What if you could watch the essence of your loved one move on to the spirit world? Would this influence your perception of an afterlife? What if you could see, hear and feel their spirit with you once they’ve passed on? Would that help ease the pain of feeling like they are gone forever? For me, unequivocally, I have felt this to be the case. Though my insecurity says that naysayers will point their fingers at me and say I must be crazy, I know I am not. Don’t get me wrong, I have been taken aback by some of my experiences and have questioned my mental state. Laughing at the incredulity of it all while acknowledging all aspects of daily life on earth is what has kept me grounded. When I have shared some of my unique senses with those I love, they know my heart and believe that something has taken place that is difficult for me to explain.
I have sat in a room and witnessed the pain and suffering of loved ones while they grappled with the impending loss of their beloved husband, father and friend. By all accounts, I was one of them. On the one hand, I agonized over how such a positive, impactful force could be leaving. On the other, I was bound and determined to find every minute of beauty in that last week of Dad’s stay on earth.
When the decision was made to begin in-home hospice, my whole focus was on making things as comfortable as possible while soaking in every detail I could. Each sound, movement, smell and blemish took on a whole new meaning. Any moment to crack a smile or chuckle was precious, particularly when it came from one who had a habitual knack for making that happen. I was and still am surprised how many tiny things I had committed to memory without even realizing it: The hair on his hands, the way he bit the side of his cheek when he was thinking intently, the skinny feet that showed every bony prominence, and the habitual clearing of the throat. Each passing day, those details remained more in my mind than I could actually see from the withering person before me. It was hard to watch, but I remain steadfast in my belief that witnessing his being shift from human form to spirit was an unbelievable gift I was allowed to have.
What struck me was the continued evidence of a strong spirit. The first two days there was much more coherence, and it was clear he did everything he could to make the process bearable for us. Throwing in some laughs at unexpected turns was just his way throughout his whole life; why would this moment be any different? He joked with his tearful grandkids about how he was going to “croak in style” with such a comfortable bed that had all kinds of gadgets. He teasingly accused his big, brawny sons of “trying to kill me” when they were doing their best to gingerly re-situate him after a difficult trek to the bathroom. Even when speaking words was more challenging than ever, he managed to surprise us out of the blue with a yodel. Some of these may sound like harsh, off-color remarks, but to those who knew him, that was purely Dad’s humor. It was the stuff that kept people coming back to visit. He was real, honest and often more humorously blunt than you were expecting.
The irony was not lost on me that my holistic, healthy-living self would now be administering heavy drugs to help Dad’s comfort level during this process. Years ago, he would simply shake his head in wonderment, perplexed that I would ever want to drink plain hot water, eat hummus and make my own bone broth. However, there had been times of health challenges when he needed a boost and called me requesting what he affectionately called “boner broth.” (Does this paint a good picture of his personality?) I knew, though, that nothing in my holistic arsenal would be as effective as the drugs he was getting, and comfort was the priority. I have no regrets and was grateful to be helpful.
There was no doubt that this time period was also difficult for those outside the circle of our immediate family. I had been in the position before of wanting to say my farewells to someone I loved but didn’t want to impose. These feelings made me confident that reaching out to the network of family and friends was important, and giving them the opportunity to speak from their heart could be healing. Everyone deals with these situations in their own way, but the open invitation was there to speak to him in person or on the phone if they had the desire. It was a beautiful time of love at its finest, in my opinion. People connecting through tears to say how deeply he had touched their souls. Even when he was unable to speak any longer, a subtle change in breath, a tiny noise or motion of the finger was all we needed to confirm that he was acknowledging his audience and giving his love. What a gift.
Even though the days and nights were exhausting, staring at his form, wondering when that last breath would happen, I wouldn’t change it for anything. As we slouched on the couches watching him as if he were the TV, the mind would whirl with long-past experiences we had. Sometimes, memories that seemed long forgotten would surface. Those of us in the room would share these morsels of beauty with each other and laugh, cringe or shake our heads at the lunacy of it all.
Our family connection had always been deep. I would catch a glance from the eyes of my brothers and have a deep understanding of their current pain. We’d even chuckle at how grueling it was listening to the constant playing of Dad’s favorite country ballads. It wasn’t until these days that we realized the depressing meanings of these songs we had known since childhood, or maybe they just took on a whole new meaning because of our situation. We downed loads of peanut M&Ms and ice cream bars and took mental breaks for just a moment by tuning into the world outside that room. There was never a complete disconnection, but the pauses were a welcome relief for our sanity’s sake.
As the week wore on, his signs of acknowledgment lessened. I luckily received one when I startled him. I had entered the room, quietly approached his head and with a quick, raised voice I exclaimed, “Hi Dad!” His eyes shot open for a brief moment before closing once again. He wasn’t the only one who was going to get in their silly shenanigans when they could.
What felt the hardest for me was watching my mom fuss over her life-long partner. Every chance she got, I watched her lie next to him and whisper into his ear. They were “partners in crime” for 54 years of marriage. My mom’s skill of dreaming up crazy parties and activities and my dad’s willingness to go along with it made their gatherings quite fun events. They were individually and equally fun, strong-minded people whom together made a dynamic duo. It was no surprise to catch friends of mine or my siblings visiting with them when we weren’t around. I knew this was going to be the biggest blow of her life, but I also knew she was strong and would take it as gracefully as she could.
As Friday approached, five days since the home hospice started, we began to feel that he was holding on until a close family friend arrived. The uneventful, methodical breathing of the past few days swiftly shifted leaving us anxious for the friend’s appearance. The air felt heavy and every movement was devoid of hope of dad’s return as his body slowly gasped, wheezed and gurgled. I found myself pacing and urgently texting my brother to hurry with his friend. I imagine the drive back from the airport was an accelerated one that was luckily devoid of police car presence.
Soon we all gathered together in a circle around the bed, saying yet another goodbye, telling him how much we loved him as tears streamed down our faces. All of a sudden, his head and both of his arms raised a few inches off of the bed, reaching out. It was the first movement in a couple of days. What he was reaching for, I could not say. Was it to let us know how much he loved us? Was he reaching toward something else or maybe someone we couldn’t see? At the time, I was too deep in the moment of goodbye to think of such things. I was just glad to see the movement, feeling as if he was gifting us his last bit of effort. We all stood there, watching and waiting to see if this was the time he would go. The minutes dragged on and we once again found ourselves back on the couches surrounding him, concentrating on his pauses of breath that seemed to last forever. Mom lay in the bed next to him, and we did our best to make her comfortable as she squeezed herself into awkward positions just to be close to him.
As I stared at the two of them lying there, I softened my gaze and became aware of a presence in the room. I could only describe it as an energetic fullness at the foot of his bed where I instinctively felt a multitude of spiritual beings were watching and supporting him for this next journey. It felt oddly comforting, though I couldn’t see any particular form. It was just a sense. All of a sudden, a woman walked out of this crowd of energy. I could not clearly see her face, but I could see a long, flowing dress that moved with her beautiful grace. This being didn’t look as my family members in the room. It was more of a translucent appearance. As she gracefully glided toward the bed, my mind wondered what she was going to do with Dad. To my surprise, she approached my mom instead. In my mind’s eye, I saw her arms cradle Mom’s form over her angelic lap, as if she was the epitome of love and support for this grieving soul. At this very same moment, I envisioned two large, transparent hands reach forward toward my dad as if to say, “Take my hands, Tom. Come with me.” And then my connection to seeing this exchange broke and I once again set focus on the labored breathing.
Later, I would challenge myself, wondering if that was just some elaborate imaginative creation, but I know it wasn’t. The reason I am sure is because I remember thinking, “Who is that?” and being surprised that this elegant figure went directly to Mom instead of Dad. What I found strange is that I didn’t even register the significance of that moment until days later. It’s like I watched it happen with some kind of odd detachment amidst my exhaustion and grief.
This is the point where one might think that his body stopped all functioning. It didn’t. The breathing continued but it became very erratic. As the hours wore on, his physical form and sounds became unnerving, and we continued to do our best to make him feel comfortable. Within a couple hours of seeing this spiritual interaction, I could no longer recognize who was on the bed. It certainly didn’t look like Dad. That evening turned into a grueling, sleepless night where every minute felt like it was to be the last breath.
It was nearly 12 hours after seeing the woman and strong, mysterious hands that the moment we dreaded arrived. I happened to be catching a quick nap from exhaustion and was abruptly awoken to the words, “It’s happening.” I snapped out of bed and stumbled to the next room. Maybe it was good for me to be in a disoriented state because I missed seeing some disconcerting aspects of his physical appearance that I wish to this day my family members didn’t have to witness. When the breathing stopped and the body just lay there, it was difficult to see any semblance of the man I knew. I would eventually come to believe that Dad’s essence (his soul or spirit, whatever your term) had left the physical body when those beautiful hands urged him onward. It just took some extra time for the body to power down.
Within hours, his body was taken away and the remnants of the life support equipment was packed neatly out of sight. We were left to grapple with our mind processing that he was really gone. Each of us in our own way had experienced a feeling as if he might just walk through the door any minute, even though we just watched the whole event unfold. It was surreal, to say the least.
A week later, my mom handed me a stack of cards from many friends and family expressing their condolences. As I read through each one, I happened upon a religious mass card. I opened it up and immediately got the chills through my body, which is my personal signal of confirmation. I was staring at a picture of the Pieta, a famous statue I had once seen in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. It is Michelangelo’s depiction of the Virgin Mary holding the dead body of Christ over her lap. I was sure this was the woman with the long, flowing dress that I saw walking out of the crowd of energy! I had long since stepped away from frequenting Christian masses, but there were a couple things that I still held dear to my heart. Mary was one of them, although I had not felt a conscious connection to her for a few years. I had my insecure feelings race through me, wondering why it would be remotely possible that I, a woman of lesser devout Christian faith than many, could see the events unfold this way. I have no answer. But then I ask myself: Why wouldn’t my mom be cradled in the arms of this beautiful being? As a woman of faith who did her best to live in kindness and love, I know she deserved it. I fully believe that whatever faith we choose to follow is how we are supported in this earthly lifetime as well as beyond.
Can I prove that the Virgin Mary held my mom and some mysterious hands took my dad and guided him onward? Of course not. But the chills I feel in my body when I think about it gives me a deep sense of peace and knowing like no other. I had already had strange spiritual experiences I cannot explain, but this was the most comforting one of all. This strengthened my knowledge that I was just going to have to get used to interacting with my dad in a different way.
Since this time, my whole family has seen signs that he is near. Inexplicable TVs and electric fireplaces turning on and off, perfectly timed songs on the radio and — no joke — even as I type this sentence, my own smoke detector chirping three times. How could I not smile at this? Dad is present. If I pay attention and look around, there are unexplainable signs that remind me of him. I can choose to chalk it up to coincidence, but I know better. No doubt it’s hard to remember to pay attention sometimes, especially in moments of sadness and doubt, but ultimately, I know he is here. This is my truth.
So why do I share this experience? Why would I put such deep, personal information out there for others to judge? The honest answer is that I am hopeful it will strengthen your belief that there is something beyond this human existence. When I have shared my story with others who have lost loved ones, I see the hope and wonder in their eyes. That is enough for me, because maybe then they will see signs and believe that their deceased loved ones are actually with them too. It doesn’t take away the grief, but it does instill a feeling of hope and maybe even a smile across their face.
By the way, not one chirp of the smoke detector has happened in the days before or since it sounded during the typing of this piece, and no one has touched it. Coincidence or message from my loved one? You can decide for yourself, but I know what I believe. Thanks, Dad.
Photo by Jonas Ferlin from Pexels
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