Terminal Experiment by Robert J. Sawyer

make sure attempts to save a patient aren’t halted too soon.”
    Mrs. Fennell digested this for a moment, then: “You don’t really need my permission, do you? You could have just had the equipment hooked up. Just say it was for routine tests. Half the time they don’t explain what they’re doing anyway.”
    Peter nodded. “I suppose that’s true. But I thought it would be polite to ask.”
    Mrs. Fennell’s eyes smiled again. “You’re a very nice young man, Doctor…?”
    “Hobson. But, please, call me Peter.”
    “Peter.” Her eyes crinkled. “I’ve been here for months, and not one of the doctors has volunteered that I could call them by their first name. They’ve prodded every part of my body, but they still think keeping emotional distance is part of their job.” She paused. “I like you, Peter.”
    Peter smiled. “And I like you, Mrs. Fennell.”
    She did manage an unequivocal laugh this time. “Call me Peggy.” She paused, and reflection further creased her wrinkled face. “You know, that’s the only time I’ve heard my own first name since I was admitted here. So, Peter, are you really interested in what happens at the moment of death?”
    “Yes, Peggy, I am.”
    “Then why don’t you have a seat, make yourself comfortable, and I’ll tell you.” She lowered her voice. “You see, I’ve already died once before.”
    “I beg your pardon?” She had seemed so lucid…
    “Don’t look at me like that, Peter. I’m not insane. Sit down. Go ahead, sit. I’ll tell you what happened.” Peter cocked his head slightly, noncommittal, and found a vinyl-covered chair. He pulled it close to the bed.
    “It happened forty years ago,” said Mrs. Fennell, turning her crab-apple head to face Peter. “I’d recently been diagnosed with diabetes. I was insulin dependent, but hadn’t yet realized how careful I had to be. My husband Kevin had gone shopping. I’d had my morning insulin injection, but hadn’t eaten yet. The phone rang. It was a woman I knew who nattered on endlessly, or so it seemed. I found myself sweating and getting a headache, but I didn’t want to say anything. I realized my heart was pounding and my arm was trembling and my vision was blurring. I was about to say something to the woman, to beg off and go gel something to eat when, all of a sudden, I collapsed. I was having an insulin reaction. Hypoglycemia.”
    Although her face was impassive, deadened by strokes, her voice became increasingly animated. “Suddenly,” she said, “I found myself outside of my body. I could see myself as if from above, lying there on the kitchen floor. I kept rising higher and higher until everything sort of collapsed into a tunnel, a long, spiraling tunnel. And at the end of this tunnel, there was a beautiful, pure, bright white light. It was very bright, but it didn’t hurt at all to look at it. This feeling of calm, of peace, came over me. It was absolutely wonderful, an unconditional acceptance, a feeling of love. I found myself moving toward the light.”
    Peter tilted his head. He didn’t know what to say Mrs. Fennell went on. “From out of the edges of the light a figure appeared. I didn’t recognize it at first but then suddenly I saw that it was me. Except it wasn’t me; it was someone who looked a lot like me, but wasn’t me. I’d been born a twin, but my twin sister Mary had died a few days after we were born. I realized that this was Mary, come to greet me. She floated closer and took my hand, and we drifted down the tunnel together, toward that light.
    “And then I started seeing images from my life, as though they were on movie film, pictures of me and my parents, me and my husband, me at work, at play. And Mary and I were reviewing each of these scenes, where I’d done right and where I’d done wrong. There was no sense that I was being judged, but it seemed important that I understand everything, realize the effect my actions had on others. I saw myself playing in a