I died. I wasn't hit by a truck nor was I shot at a convenience store. Not even a fateful encounter with a bookshelf. No, I died in my sleep at 84 years old. I'd lived a full life. I'd had kids, grandkids, and even a few great-grandkids, too. My wife had died a couple of years before me, and, although I was sad, I wasn't full of regret for my time on Earth. All in all, I'd lived a good, long life.

I never believed in any gods or in an afterlife, so it came as a huge shock to experience something after death.