When I died, there wasn’t a light at the end of a tunnel. There was no cold shiver that ran up my spine. I didn’t see Death or whoever in a black cloak and sickle. The Devil didn’t come grab my soul and pull me into Hell. Nor did an angel walk me up Jacob’s Ladder to Heaven.

I just sat there.

My body was still and void of the life that gives skin that rosy pigment. There was no more rise and fall of my chest. No more strength to clutch onto my wife’s hand.

But I was still there.

So I watched. I was so baffled by what I was seeing and hearing that I didn’t question where I was at the time. I could objectively look at myself, at my body, at my whole person.

I finally saw what my doctors had told me for years. I was a whale. I was huge. I had laughed at the notion that I was “too large”. That my body size was “unhealthy”. That my “lifestyle choices” were killing me.

I hadn’t seen it before, but now I could.

Time didn’t move on. Everything was paused. I just sat and looked at what I was.


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