TERMINAL PATIENT

I am in a hospital room, standing on the right side of a man who is lying under a sheet, covered by a glass lung. There are two other people in the room: an ethereal-looking woman, dressed in a flowing gown, and a man standing at the foot of the bed.

I feel that all of us are dying.

The ethereal woman removes the lid from the bed and carries it over to a second bed. There is nobody in the other bed. I feel that this woman is being selfish. The man under the sheet cannot breathe.

I pick up the lid and put it back on the glass lung.

For the first time, the patient speaks. 'Turn-- the switch.' He makes a hoarse, rasping sound, deep down in his throat. He says again, 'Turn-- the switch.'

The man at the foot of the bed does what he asks. There is a distinct click as he throws the switch.

Now I realize the ceiling is gone. I see a brilliant ball of light moving toward me. The light streams into my right hand and I am thrilled by its power. I lay this hand over the patient's left hand. I see his features move almost imperceptibly into an expression of satisfaction. I know he is passing over.