without greeting, he said, 'That's the way.'

'The way? What way?!' I demanded, not sure of what he meant.

'That's the way. To her. Where she is. Where you will go. She will take you. But she wants you to see. Now.'

'How the hell could you possibly know what...'

'She's screaming at me!' he cut me off. 'She hasn't shut up since you left! She's interrupted me with three other clients. She want's you to know.'

'What do I need to know?!' I demanded.

'That you're meant to be. Here and beyond. That she's powerful. That you are, too.'

With that, he abruptly hung up the telephone.