Dead Men Still Snore

A Woman's True Story of Love, Loss and Channeling her Husband's Messages from the Other Side

In the shadows of 2019, just before embracing the serenity of early retirement in their secluded tropical hideaway in Belize, Tammy Tyree possessed a life others could only envy: a thriving hypnotherapy practice, a picture-perfect family with four enchanting children, and the delight of a newborn grandchild.

United in an idyllic marriage with her beloved husband Michael, their future seemed as promising as the sun-kissed horizon.

But destiny's cruel hand intervened.

In a fleeting moment, a harrowing "chance" collision on a desolate Mexican highway tore Michael away from her, leaving Tammy stranded in an unfamiliar rural hospital.

Alone and shattered, she believed the love of her life was lost forever...

Or was he?

This poignant tale of love, loss, destiny, and uncanny happenings will challenge the very fabric of reality, beckoning you to question everything you know.

Prepare to journey into a realm where truth blurs with the unknown, and perceptions of life, death, and the ethereal essence of existence are forever transformed.

February 28, 2019, Mexico

Slowly, like moving through thick sludge, I opened my
left eye. The view was hazy, tinted red, but I saw him.
His golden-blonde head leaning against the steering
wheel, the Jeep’s powdery white driver’s side airbag now
deflated and tinged red, resting under his head. A useless
pillow. Splatters and smudges of blood lay under his left cheek,
dribbling down the once-white airbag.

I looked at his face. That’s not right, I thought.

Michael’s upper jaw appeared to be dislodged from his
mouth; his beautiful, large white teeth broken in the center
spacing, almost crumpled in half. He had a hollow face.
Cheeks sunken, eyes closed. His silky mane of blonde hair
smeared with red, and his long, proud German nose, broken
repeatedly in bar fights and logging accidents, was now shifted
and busted yet again, and for the last time. My strong, indestructible husband leaned against the steering wheel, broken.

His body was limp, arms resting between rubbery legs. In the
single moment my left eye opened, viewed the not right and
then closed again... I knew.

Michael was gone.

VORTEX

After seeing the “not right” and knowing in my heart that
Michael had passed, I closed my eye and entered The Vortex. I
could feel my body whooshing backward and felt for certain I
had just exited my dimension for a new reality, one without
Michael in it. I felt no hands and wasn’t aware of any voices,
just the feeling of being pulled back, as if through thick, dark
water.

This is it, I’m alternating my universe. Wait, am I dying? I
can’t leave my children! I want to see my grandbaby grow up!

I peered into the darkness, looking for the opening to the
black hole that had just swallowed me, but I found nothing.
Frozen in terror, I called on Archangels Michael, Raphael,
Gabriel, Uriel, Haniel and Jesus Christ to wrap me in a healing
blanket of protection, love and light, then hung on for dear
life. My children’s faces
flashed before me, gripping my heart. I
said a silent goodbye in the event this was my ending, and I
promised to watch over them from my new place in the
cosmos.

In retrospect, I realized I was physically feeling the pull of a
person–or persons–dragging me out of the vehicle and placing
me on the shoulder of the highway. But in my mind, I was
being pulled from my current universe into another, anticipating whatever was next. Somewhere, very far in the distance,
I heard the faint wail of sirens, then... nothing.

SCENE

I’m sitting on the side of the highway, blood streaming down
my face, saying, “I don’t know what happened, I don’t know
what happened,” repeatedly. My mind refuses to register the
trauma. I’m in a state of unconsciousness, only my mouth
hasn’t gotten the memo. My white T-shirt and black and
white
flowered skirt, both particular favorites, completely
soaked with blood. Michael’s upper body, limp and broken,
rests on the side of the highway as far as they could pull him;
his lower body, legs and feet still resting inside the back of the
Jeep, which is turned on its side, how it had landed after an
endless roll. None of this scene I can recall, but all of it
described to me... later.

Michael’s beloved Jeep–dubbed the “Canary” for its
bright yellow bird color–completely obliterated, roll bars
ripped off. The front windscreen, the hood of the engine and
the entire driver’s side are all gone. There are shards and
chunks of the apparently destructible hardtop roof spewed
across the highway, along with all of our luggage–the first
things to exit the stage and the first things to be picked clean
by the Federales and heartless observers. Michael’s once-shiny,
beautiful pride, his toy and his joy, completely mangled, taking
its owner with it similarly. Its last resting place will be some
Mexican Auto Wreckers to be recycled for what few parts they
can salvage, but that must be nearly impossible. Likely, it will
get crushed into a smaller, denser version of what lay on the
road-side. Besides, if Michael could no longer have his toy,
then nobody could.

Debris is everywhere, scattered far and all across the high‐
way. A boat trailer lays behind the obliterated Jeep, mysteriously devoid of an owner, marking its place in our macabre
play. A line-up of vehicles pulls in behind the Canary and the
on-coming lane as vehicles approach, slow down and then stop. Onlookers exit their vehicles, gawking and shouting,
then someone calls the local police, who arrive within minutes
yet far too late for my beloved. Someone I don’t know covers
Michael’s body with a towel, and other people, speaking Span‐
ish, try to help me wash my face and oer water, but I’m obliv‐
ious, trapped in my world of confusion. My malfunctioning
brain is in a tremendous state of shock, a broken record on
repeat, “I don’t know what happened.”

Mexican paparazzi–locals with cell phones–snap picture
after picture that will later be spread around the web, splashed
across television screens, in between tragic Mexican soap
operas, as the latest breaking headline. And others, being as
obvious as shoppers at a blue light sale, rifle through our bags
and belongings thrown across the highway, stealing any piece
of our lives they deem valuable; jewelry, money, laptops, iPads,
iPhones and passports to be a gift or sold later. The ambulance
arrives, and paramedics move me from my seated position
beside Michael’s limp body to a spinal board, a loathsome
neck brace then strapped around me, holding my neck loosely
in its too-large grip.

I feel nothing, am aware of nothing. I’m not in my body at
all. As they lay me on the board, my arms–elbows bent at a 45-
degree angle, hands bloody and fingers curled into tight fists–
are unmovable if anyone even tries. Rigor mortis of the living,
but why? Something I will soon wrack my tortured,
concussed, uncooperative mind about. The paramedics hoist
me, unconscious, into the back of the ambulance and head for
the nearest hospital, sirens wailing. Assessing my injuries and
finding them to be “minor,” they alter their route, taking me
to the local clinic where my new life, born of chaos and
tragedy, will begin... later.