The police department I used to work for is located in a small historical town in southwestern Michigan. We would have occasional drug traffic on I-94 between Chicago and Detroit, but otherwise it was a quiet, uneventful retirement community.
One morning, my partner and I were called to a natural death at an elderly lady’s home. The well-kept house was decorated with lavender Swiss-like shutters and surrounded by aromatic, colorful flowerbeds. I remember thinking what a pleasing place this would be to live.
When we entered the upstairs bedroom, we found several of the lady’s relatives gathered sweetly around her bed, grieving and saying beautiful things about her and the life she had led.
My partner had investigated many natural death situations before, but this was my first. Although she looked peaceful, she was obviously deceased. I checked her pulse carefully, just as a matter of showing concern. She lay under the bed covers, wearing a soft paisley nightgown, with one hand on her heart—an unforeseen victim of a heart attack. We were told she was an active, spirited member of the community and highly vivacious. Although almost eighty, no one expected her to go this soon. I chuckled at the spicy romance novel sitting on the nightstand.
Her body was stiff to the touch and her face was an ash gray with deep lines indicating a joyful, happy life. I could tell she liked to smile. As usual, I lifted the bed covers to make sure nothing about the death appeared suspicious.
While my partner continued taking notes, I phoned the coroner. The lady’s daughter went downstairs to get us some coffee and give us space. We didn’t object. It was a kind, warm environment. We were in no hurry to leave.
My partner bent over the body, to check the carotid artery for a pulse once more—a standard operating procedure. I commented, “She’s been dead over an hour. I don’t know why we always overstress this crap.”
At that moment, the dead lady’s hand slipped off her chest and her chin and chest rose, as if to clear an airway from her throat to her heart. She took a deep, powerful breath, and then exhaled with seemingly deliberate intent! The breath was commanding, quick, and authoritative. We both jumped back in shock. My partner dropped his pen and let out a suppressed shriek and said, “Oh shit! She’s still alive!” His expression was priceless. I’m sure mine was, too.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, reality set in, and I regained my composure. Defiantly I leaned over her and said, “Bullshit. You are dead. This ain’t funny!” and inspected her face more closely. It is not unusual for a dead body to let out gases and carbon dioxide, though this incident seemed well after the fact. According to the family it had been at least an hour since she died. I started to think the time line that they gave us was wrong.
No sooner had I finished talking when the dead lady suddenly took another desperate gasp for more air—sending me springing backwards in alarm, like a scared kitten, nearly tripping on my shoes. I thought this is far from normal!
I exclaimed, “Holy shit! This is crazy. She is dead. This ain’t right.” And then she took another frantic distressed heave for air. I thought, She’s trying to resume her life again—or give me a heart attack!
“It’s-it’s like she’s trying to jump start herself back to life,” my partner gasped. It was as if he had just read my mind.
She took a third breath, but discontinued in the middle of it. Then, as suddenly as she inhaled those two and a half breaths, she abruptly stopped. She exhaled and rested forever—as if realizing it was no use, too late, her death forlornly inevitable.
My partner felt the same way I did. There was no reasonable explanation for the occurrence. The account is what it is.
My partner and I left the room and indulged in a cup of decaffeinated coffee, wishing it were Jack Daniels, as we politely, but awkwardly, talked with the family members downstairs. We mentioned nothing about the incident, though I did kindheartedly affirm she must have been a determined old soul who loved life to its fullest. My partner added, “I don’t know exactly why, but I feel that way, too.”