Journey to the next world. Experience of a woman who experienced clinical death, abortion

Vladimir Kunin

Journey to the next world

It all started, God knows when...

In those wonderful and forever remained in the history of Russia Soviet times, when, as a result of a caring and wise decision of the party and government throughout our vast homeland - “... from the southern mountains to the northern seas...” - the lines for vodka outstripped the famous Moscow mausoleum lines in length, curling like a gloomy giant anaconda along Krasnaya square - from the entrance to the tomb of the leader of the world proletariat and further, along the Kremlin wall, right up to the middle of the Alexander Garden. And already there the tail of this falsely mournful provincial reptile was lost in the thicket of the oak forests near the Kremlin and the incorruptible police squads of that time...

* * *

In this epoch-making year for the whole country, film screenwriter Sergei Aleksandrovich Martov sat forty kilometers from Leningrad, on the shores of the Gulf of Finland, in the village of Repino, among sand and pines, fearless squirrels and cautious hedgehogs, at the end of a street with the ancient name - Novaya, in the House of Creativity Union of Cinematographers of the USSR.

He sat on the second floor in his permanent room number thirty-two and tinned the next amendments to his next script.

Sergei Alexandrovich was an experienced person in this craft.

By the time of the decision on the forcible introduction of a sober lifestyle into the consciousness of Soviet people, a dozen and a half large feature films and about thirty short documentaries had already been made based on Sergei Alexandrovich’s scripts.

All these scripts, as well as two books and one play (based on his own film script) were composed and written by Martov in Repino, in this House, in its thirty-second issue. He came here every year and sat here continuously for five months. And even more.

Martov wrote only one script in Bolshevo, the House of Creativity near Moscow. Leningradsko-Repinsky was under renovation that year. In Bolshevo, Martov missed Repino, and his work there was hard, tedious and clumsy...

The picture in this scenario turned out to be more than mediocre. The common consolation of any playwright, that, they say, “in the beginning there was a word...” and this “word” was simply mediocrely read by the production director, did not protect him from the insults and humiliations with which Martov wound himself up to the brim. This he knew how to do excellently.

After the film was released, Martov somehow re-read that script of his near Moscow and realized that the writing was somewhat weak.

“In captivity, I don’t reproduce,” Martov thought then. “I won’t stick my nose out of Repino again!” And since then, even for Mosfilm, he wrote scripts only in the Leningrad House of Creativity. In Repino.

In the summer, he fed his familiar brave squirrel Frosya, who impudently jumped onto his balcony from a nearby tree branch and gobbled it right out of his hands, and in the winter, to his misfortune, he attracted a gang of impudent and thieving tits. The tits didn't care much about the knocking typewriter, they weren’t afraid of a damn thing, they flew into the room through the open window, pecked at everything that was edible, poked and tore apart cigarettes, and sometimes pooped on the manuscript, not at all embarrassed by the presence of its author.

Martov was forty-seven. Once upon a time he married Yulenka Kosich, a young ballerina from the Maly Opera Theater. And a few years later, on a film expedition in Altai, where a film based on his script was being filmed, he began a crazy affair with a Polish actress and, returning to Leningrad, confessed everything to his wife.

“It will be more honest,” Martov said then, inwardly admiring his own decency. - Naturally, I’ll leave you the apartment, but the car... Do you mind?

Well what are you talking about! - Yulenka sobbed.

We were talking about the latest model of the forty-three-horsepower “Zaporozhets”, which at that time in poor cinematic circles had the status of today’s, frankly speaking, not the most expensive “Mercedes”.

The divorce took place quietly and elegantly, without mutual claims and property disputes, with the undisguised sympathy of the entire composition of the people's court of the Vyborg district of Leningrad.

A couple of weeks later, Yulenka left with the theater on tour to France, and stayed there. Forever.

Martov’s burning romance with the Polish actress somehow dried up on its own and gently dissolved in the everyday bustle of life. Moreover, immediately after Yulenka’s escape there was a categorical ban from the “competent authorities” on any foreign trips of the ex-husband of the former artist of the Maly Theater Yu.I. Kosich. - a respected member of the Union of Cinematographers and the Union of Writers of the USSR, laureate of the State Prize, film playwright S.A. Martov.

Three years later, through the titanic efforts of two creative unions, this ban was lifted from Martov, and Sergei Alexandrovich again began to travel to all sorts of foreign countries, but from then on, and in the future, he never experienced even the slightest desire to somehow change his personal existence . Unless I swapped the Zaporozhets for a Zhiguli of the third model. And after a couple of years he switched to “nine”. That's all the changes.

From time to time, various young ladies of student size appeared around him, and then the main thing for Martov was to make sure that these girls reached normal puberty - “usual” age, and not the criminal, puppy age. Because the rapid acceleration of the last two decades of the last century could mislead even a very experienced walker...

* * *

So, our first Character of that distant time is presented - the forty-seven-year-old, childless, single and fairly successful film playwright Sergei Aleksandrovich Martov.

Everything is according to science. Simultaneously with the introduction of the Character of the opening part of this story...

The Time of Action is also indicated. The era of that time: an unforgettable sovereign decree on the dangers of drunkenness, which immediately gave the Soviet people a grandiose leap in prosperity due to a sharp increase in the production of fusel moonshine in all regions of our vast homeland. Now all layers of Soviet society were happily engaged in its production - from the eternally drunk stokers of suburban boiler houses to the moderately drinking active members of the Academy of Sciences. Moreover, the academicians produced moonshine of much higher quality than the stokers did...

According to the same unshakable canons of plotting, the location of the beginning of this story is also named - the former Finnish resort of Kuokkala, since 1939 renamed the Soviet village of Repino. Novaya Street, 2, House of Creativity of the Leningrad Branch of the Union of Cinematographers of the USSR, second floor, at the end of the corridor, room No. 32...

Many people don't think about the fact that in Heaven we will have to face all our sins. Therefore, they lead an idle, riotous life, without thinking particularly about their own actions, without trying to change anything, and, worst of all, they manage not only their own lives, but also those of others.

It is quite possible that the Orthodox documentary film “Message from Heaven” will help many to rethink their lives. Its author is Galina Tsareva, but “Message from Heaven” is only an excerpt from the director’s full-length documentary work “Mortal Memory.”

The main character of this film is a woman who survived clinical death. It is unknown what we will have to face in heaven, but this woman met her aborted child there and communicated with him. Which proves that death after an abortion is as terrible as death after birth, and a child in the womb is a person capable of feeling. The film “Message from the Other World” is intended to teach everyone living to remember that every action will have to be answered in heaven, and to tell women that any child is a gift from God, which is not given to everyone. And accepting this gift means demonstrating your true faith, courage and wisdom, because women were created not to kill, but to give life.

I once bought at candy store near work a couple of cakes. One for myself, the second for my husband Grisha. But I couldn’t resist and devoured them both on the way home. For which I paid. At night my stomach hurt terribly and I began to feel nauseous. “I’ve been poisoned,” I thought. “No wonder the cream seemed sour.”

There was nothing to do - I went to wash my stomach. I drank two liters of water, hugged the toilet for more than an hour, but instead of relief I felt even worse. “You need to lie in a warm bath,” my husband advised. “They say it helps.” My husband is great! With him it is 100% easy and free.

No sooner said than done. I lay in hot water for half an hour, and I felt: it wasn’t good at all, it was unbearable. She called Gregory and asked:

- Grisha, call an ambulance, otherwise I won’t live until the morning.

My husband plopped down on his knees and stroked my hand:

Katyukh, don't die! I can’t do without you! And I already have circles before my eyes.

“That’s it,” I whisper, “Grishenka... Forgive me, goodbye, I’m waiting for you in the next world!”

It was in vain to say goodbye. The ambulance managed to deliver me alive to the hospital. And straight away to the operating room. Surgeons, nurses - everyone is running around, fussing. “No, the angels will wait,” I think. “Now I’m in good hands...”

Before I had time to think about it, I heard the anesthesiologist say: “Doctor, we have problems. Her pulse is slowing." I got scared, opened my eyes, and for some reason I saw the surgeon’s back instead of a face. She looked out from behind her. Dear mother! So here I am - lying on the operating table! Only with a mask on your face. Meanwhile, the doctor commands: “Don’t panic, we’ll resuscitate you. Prepare the defibrillator."

Realizing what they were going to do to me, I wanted to shout: “Don’t!”, but I was suddenly pulled down and began to be pulled into some kind of funnel. Oops! — and found herself in pitch darkness. Then a blurry spot appeared below...

“Hell! - I decided. - Is it really there? I wanted to scream “Help!”, but then for some reason I realized that I was not in danger, and I felt an extraordinary lightness. I relaxed, I was flying into the light... Finally, the flight slowed down, and I seemed to be enveloped in warmth. I calmed down and heard someone quietly calling: “Katya... Katyusha...” She looked around: a woman was standing, all in white. I took a closer look and shouted:

- Aunt Luda, is that you?!

“I, niece,” the late aunt smiled in response. And her face is kind, kind, and even glows. “Don’t be afraid,” he says, “you are a random guest here.” Your time has not come, now you will go back.

- Back? - I asked. And she herself has tears in her eyes.

- Ofcourse honey. But it’s time for my Yegorushka

to pack. - Uncle Yegor? Why?

- His time has come. There's nothing wrong with that. I know for sure: he will end up here, to me. And we will never part with him again.

“Wow,” I roared. “And today I blurted out to Grishka that I was waiting for him in the next world!”

“I was in a hurry,” my aunt grinned. - You and Grisha still have time to live and give birth to children. You will have two of them, boys. Now go back and don't look back. Do you promise?

“I promise...” I answered and suddenly felt a sharp pain.

She opened her eyes. I'm lying in a hospital bed, next to me is a nurse. Speaks:

- Well, Katerina! This is necessary, it scared people so much!

- How? - she croaked.

- Like what? You were clinically dead. They barely pumped it out!

— From poisoning?

- What kind of poisoning?! The appendix burst! Peritonitis began.

- Horror! Where is my husband?

— He’s sleeping in the lobby.

“It’s a pity that he’s sleeping,” I thought. - I have such news! If I tell you this, he won’t believe it!”

And I didn’t believe it. Neither about the aunt, nor about her predictions. And a week later Uncle Yegor died. From a heart attack. Then I had a dream that my aunt and uncle were hugging under a blossoming apple tree. Why?

Death is always scary, because it means that the end has come. But what about the people who have seen the other side with their own eyes? Clinically, they were dead for varying amounts of time, whether it was a few seconds or five minutes. They saw the other side. For some it was bliss, for others it was horror.

1. Peaceful silence

Some people tend to experience incredible peace and calm during near-death experiences, while others experience the worst possible pain. This story is about a young man whose femoral artery was accidentally damaged at work. He remembers that the blood flowed and did not stop, and after some time, darkness came. But this darkness did not frighten the guy, but instead brought calm and peace, because the wound stopped hurting, and everything became fine exactly until the moment he returned to reality. The young man experienced crazy pain, which remained with him for a long time, but he remembered the darkness and calm that reigned in it for the rest of his life.

2. Life after death is just emptiness

The black void is what causes people the most anxiety. Many people believe that the afterlife includes happiness in heaven, and of course this is a very rosy assumption. But the afterlife can be boring. What if it's absolute nothing? It is precisely this kind of emptiness that one man tells us about, who was inflicted 32 puncture wounds and then left for dead. It is undoubtedly a miracle that he survived this at all. However, before he could continue his life, he had to endure three days in a colossal void. It was a complete vacuum in which his consciousness “floated”. There was no pain and fear, there was nothing. This is how he described his experience in a coma.

3. Hell is an endless hall of mirrors

Hell can be imagined in different variations: flames, torture, aimless wandering, cauldrons, demons, and so on. But the man who died on the operating table had a completely different vision. This man had open heart surgery during which his heart stopped beating. Of course, the doctors immediately began to resuscitate the patient, but while the resuscitation efforts continued, the man experienced something terrible. Later he said that he had been in real hell. There was no flame, devil or torture, but there was a huge hall with mirrors. He tried to go through them and find a way out, but he couldn’t find it. The mirrors were endless.

4. Guardian Angel

Accidents happen when you least expect it. The man in question was in a terrible accident. He had crashed his motorcycle and was lying on the roadway, bleeding. When his strength practically left him, he saw a woman dressed all in white come up to him, kneel down and begin to calm him down. The woman said that everything would be fine and that he did not need to be afraid. The motorcyclist was eventually rescued by paramedics. When he woke up in the hospital, he immediately began asking about this woman, but the ambulance crew that arrived at the scene said that there was no woman next to him, and ambulance called by two men who stopped near the scene of the accident.

5. Wandering around the field

According to the Bible, hell is a place where rivers of sulfur rage, the earth burns with eternal fire and sinners scream. Some people who have actually been dead for some time claim to have visited such places. One such person is Angie Fenimore, who claims to have been in her own hell.
Fenimore says she first saw her life flash before her eyes. She then quickly moved to a more foggy field where there were a lot of people. One of them told her: “You must be suicidal,” but Angie replied that she did not want to talk to him about this topic. She described this huge field as very gray and dull. It was full of people talking to themselves and just wandering around.

Fazliddin Muhammadiev

Journey to the next world, or the Tale of the great Hajj

On a turboprop air giant we are heading on a pilgrimage.

There are eighteen of us. Seventeen clergy - mullahs, imams, mudarris, khatibs, mutawallis, and the eighteenth - I, your humble servant, a general practitioner, as the proverb says, a dead man among the dead.

Every year, on the holiday of Eid al-Fitr, a group of Muslims leaves the Soviet Union from the Soviet Union to Mecca and Medina in order to be cleansed of sins in the homeland of the prophet, gain sawab and return with the high rank of aji.

Pilgrims are usually accompanied by a doctor who monitors their health, but this time, like a roofer who covers someone else’s roof while his own is leaking, he fell ill, and the honor of accompanying our outstanding Muslims to the land of the prophet fell on me. Our fellow travelers were Chinese circus performers flying on tour to Sudan, many foreigners, among whom were Sudanese, as well as Soviet specialists heading to Cairo.

The IL-18 took off from the Sheremetyevo airfield late at night and soon gained an altitude of ten thousand meters. Through the windows you can only see the black sky dotted with stars. Sitting next to me is a mutawalli from Bashkiria, Israfil.

During the five days that the future hajis spent in Moscow waiting for their flight, Israfil and I became close.

- What is your name, doctor? - he asked on the first day.

“Kurban,” I answered.

- Kurban... Kurban... They gave you a good name. In honor of the holiday. Easy to remember. And my name is Israfil.

“It’s also a famous name,” I answered politely. - In honor of the most venerable archangel Israfil, who one fine morning will awaken all the servants of God with a trumpet voice and announce the beginning of the day of judgment.

Mutawalli nodded and smiled.

“It turns out that the heavenly office is also overstaffed,” I thought. “The most venerable archangel has been wandering around idle for millions of years in order to blow his karnai once on the day of the Last Judgment.”

Mighty engines hum monotonously. The friendly flight attendants, having finished their business, went to rest. The lamps are turned off. The salon is in twilight.

Passengers doze peacefully in their seats. The head of our group, together with the translator, is in another salon, which is considered more comfortable. I will say, without exaggerating, that I flew on the IL-18 and TU-104 at least a hundred times, but on domestic airlines the seats were not divided into best and worst. Only women with children and the sick were given more comfortable seats. And now, even though we are flying on our Soviet plane, the cabins are divided into first and second classes. First class, of course, costs more. The roar of engines is less audible there, and its passengers have the right to take heavier suitcases with them than we, second-graders. It's nothing you can do. The flight is foreign, and this is apparently a concession to foreign traditions.

The engines are humming and humming. Passengers, reclining their seats, are sleeping. Israfil peers into the darkness outboard for a while, but soon falls asleep too. I have a bad nature - I can’t sleep in the air, even if it kills me. It's good that planes began to fly quickly. About seven or eight years ago, a flight from Dushanbe to Moscow took about two days, including frequent landings for refueling and crew changes. Arriving in Moscow, your humble servant, instead of immediately getting down to business, visiting friends for whom his soul yearned, or simply wandering through his favorite streets and squares, curled up in a hotel room to refresh his head, dull from insomnia.

Well, now it's for the better. I am tasked with monitoring the health of my companions. True, they went through a thorough medical checkup, they were vaccinated against any and all epidemics - smallpox, cholera, plague, tropical malaria, which still sometimes break out abroad, but nevertheless you need to be on alert.

It has long been known that every follower of Muhammad dreams of seeing sacred places with his own eyes at least once during his earthly life, and the one who, due to ill health or exhaustion, gives up the ghost on the threshold of God’s temple is revered as a servant of God specially marked by Allah and almost not a saint.

What if, I thought in those days, when I had not yet met my future companions, one of them fooled the doctors around their finger and you can live a healthy life without being healthy and passed a medical examination?! Doesn’t it happen in our practice that we put our highly respected seal on sick leave or on a trip to a sanatorium for people who with one blow of their fist can turn a stone mountain into sand?!

Two rows ahead of me, the venerable Mullah Nariman was sleeping, whistling and gurgling, echoing the roar of engines. If I were a doctor in the city where this venerable servant of Allah lives, I would not let him come within gunshot not only of Saudi Arabia, but also of an ordinary tourist trip to my native land. Mullah Nariman's heart resembles an overripe tomato - touch it with the tip of your little finger, and... There is no need to explain what will happen next.

In Moscow, we all lived in a hotel not far from VDNKh, on the right side of Mira Avenue. On the second day, having recognized each other by their beards, turbans and robes and having become acquainted, seven or eight future hajis gathered in someone’s room to talk about the ailments suffered by each of them...

Taking advantage of this, your humble servant began to perform his duties - according to appearance determined the health status of his charges, wrote down first impressions in a notebook, as well as names, ages and brief information about possible ailments of each of them.

Suddenly the floor attendant ran in and, breathless with excitement, asked:

- Where is the doctor? Your friend is feeling bad... He is there in the room, poor fellow...

This same Mullah Nariman was stretched out on the bed in a semi-conscious state. His weak heart fluttered like the heart of a dove. I ordered the pilgrims who came running after me to open the windows wide. One of them, a younger one, while I was examining the patient, ran and brought a suitcase with my medical supplies. Half an hour after the injection, Mullah Nariman’s soul returned to his body and, sitting up in bed, he began to make a speech.

“Dear sirs,” the most respected mullah deigned to say. He looked at us for several seconds, wondering if it was possible to speak in the same spirit, and, finally deciding that it was possible, he continued: “Gentlemen, from joy I don’t know what to say.” No, don't mind, I don't know. My spirit ascended to seventh heaven at the sight of my companions on this holy trip. God's servants are innumerable, but such an honor does not fall to everyone. No, don't mind, not everyone gets it.

I was stunned. Does this man with such a weak heart seriously intend to make a difficult and tiring journey?!

“Mr. Doctor,” he turned to me, reading the bewilderment on my face, “you should know that I come from a spiritual family, from a family of true Khojas, that is, seventy generations of my ancestors were Khojas.” Believe my word, Nariman is strong as a horse and healthy as a bull! No, don't mind like a bull!

I wanted to protest against addressing me with the word “master,” but the mullah’s manner of expressing himself so stunned me that I forgot about my intention.

On that day, future pilgrims were briefly told about the United Arab Republic, the Republic of Sudan and Saudi Arabia, where we were heading, and during the conversation they made it clear that all those going abroad, including representatives of the clergy going on pilgrimage, should not forget that they are citizens of the Soviet Union and behave worthy of this title.

I considered it necessary to report on Mullah Nariman's state of health, expressing surprise that such a sick man was allowed to undertake such a difficult journey. Kori-aka, the leader of our group, supported me, suggesting that while there was still time, Moscow doctors examined the most venerable mullah and expressed their opinion. But then the mullah, jumping up from his seat and shaking his long arms in the air, and rolling his huge eyes in all directions, passionately announced that he comes from the most ancient and famous family, that seventy generations of his ancestors are Khojas and that Mullah Nariman is able to do not only one trip to the named countries, but also to go around the world a hundred times. And whoever wants to interfere with his high thoughts and noble intentions, let him not see even a single Have a good day and in this and in the next world and forever and ever experiences unheard-of torment. No, no, don’t mind, he finished his speech, unheard of torment...

... Someone touched me on the shoulder and interrupted my thoughts.

- Dokhtur-jan, let's light a cigarette.

This fat man, Urok-aka, khatib of the mosque in the city of M. has been sharing my cigarettes with me for five days now.