Visions, Trips, and Crowded Rooms (11 page)

He never made those jokes with anyone else, since that form of communication was an integral part of their relationship.

Five years later, my dad was in a hospice unit after a long battle with bladder cancer that had spread throughout his body. My father and I had become especially close after my mom died, and I stayed by his side as much as possible.

Dad was feeling well and reading the Sunday paper one day when I said, “Hey, you’re looking a little rough around the edges. How about a shave?”

“Sure,” he replied.

Since he was having trouble holding a newspaper, holding a razor would be even more difficult, so I quickly blurted out, “Welcome to Angela’s Barbershop!” and started looking around the bathroom. “Dad, did you bring your razor?” I asked.

He couldn’t remember, so I called the nurse and asked if she had a spare shaving kit. I walked over to the nurses’ station and waited as she gathered the supplies for me. I suddenly heard my dad talking to someone and realized that the nurse hadn’t turned off the intercom in his room. I couldn’t make out what he was saying but figured that one of his friends must have dropped by. The nurse walked back with me, and we found my father in the room all alone.

“Who were you just talking to, Dad?”

“Helen,” he casually replied.

“Helen, as in Mom . . . who is dead?”

“That’s the one.”

“Do you know that she’s dead?” I asked as gently as possible.

“Of course. I was with her when she died.”

“And she’s here now?”

“Yes. I know it’s strange, but it’s true.”

Here, the nurse chimed in: “It isn’t unusual for a dying person to have loved ones come to greet them.”

“I’ve heard that,” Dad said, “but I don’t believe in it.”

“But you just said Mom was here,” I reminded him.

“Well, I must be hallucinating from the drugs.”

“The only medication you’re on is to help with your nausea,” the nurse told him, “and it isn’t known to impair a person’s thinking.”

Dad seemed a bit irritated. “Okay, so maybe I’m wrong— maybe we do get visits. Am I going to get a shave or what?”

I gently patted some shaving cream on my father’s face.

He glanced back to look over his left shoulder and said, “Helen, are you sure you don’t want a shave, too?”

When I just stared blankly at him, he explained, “Your mom is laughing.”

“What is it, honey?” he asked, as he could see that I was starting to tear up.

“I just realized how much I’ve missed listening to you and Mom joke around.” During the rest of the time, he continued talking to my mother. After he’d been quiet for a while, I asked if she was still in the room.

“I see her but still don’t quite believe it. Maybe I really am hallucinating.”

I said, “I work all day with people who hallucinate because they’re hooked on opiates and pain meds, but you’re not on either of those, and this doesn’t seem like a hallucination. I know you so well, and this is exactly how it felt when you and Mom were together. I just wish I could see her, too.”

He looked in the direction where my mother was. “Can Angela see you?” he suddenly asked. It seemed as if he were interpreting a foreign language when he finally replied, “She loves you very much, but it’s not time for you to see her.”

“Is she, um, solid looking, or does she look like a ghost?”

“She’s a solid figure . . . and a nice figure at that. No ghost here!” he assured me. “You know, when I was a kid, I learned that the smallest thing in the entire world was an atom. End of story. That was the fact, but now we know that there’s so much more . . . so maybe your mom really is here.”

“How do you feel right now?” I asked, always the therapist.

“Happy! I’m with my wife of more than 60 years.” He paused for a moment and then went on. “You know how much I love you, Angela. If your mom can be here for me, then we’ll
both
come for you when it’s time. But for now, I think I’d like to take a nap with my clean-shaven face.”

“That sounds fine, and by the way, no tip required. You go spend some time with Mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said, closing his eyes. Almost as if he were in a dream, his lips mouthed some words as he dropped off to sleep for the night.

Dad died the next day. I now know that love is more powerful than I ever thought possible, because not even death could diminish the bond between my parents.

A
N
U
NEXPECTED
VI
SITOR

by Diane

I am a counselor, and at the “young” age of 60, I learned that deathbed visions are real. The experience taught me that who we meet might be totally different from whom we
expect
to meet.

My birth father died when I was six years old, and I was raised by my wonderful stepfather, Jim. He married my mother when I was ten; and my sister, two brothers, and I took to him instantly. Jim had seven siblings, so we also got five new uncles and two aunts in the deal.

Jim stepped into his role as father naturally, being there at my high-school graduation and walking me down the aisle when I got married. He and his family lovingly filled a part of my world that had been missing ever since my birth father died.

Decades later, I’m finally ready to talk about a subject that’s important to many of the clients I counsel. Of course I didn’t think about it at the time, but I never realized that all those uncles and aunts who brought so much life and joy to my family would also bring death and heartache. I watched over the years as Jim lost sibling after sibling.

As my dear stepdad stayed by Hugh’s side when he was dying (Hugh was his eldest brother), we were all comforted to learn that Hugh had seen his deceased mother shortly before he died. Well, not all the family members believed that she had visited him. Paul, another brother, thought it was baloney, saying that Hugh was probably just thinking about her at the time.

However, days before another uncle passed away, once again our grandmother made a visit. Paul, the doubting uncle, still insisted that the visions were a result of “just missing your mom when you’re dying.”

As my remaining aunts and uncles passed away over the years, I couldn’t help but wonder if they were forming their own greeting party in the afterlife. Then I got word one day that my uncle Paul had died suddenly of a heart attack. At the funeral, I was curious to learn if our grandmother had come to him, despite all of his doubts. No one would ever know, unfortunately, since he died alone.

Sometime later, I got an urgent call from my mom that Jim was in the hospital, and he was doing poorly. I flew home immediately, hoping for the best but knowing that health and age weren’t on his side. He’d been fighting chronic heart failure for many years.

My stepfather was released from the hospital, but he was so frail that he seemed to be practically melting into the bed.

He was surrounded by his wife and four children, all of us grown up. We knew his steady decline was irreversible, but despite how weak he felt, Jim still managed to get out a joke or two to lighten the mood and would call every home-care nurse who came by his “favorite.”

Over the next few days, however, I watched Jim’s body grow weaker. He spoke less often, and stories became paragraphs and paragraphs became sentences. I thought about his siblings who’d died over the years: Would they all come to meet him? Would there be a family reunion? How about my doubting Uncle Paul, who never believed in visions? Would he be there?

As my stepdad’s last days were upon him, I stopped thinking about it, mainly because I was so focused on helping my mom. One day, though, one of my parents’ friends was visiting, and she and my mother were chatting in the kitchen.

I was with Jim when he suddenly looked up and asked, “Who are you?” Then he began a conversation that only he could understand. I just listened as he talked: “I was honored to be there, and I’m so glad you saw it all. You’re welcome—I’m grateful to you, too.”

My thoughts were racing:
Could he really be having a
vision? Was his mom here, or maybe one of his siblings? Was it
Uncle Paul, the skeptic? Or perhaps Hugh, the oldest brother who
had died first?
I couldn’t contain myself any longer and asked, “Dad, who are you talking to?”

“Buddy. It’s Buddy.”

“Who’s that?”

“He was thanking me for being a good dad.”

I was confused. All of my siblings were still living. Did Jim have a child I didn’t know about who had died? Since he didn’t say anything else, I left the room and went to the kitchen where my mom was. “Do you know someone named Buddy?” I asked her.

“My goodness, I hadn’t thought of that name in years,” she replied. “Where did you hear that?”

“Dad just said it.”

“Jim used to tease your father when they were in high school,” Mom said. “As a joke, he’d call him Buddy, as if he didn’t remember his name.”

“Dad knew my biological father?”

“Yes. They weren’t that close and didn’t hang out. I was the only person they had in common.”

Suddenly, I realized what had just happened. My birth father had come to greet the man who had raised my siblings and me. He wanted to
thank
Jim for taking care of his children since he couldn’t.

“Mom, my dad was just here! He was talking to Jim and thanking him for being such a great father.”

Mom and I cried together and were so grateful for my birth father’s visit and his message of love.

A
N
O
LD
L
ANGUAGE

by Keith

I’ve been a social worker in hospice services since 1983. I originally worked as a psychiatric technician to help pay my way through school, but I never realized how much that training would later help in my career.

I remember my first job working in an adolescent facility. Basically, it was for those who couldn’t make it at home. The staff of psychiatrists and psychologists would meet with the teens daily, but the techs like me worked in the dorms day in and day out.

After I earned my master’s degree, I found out that a professional organization was looking for recent grads who wanted to work in hospice, and I decided I was up for the challenge. So, in an interesting turn of events, I went from caring for lively, rambunctious teens to those preparing for death.

Although I never imagined ending up in hospice, it turned out to be the best place I’ve ever worked. Every day, I’ve seen and learned new things.

I remember one particular patient, a woman named Maria, who was in her late 80s. She was dying of metastatic breast cancer and had been unresponsive for the last 24 hours; in fact, she hadn’t said a word at all during the previous week. But suddenly, she became alert and began speaking in Czech as she pointed at several objects in her room.

Maria’s two daughters were amazed because they hadn’t heard their mother speak in her native language for many years. Since they couldn’t understand it, they called one of their aunts to come over and interpret. They were concerned that their mother might be in pain or was trying to tell them something important before she died.

Finally, Aunt Anna arrived, a little frail herself, and sat down to hear what her older sister was saying. A strange look came over her face as she explained, “Maria is talking to people in our family who have already died. But it’s more than just talking—she can see them.”