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Heaven Is Real: A Doctor’s Experience With the Afterlife

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    Heaven Is Real: A Doctor s Experience With the Afterlife By Dr. Eben Alexander Oct 8, 2012 1:00 AM EDT When a neurosurgeon found himself in a coma, he
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      Heaven Is Real: A Doctor's Experience With the Afterlife
      By Dr. Eben Alexander

      Oct 8, 2012 1:00 AM EDT
      When a neurosurgeon found himself in a coma, he experienced
      things he never thought possible—a journey to the afterlife.

      As a neurosurgeon, I did not believe in the phenomenon
      of near-death experiences. I grew up in a scientific
      world, the son of a neurosurgeon. I followed my father's
      path and became an academic neurosurgeon, teaching at
      Harvard Medical School and other universities. I understand
      what happens to the brain when people are near death,
      and I had always believed there were good scientific
      explanations for the heavenly out-of-body journeys described
      by those who narrowly escaped death.

      The brain is an astonishingly sophisticated but extremely
      delicate mechanism. Reduce the amount of oxygen it receives
      by the smallest amount and it will react. It was no big
      surprise that people who had undergone severe trauma would
      return from their experiences with strange stories. But that
      didn't mean they had journeyed anywhere real.

      Although I considered myself a faithful Christian, I was so
      more in name than in actual belief. I didn't begrudge those
      who wanted to believe that Jesus was more than simply a good
      man who had suffered at the hands of the world. I sympathized
      deeply with those who wanted to believe that there was a God somewhere out there who loved us unconditionally. In fact, I
      envied such people the security that those beliefs no doubt
      provided. But as a scientist, I simply knew better than to
      believe them myself.

      In the fall of 2008, however, after seven days in a coma during
      which the human part of my brain, the neocortex, was inactivated,
      I experienced something so profound that it gave me a scientific reason to believe in consciousness after death.

      I know how pronouncements like mine sound to skeptics, so I
      will tell my story with the logic and language of the scientist I am.

      Very early one morning four years ago, I awoke with an
      extremely intense headache. Within hours, my entire cortex—the
      part of the brain that controls thought and emotion and that
      in essence makes us human—had shut down. Doctors at Lynchburg
      General Hospital in Virginia, a hospital where I myself worked
      as a neurosurgeon, determined that I had somehow contracted
      a very rare bacterial meningitis that mostly attacks newborns.
      E. coli bacteria had penetrated my cerebrospinal fluid and were eating my brain.

      When I entered the emergency room that morning, my chances of survival in anything beyond a vegetative state were already low.
      They soon sank to near nonexistent. For seven days I lay in a
      deep coma, my body unresponsive, my higher-order brain functions totally offline.

      Then, on the morning of my seventh day in the hospital, as my
      doctors weighed whether to discontinue treatment, my eyes popped open.

      `You have nothing to fear.' `There is nothing you can do wrong.'
      The message flooded me with a vast and crazy sensation of relief. (Photo illustration by Newsweek; Source: Buena Vista Images-Getty Images)

      There is no scientific explanation for the fact that while
      my body lay in coma, my mind—my conscious, inner self—was
      alive and well. While the neurons of my cortex were stunned
      to complete inactivity by the bacteria that had attacked them,
      my brain-free consciousness journeyed to another, larger
      dimension of the universe: a dimension I'd never dreamed existed
      and which the old, pre-coma me would have been more than happy
      to explain was a simple impossibility.

      But that dimension—in rough outline, the same one described
      by countless subjects of near-death experiences and other
      mystical states—is there. It exists, and what I saw and learned
      there has placed me quite literally in a new world: a world where
      we are much more than our brains and bodies, and where death is
      not the end of consciousness but rather a chapter in a vast, and incalculably positive, journey.

      I'm not the first person to have discovered evidence that
      consciousness exists beyond the body. Brief, wonderful glimpses
      of this realm are as old as human history. But as far as I know,
      no one before me has ever traveled to this dimension (a) while
      their cortex was completely shut down, and (b) while their body
      was under minute medical observation, as mine was for the full
      seven days of my coma.

      All the chief arguments against near-death experiences suggest
      that these experiences are the results of minimal, transient,
      or partial malfunctioning of the cortex. My near-death experience, however, took place not while my cortex was malfunctioning, but
      while it was simply off. This is clear from the severity and
      duration of my meningitis, and from the global cortical
      involvement documented by CT scans and neurological examinations. According to current medical understanding of the brain and
      mind, there is absolutely no way that I could have experienced
      even a dim and limited consciousness during my time in the coma,
      much less the hyper-vivid and completely coherent odyssey I underwent.

      It took me months to come to terms with what happened to me.
      Not just the medical impossibility that I had been conscious
      during my coma, but—more importantly—the things that happened
      during that time. Toward the beginning of my adventure, I was
      in a place of clouds. Big, puffy, pink-white ones that showed
      up sharply against the deep blue-black sky.

      Reliving History: The search for the meaning of the afterlife
      is as old as humanity itself. Over the years Newsweek has run numerous covers about religion, God, and that search. As Dr. Alexander says, it's unlikely we'll know the answer in our
      lifetimes, but that doesn't mean we won't keep asking.

      Higher than the clouds—immeasurably higher—flocks of transparent, shimmering beings arced across the sky, leaving long, streamerlike lines behind them.

      Birds? Angels? These words registered later, when I was writing
      down my recollections. But neither of these words do justice to
      the beings themselves, which were quite simply different from anything I have known on this planet. They were more advanced.
      Higher forms.

      A sound, huge and booming like a glorious chant, came down from above, and I wondered if the winged beings were producing it.
      Again, thinking about it later, it occurred to me that the joy
      of these creatures, as they soared along, was such that they had
      to make this noise—that if the joy didn't come out of them this
      way then they would simply not otherwise be able to contain it.
      The sound was palpable and almost material, like a rain that you
      can feel on your skin but doesn't get you wet.

      Seeing and hearing were not separate in this place where I now
      was. I could hear the visual beauty of the silvery bodies of
      those scintillating beings above, and I could see the surging,
      joyful perfection of what they sang. It seemed that you could
      not look at or listen to anything in this world without becoming
      a part of it—without joining with it in some mysterious way.
      Again, from my present perspective, I would suggest that you
      couldn't look at anything in that world at all, for the word
      "at" itself implies a separation that did not exist there.
      Everything was distinct, yet everything was also a part of
      everything else, like the rich and intermingled designs on a
      Persian carpet ... or a butterfly's wing.

      It gets stranger still. For most of my journey, someone else was
      with me. A woman. She was young, and I remember what she looked
      like in complete detail. She had high cheekbones and deep-blue
      eyes. Golden brown tresses framed her lovely face. When first I
      saw her, we were riding along together on an intricately patterned surface, which after a moment I recognized as the wing of a butterfly. In fact, millions of butterflies were all around
      us—vast fluttering waves of them, dipping down into the woods
      and coming back up around us again. It was a river of life and
      color, moving through the air. The woman's outfit was simple,
      like a peasant's, but its colors—powder blue, indigo, and pastel orange-peach—had the same overwhelming, super-vivid aliveness
      that everything else had. She looked at me with a look that, if
      you saw it for five seconds, would make your whole life up to
      that point worth living, no matter what had happened in it so
      far. It was not a romantic look. It was not a look of friendship.
      It was a look that was somehow beyond all these, beyond all the different compartments of love we have down here on earth. It was something higher, holding all those other kinds of love within
      itself while at the same time being much bigger than all of them.

      Without using any words, she spoke to me. The message went through
      me like a wind, and I instantly understood that it was true. I
      knew so in the same way that I knew that the world around us was real—was not some fantasy, passing and insubstantial.

      The message had three parts, and if I had to translate them into earthly language, I'd say they ran something like this:

      "You are loved and cherished, dearly, forever."

      "You have nothing to fear."

      "There is nothing you can do wrong."

      The message flooded me with a vast and crazy sensation of relief.
      It was like being handed the rules to a game I'd been playing all
      my life without ever fully understanding it.

      "We will show you many things here," the woman said, again,
      without actually using these words but by driving their
      conceptual essence directly into me. "But eventually, you will
      go back."

      To this, I had only one question.

      Back where?

      The universe as I experienced it in my coma is ... the same one
      that both Einstein and Jesus were speaking of in their (very) different ways.

      A warm wind blew through, like the kind that spring up on the
      most perfect summer days, tossing the leaves of the trees and
      flowing past like heavenly water. A divine breeze. It changed everything, shifting the world around me into an even higher
      octave, a higher vibration.

      Although I still had little language function, at least as we
      think of it on earth, I began wordlessly putting questions to
      this wind, and to the divine being that I sensed at work behind
      or within it.

      Where is this place?

      Who am I?

      Why am I here?

      Each time I silently put one of these questions out, the answer
      came instantly in an explosion of light, color, love, and beauty
      that blew through me like a crashing wave. What was important
      about these blasts was that they didn't simply silence my
      questions by overwhelming them. They answered them, but in a
      way that bypassed language. Thoughts entered me directly. But
      it wasn't thought like we experience on earth. It wasn't vague, immaterial, or abstract. These thoughts were solid and immediate—hotter than fire and wetter than water—and as I received them
      I was able to instantly and effortlessly understand concepts
      that would have taken me years to fully grasp in my earthly life.

      I continued moving forward and found myself entering an immense
      void, completely dark, infinite in size, yet also infinitely comforting. Pitch-black as it was, it was also brimming over
      with light: a light that seemed to come from a brilliant orb
      that I now sensed near me. The orb was a kind of "interpreter" between me and this vast presence surrounding me. It was as if
      I were being born into a larger world, and the universe itself
      was like a giant cosmic womb, and the orb (which I sensed was
      somehow connected with, or even identical to, the woman on the butterfly wing) was guiding me through it.

      Later, when I was back, I found a quotation by the 17th-century Christian poet Henry Vaughan that came close to describing this magical place, this vast, inky-black core that was the home of
      the Divine itself.

      "There is, some say, in God a deep but dazzling darkness ..."

      That was it exactly: an inky darkness that was also full to
      brimming with light.

      I know full well how extraordinary, how frankly unbelievable,
      all this sounds. Had someone—even a doctor—told me a story like
      this in the old days, I would have been quite certain that they
      were under the spell of some delusion. But what happened to me
      was, far from being delusional, as real or more real than any
      event in my life. That includes my wedding day and the birth of
      my two sons.

      What happened to me demands explanation.

      Modern physics tells us that the universe is a unity—that it
      is undivided. Though we seem to live in a world of separation
      and difference, physics tells us that beneath the surface,
      every object and event in the universe is completely woven up
      with every other object and event. There is no true separation.

      Before my experience these ideas were abstractions. Today they
      are realities. Not only is the universe defined by unity, it
      is also—I now know—defined by love. The universe as I experienced
      it in my coma is—I have come to see with both shock and joy—the
      same one that both Einstein and Jesus were speaking of in their (very) different ways.

      I've spent decades as a neurosurgeon at some of the most
      prestigious medical institutions in our country. I know that
      many of my peers hold—as I myself did—to the theory that the
      brain, and in particular the cortex, generates consciousness
      and that we live in a universe devoid of any kind of emotion,
      much less the unconditional love that I now know God and the
      universe have toward us. But that belief, that theory, now lies broken at our feet. What happened to me destroyed it, and I
      intend to spend the rest of my life investigating the true
      nature of consciousness and making the fact that we are more,
      much more, than our physical brains as clear as I can, both
      to my fellow scientists and to people at large.

      I don't expect this to be an easy task, for the reasons I
      described above. When the castle of an old scientific theory
      begins to show fault lines, no one wants to pay attention at
      first. The old castle simply took too much work to build in
      the first place, and if it falls, an entirely new one will have
      to be constructed in its place.

      I learned this firsthand after I was well enough to get back
      out into the world and talk to others—people, that is, other
      than my long-suffering wife, Holley, and our two sons—about
      what had happened to me. The looks of polite disbelief,
      especially among my medical friends, soon made me realize
      what a task I would have getting people to understand the
      enormity of what I had seen and experienced that week while
      my brain was down.

      One of the few places I didn't have trouble getting my story
      across was a place I'd seen fairly little of before my
      experience: church. The first time I entered a church after
      my coma, I saw everything with fresh eyes. The colors of the stained-glass windows recalled the luminous beauty of the
      landscapes I'd seen in the world above. The deep bass notes
      of the organ reminded me of how thoughts and emotions in that
      world are like waves that move through you. And, most important,
      a painting of Jesus breaking bread with his disciples evoked
      the message that lay at the very heart of my journey: that we
      are loved and accepted unconditionally by a God even more grand
      and unfathomably glorious than the one I'd learned of as a child
      in Sunday school.

      Today many believe that the living spiritual truths of religion
      have lost their power, and that science, not faith, is the road
      to truth. Before my experience I strongly suspected that this
      was the case myself.

      But I now understand that such a view is far too simple. The
      plain fact is that the materialist picture of the body and brain
      as the producers, rather than the vehicles, of human consciousness
      is doomed. In its place a new view of mind and body will emerge,
      and in fact is emerging already. This view is scientific and spiritual in equal measure and will value what the greatest scientists of history themselves always valued above all: truth.

      This new picture of reality will take a long time to put together.
      It won't be finished in my time, or even, I suspect, my sons'
      either. In fact, reality is too vast, too complex, and too irreducibly mysterious for a full picture of it ever to be
      absolutely complete. But in essence, it will show the universe
      as evolving, multi-dimensional, and known down to its every last
      atom by a God who cares for us even more deeply and fiercely than
      any parent ever loved their child.

      I'm still a doctor, and still a man of science every bit as much
      as I was before I had my experience. But on a deep level I'm
      very different from the person I was before, because I've caught
      a glimpse of this emerging picture of reality. And you can believe
      me when I tell you that it

      Dr. Eben Alexander has been a neurosurgeon for the past 25 years.
      His book, Proof of Heaven: A Neurosurgeon's Journey into the Afterlife, will be published by Simon & Schuster on Oct. 23, 2012.
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