As the days and weeks pass on, your vision becomes more clear. The haze gives way to recognizable objects, the shapeless forms that move here and there are no angels or demons, but ordinary people. As your vision sharpens, you slowly realize that this isn’t heaven, nor is it hell. You’ve been here before. This is your life as it has already been. You try, in vain, to tell the now recognizable family that surrounds you that you are you.
Tomorrow comes, or maybe it’s next week, and the light still blurs all that’s in front of you. Your arms are still so weak. Your words escape you. You try to ask if someone, anyone, can help you to get your bearings, but nothing but pathetic screams escape your mouth. And you’re still so tired. Death has been the hardest thing you’ve ever done.