At that point clots bulging in my left ventricle raced toward my brain, and the more anxious I became as my heart rate climbed, the more each beat cleared the clots from my arm. That's when my world darkened and my mind escaped my body. I saw my physical being from a few feet above, standing with a friend. "I'm right here," I thought in awe, "but I'm also right over there." I was staring at the shell of myself, but I couldn't approach it. I had no physical feeling, as you would with a body. "This is it," I thought, strangely growing peaceful among the chaos that moments earlier had racked my brain. "I no longer have to wonder how I'll die." I fully knew I was dying and I wasn't shocked. A clear understanding that I teetered between life and death enveloped me. From behind, a warm blanket of serenity overwhelmed my senses, and a powerful feeling to fall back and surrender to the tranquility engulfed me. "It's OK, it's beautiful," the serenity beckoned. "Just lay down." But an overwhelming urge - knowing with all of my heart that God needed me on earth for a rebirth and a life of His service - kept me from that final, peaceful surrender. I rushed back to my body, where noise and babbling suddenly drowned the perfect peace of moments earlier. Like many scientists before this life-changing stroke, to be certain of something I needed hard data. Evidence. Proof. Something I could measure. Heaven can be an abstract concept, for sure. Before the stroke I wanted to touch Heaven, feel it for proof of its existence. In a sense, I got what I asked for. Ted Odom