When Death Blinks

The patient I pronounced dead sat up on the gurney. My hands froze mid-chart. Her pupils were

fixed five minutes ago. No pulse. No breath. Now she's staring

at me like I'm the ghost. The ER erupts into chaos. Doctors sprint over.

Monitors scream back to life. My partner whispers what we're both thinking.

Did I miss something, or did we just witness something medicine can't explain. Her first words

still haunt me. She described the room from above, details she couldn't have seen while

flat-lined. Every beep, every word we said. I've been doing this for eight years.

I know death. But what do you call it when death blinks. Would you have documented