I woke up on the operating table during surgery. There was a very bright, white light and I heard swirling and overlapping voices of my dearly departed relatives, flowing and floating around each other in a conversational stew in my brain. There were a few moments when I couldn't tell if I was dead or alive and it would have been easy to give into panic when I first realized I wasn't breathing on my own and couldn't open my eyes. But I wasn't dead. I was the victim of a shitty anaesthetist who didn’t keep me “under”. Finally, the voices in the room overtook the ones spilling out of my subconscious and the bright light revealed itself to be the one hanging overhead so the surgeon could see. Once the breathing tube was removed, I took great joy in totally freaking out the operating team by saying a few words. Fortunately, there was no pain but everyone skittered around like mad to make sure I stayed comfortable. They talked me through the rest of the operation and stitch-up in soothing tones. My recovery room nurse told me my surgeon would be having a few choice words with his team on my behalf. I haven't told this story to a lot of people (and this is the Reader's Digest version) but those who have heard it say it's too bad I wasn't in the US because I could have sued the hospital's scrubs off.
I'm not saying people don't die and get revived. I'm also not saying I know for sure what everyone goes through when that happens. All I am saying is, except for the extended conversation with Jesus, this woman's experience sounded a lot like my own except every bit of mine had a logical explanation.