I ‘died’ for half an hour while giving birth in a gruelling 54-hour labour, what I saw made me not afraid of death anymore 

Nilufer Atik, 49, a writer from Surrey, collapsed and was unresponsive for half an hour as she felt herself slowly ‘slipping away’. But she says nearly dying was the most amazing experience she’s ever had.

Like most people, I’d heard and read stories about near death experiences before – the bright lights, long tunnels, and images of dearly departed loved ones that witnesses claim to see. 

But my brush with the afterlife was nothing like that. In fact, it was so far removed from a stereotypical account of a near death encounter that I rarely talk about it. 

I didn’t float out of my body, nor was anyone ‘calling’ me to the other side. But like many who’ve had similar incidents, it did make me change my outlook on death, simply because almost dying was the most blissful and peaceful thing that has ever happened to me.

I was 41 years old and had just had a baby boy – Milo – following a grueling 54-hour labour. He was my first and only child and while I wasn’t expecting the birth to be a picnic, I certainly hadn’t envisaged what lay ahead. 

My contractions began after I’d gone to bed at around 10pm one night and, instead of starting off gentle and slow, they hit me suddenly like a sledgehammer and were three minutes apart from the outset. 

My partner back then took me back and forth to hospital but each time we were sent home after being told I hadn’t dilated enough. I couldn’t understand why I was in so much pain that I couldn’t even walk and was violently vomiting yet the midwives were saying I was only in early labour.

Nineteen hours passed in total at home before we returned to hospital for the fourth time, and I refused to leave. 

I couldn’t cope any longer and every contraction was making me buckle over in such agony standing was impossible. 

I was sobbing and telling the midwives I felt something was wrong, but they simply shushed me and said that as I was a first-time mum I just hadn’t known what to expect and that the pain was normal. It wasn’t of course and I know that now.

They gave me pethidine which helped alleviate the pain at least for a handful of hours so I could get some sleep. But once it wore off another long day and night of excruciating contractions lay ahead of me. 

My labour lasted for 54 hours in total, during which time I was given four pethidine injections, almost constant gas and air and – eventually after I pleaded and begged with the midwives – an epidural. 

I hadn’t planned to have my baby this way, quite the opposite in fact given that I’d completed an intensive hypnobirthing course in preparation. I’d envisaged sitting in a birthing pool in warm water as I breathed my baby calmly into the world. 

I’d certainly never considered, in this day and age, that the experience would almost kill me. It turned out that Milo was stuck back to back, in the wrong position with his head blocking the birthing canal, which was why I was in so much pain but not dilating.

I had to have an emergency C-section in the end because Milo’s and my blood pressure had dropped dangerously low. Even that didn’t go according to plan as the anesthetist gave me too much spinal block and my throat muscles stopped working, meaning I couldn’t breathe for myself. 

The whole ordeal was so traumatic that by the time I finally held Milo in my arms, the instant rush of love I had for him was coupled with a feeing of numbness. I was in shock, but I didn’t know it at the time. Milo then had to be taken to intensive care as he was having trouble breathing.

When I went to see his tiny body covered in tubes in an incubator I simply broke down in tears. His birth had been so traumatic, but I had to remain strong for him. Once we got him home, I reasoned, then I could take some time to recover from the mental toll it had all taken on me. What I didn’t realise however was the toll it had taken on my body.

Two days later, my partner and I were visiting Milo in hospital when I began feeling incredibly dizzy. 

‘I think I need to sit down,’ I mumbled as I grabbed onto a table to steady myself. A nurse took me by the arm and helped walk me over to a sofa in a nearby waiting room. That was the last thing I recalled as I then blacked out. 

But it didn’t feel like I was unconscious. I could still hear sounds and noises around me, the nurse buzzing for help, a crash team rushing in and doctors and more nurses issuing hurried instructions all around me. Yet as they got to work trying to bring me round, all I felt was myself slowly slipping away.

I knew I was dying, and I was okay with that. It may sound flippant and blase to say this but it was true. 

For the next 28 minutes, as I remained ‘unresponsive’ while the doctors fought to revive me, I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t open my eyes, or respond in any way to their urgent questioning – ‘Nilufer, can you hear me? Can you move your right index finger if you can?’ 

All I could do was feel myself falling, falling back and down as though sinking into a soft, luxurious cloud.

I could sense that my breathing was slowing down, that I was taking fewer breaths with every few minutes that passed. But I wasn’t afraid. 

You see, a feeling of total and utter euphoria took over me. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. Imagine the deepest feeling of peace you’ve ever felt and magnify it by a thousand and it wouldn’t even come close to what I felt then. 

There was a glorious tingling feeling throughout my entire body and despite my breathing slowing down to an almost stop at one point, I didn’t feel afraid. It didn’t feel like suffocating as I’d always envisaged not being able to breathe would be like.

My head felt light, and my body completely relaxed, almost like it had liquefied. There was no tunnel or light or anyone ‘calling’ me. I saw nothing but felt everything as I fell back further and further into the darkness. 

There was a strong sense that I was going somewhere but it was somewhere safe I didn’t need to be afraid of. 

The pull towards it became stronger and stronger as I gave in to the sensations and resigned myself to the fact that I was not going to wake up. 

The doctors kept pinching me, poking me with needles and various objects, trying in vain to get a response. 

At one point I wanted to scream at them ‘Stop it! Leave me alone.’ Although I couldn’t speak or move, I could still feel every stab of the needle and it hurt, yet I couldn’t communicate this. I just wanted to be left alone to enjoy the all-encompassing peace.

But then the memory of my baby suddenly surfaced. ‘Milo!’ I thought. ‘I have to go back for Milo.’ 

A rush of what felt like ice cold water seeped through my veins as I shot up to a sitting position, gasping for air. Just as I’d decided I needed to wake up, the doctors had injected me with a shot of what must have been adrenaline, which stunned my body out of its stupor. I was trembling so much afterwards I couldn’t even hold a cup of water for almost an hour.

‘You had us frightened for a while there,’ a nurse told me as she checked my vitals. In my confused state, I asked my partner to explain what had happened.

He told me that I’d collapsed in the waiting room after the nurse had taken me in to lie down on the sofa. 

‘You were completely unresponsive, and your pulse had slowed down so they called a crash team in as they thought you might be having a heart attack,’ he explained. 

It turned out my body had gone into shock, meaning my blood wasn’t flowing properly so my organs weren’t getting enough oxygen. While I’d tried to keep going mentally for Milo’s sake after the intense trauma of the labour and delivery, it seemed my body hadn’t been able to.

As I was told the enormity of what had happened, I could tell my partner was expecting me to cry, to be frightened or upset that I’d almost lost my life. But all I could do was smile. 

‘It was amazing,’ I told him. He looked at me perplexed. ‘What was?’

‘Nearly dying,’ I replied. ‘It was the most amazing feeling ever.’

He looked at me like I’d gone mad and brushed over the comment, probably telling himself I still wasn’t fully myself. 

But I meant what I said. Almost dying had been amazing. The most amazing experience I’ve ever had. 

And it’s made me unafraid of death now. I don’t worry any more whether there is or isn’t an afterlife, nor do I fear pain or suffering in my final moments because I have had a glimpse into what those final moments are like, and they are rapturous. 

I also appreciate life more, feeling lucky for every day that I have and the fact that I have been able to experience my son, now eight, growing up. Almost dying has made me realise how important living is.

I’m not sure whether my partner believed what I told him about my near-death experience, and I still don’t tell many people about it in case they think I’m crazy. 

But all I can say is that, as an agnostic, I’ve never really bought into the idea of life after death, nor am I a particularly woo-woo person. 

So, I probably would have been the first person to accuse someone with a story like mine of making it up. 

But that was before I came close to death myself and realised that it may not be the end some of us fear it is.