Apparition In The Er? What The Husband & Doctor Saw

This excerpt comes from one of the doctors who treated Jeffery Olsen, Dr. Jeff O’Driscoll. His book Not Yet: Near-Life Experiences & Lessons Learned is a stunning, tender reflection on medicine and spirituality.  Here the doctor shares his encounter with Tamara, Jeffery Olsen’s wife, who had died just a short time earlier in the fatal car accident:

“She’s here,” Rachel said. “You’ve gotta come to the trauma room.”

“Who’s here?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“His wife. She’s here.”

Everybody in the department knew a trauma patient had arrived. We’d been warned far in advance. We knew about Jeff Olsen’s automobile crash in southern Utah, though we did not yet know his name. We knew about his visit to the local emergency department prior to his air transport to Salt Lake City. We knew his wife and 14-month-old son had died at the scene, and that his seven-year-old son had been transported to our neighboring children’s hospital. The transferring facility wasn’t just communicating morbid information for the sake of speaking; knowing that someone died in a crash tells you something about the magnitude of the impact and energy absorbed by those who survived. Sometimes that information is important in providing care. We’d heard a preliminary report of Jeff’s extensive injuries and the overhead announcement of his arrival. Rachel had been in the trauma suite and seen him arrive. Now she was tugging on my arm.

“She’s there,” she said. “C’mon.”

I finally gave way to her insistence as I realized what she was saying. Prior conversations in more relaxed circumstances had primed me for her assertions. She’d experienced numerous spiritual phenomena in the past. Some of her experiences, as she’d shared them privately, had brought me to tears. I’d had my own experiences. We’d discussed some at length. That Rachel had experienced Tamara’s presence in the trauma suite did not surprise me; that I believed what she was saying did not surprise her. We quickened our pace as she spoke.

I had no responsibility for Jeff’s medical care. That’s one reason I saw and heard what I did, why I experienced it. When I’m too busy being a doctor—when I’m too busy seeing with my eyes and hearing with my ears, trying to keep someone alive—I may completely miss the profound and eternal around me.

Another emergency physician, along with a trauma surgeon, residents, nurses, and others, had all arrived in the trauma suite prior to Jeff and had immediately initiated his care when he arrived. I’d been blithely engaged in other duties when Rachel approached. Now I was simply an observer.

In the trauma suite I saw the usual army of professionals surrounding a gurney. Bits of an unconscious and battered body were visible through the cracks between personnel. I saw the usual flurry of activity and heard the hum of voices: vital signs, the tail end of a report from the transport team, orders, acknowledgments, tentative plans. Almost as quickly, however, the sounds all faded into silence, like a television show with the sound turned off. People’s lips still moved—they could still hear one another—but the room fell silent for me. Even Rachel’s voice was gone. A tingle—almost a vibration—began in the center of my soul and radiated outward to the tip of each digit. I felt the hair on my arms and neck stand at attention.

The treatment area was large, with an elevated ceiling and a mirrored observation room that looked down on the scene for teaching purposes. Tamara stood high above my right shoulder and about ten feet away, about halfway between Jeff and I. We’d never met, but I knew her. She calmly surveyed the room, sometimes looking toward me, sometimes toward her severely injured spouse. She had a pleasant countenance and a warm, welcoming disposition. She had long, wavy, blonde hair.

            I walked to the gurney and looked at Jeff for the first time. I looked at his badly injured legs. People moved around me, all doing their respective tasks. I had no tasks. I was free to take in the experience, keenly aware of Tamara’s continued surveillance over my right shoulder. I may have felt for a pulse in Jeff’s left foot; I don’t remember for sure. I knew his popliteal artery had been jeopardized by his knee injury. The window for vascular intervention was rapidly closing. His prolonged extrication, previous ER visit in southern Utah, and his air transport, had all chewed away at that critical window of time. His leg, as important as it was, couldn’t be the first priority. Before anyone could save his leg, they first had to save his life.

I recall saying to myself, or to Rachel, “He’s going to lose the leg.” I just knew.

That was about the extent of the medical care I provided. I may have consulted with other doctors or done something more—trauma care is a team sport—but I was not Jeff’s primary doctor and did little, if anything, for his medical benefit.

I don’t recall what Tamara said to me in the trauma suite, looking down from her elevated position. Though facing toward Jeff, I could see her behind me. I could see her as clearly behind me as I could see him in front. I could see in every direction at the same time and take it all in more efficiently than if I’d been focusing on a single spot. It’s been more than twenty years, and I’ve rarely spoken of it, but I remember that part clearly.

Tamara may not have said anything at all. Whether she spoke through the silence or communicated without words, I remember quite clearly her expressions of pure gratitude. She was grateful for the team and all they were doing. She was grateful to me for being aware of her. My overall impression was that she was a grateful person and would express her appreciation to each individual if she were able to do so. In that moment, to borrow a phrase I would later hear Jeff use, I knew her heart.

Tamara knew at that moment that Jeff would live—that he should live, and that there were things for him yet to do in this life. And I knew it with her. It didn’t come as some profound revelation or grand mystic truth being pushed upon me. It felt more like common knowledge hanging in the ether, available to any spirit willing to listen. It was like the first twinklings of dawn announcing to anyone willing to open their eyes that another day was approaching. In my experience, that’s the way spiritual knowledge feels; even when it’s new, it’s not a surprise. It feels more like a confirmation than a revelation.

I love such moments because everything reorders. Nothing trivial or temporal matters. In those moments, I see souls as they are, without the filters that incline us to separate people into groups and label individuals who are different from ourselves. Suddenly I see everyone as alike and I love them all, including myself—something that is difficult for me to do when I’m in the trappings of mortality. I love such moments. I wish I had more of them, except that such experiences make it hard for me to find contentment in this world . . .

Looking back, I wonder if Tamara might have been thanking me in advance for what would yet transpire. I wonder, too, if she’s been in and out of my life since.

Learn more about this book and Dr. Jeff O’Driscoll.

On December 4, I will be interviewing Jeffery Olsen and Dr. Jeff O’Driscoll about this profound shared experience. How do you account for what occurred?-

Raymond Moody MD PhD