Sergei Rachmaninoff lies dying in his Beverly Hills home. Family and friends surround him, the room suffused with that particular stillness that often accompanies life's final hours. Then something unexpected occurs. The composer opens his eyes and asks those present: "Can you hear this beautiful melody? The enormously beautiful music?"

The response from those at his bedside is immediate: "No, there's no music here."

Rachmaninoff insists: "Yes, but can't you hear this beautiful melody? It's so..."

They maintain: "No, no, there's nothing here."

Finally, Rachmaninoff concedes: "Very well. Then the music is only in my head."

He lies back and dies.

This moment has remained with me throughout my years researching the psychology of death and dying. Not because of what Rachmaninoff heard—we'll never know that—but because of the missed opportunity it represents. What would it have cost those present to ask: "What kind of music are you hearing? Can you describe it? Could you hum it for us, and we'll transcribe the notes?"

On multiple levels, this scene encapsulates a challenge we face constantly in our research: When someone reports an experience that doesn't match our own perceptions, our first impulse is often to correct rather than to explore. Yet in this particular research field at life's boundaries, these anomalous experiences might be our most valuable data. And if not data, then at least opportunities for a gentle human encounter.

I share this story with all those who wish to participate in our work as mandatory reading, simply because I want to prevent us from making the same error—saying "No, there's no music" instead of asking "What do you hear?" This doesn't mean we take everything our informants tell us at face value, as objectively or ontologically true and correct. Sometimes, not even the........

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