Visions, Trips, and Crowded Rooms (4 page)

History has often treated the words of the dying as reality, but the majority of medical professionals wouldn’t entertain such a notion, which eventually made me curious to find out where deathbed visions were viewed differently (and by whom). I was encouraged by all that I was learning and knew from the regularity by which they were appearing that I should continue to search.

The next area I’d explore on my journey was how the legal world perceived the words of the dying. Would this information prove to be intriguing and shed new light on this mysterious line of inquiry? I was more than ready to find out.

CHAPTER TWO

B
ELIEVING
THE
W
ORDS
OF THE
D
YING

“I still live.”
— final words of Daniel Webster

Someone once told me that maturity is when you accept the fact that two contradictory ideas can exist together. For instance, community service can be a selfless and generous act, or it can be used for self-aggrandizement. It can be very interesting when two contradicting ideas actually exist at the same time in one person, especially when you mix this concept with the principle that things change when observed—we know it depends on the situation and who is doing the observing.

Deathbed visions are no exception. At the core, they are statements made by the dying that will or won’t be believed, but most visions experienced in a person’s last moments are not taken seriously or considered credible by those around them. Yet when we look at deathbed declarations from a legal standpoint, we may find a completely different point of view. I am by no means a lawyer, but the information I was able to obtain after consulting a university professor and a couple of attorneys is fascinating in terms of the dying. I present it for your consideration so that you have a complete picture of the ways in which we respond to what a person says moments before death.

Let’s first take a look at the story of William, someone I grew up with.

William’s mother, Jennifer, didn’t seem to have a vision before she died, but she did make a statement that would remain a mystery for years to come. William was just ten years old when his mother, who battled kidney disease for much of his life, began to take a turn for the worse.

William’s father, Jeffrey, a strong, stoic, powerful attorney, had brought his legal background to his son’s upbringing. If William said something that wasn’t “concrete,” his father would respond: “I would never present that to a jury.” For instance, if he stated, “I heard that two kids were sent home from school for fighting,” his dad would quickly cut him off, saying, “That would never be allowed in a court of law. You have to have direct knowledge.”

As Jennifer’s health deteriorated, William’s dad focused on practical concerns by making sure her affairs were in order and by speaking to various doctors, ensuring that every option for treatment was being explored and implemented. When her condition worsened, she was hospitalized. Jeffrey was aware that children under 14 weren’t permitted to visit patients, but never commented on it. Sometimes William would get to see his mom, but usually he wouldn’t.

William never brought up the rule to his dad. He wouldn’t dare say that the rule was unfair because he knew his father would treat the topic matter-of-factly, comparing it to some law in an instant. He imagined that his father’s response would be: “It’s the rule and you should always obey it, even when a nurse decides to break it for your sake.”

When his mother was a few days away from death, not really communicating much anymore, William was able to visit her and stood by her bedside. At one point, she glanced up and saw him, and then looked forward as if she were going to address someone (or maybe herself). Then she said, “Sorry about March 16.”

William immediately thought,
March 16? That’s my birthday!
What does that mean?
It was a question that would haunt him for years.

After she died, William frequently thought about his mother’s statement, since he never fully understood what she meant. He didn’t feel comfortable discussing it with his father, who wasn’t much of a grieving guy. William knew that his dad was sad, and Jeffrey knew that his son was sad, but they never talked about their feelings.

When William was about 17, he was trying to figure out how to use a photograph-developing kit. He laid out all of the solutions and wondered if he’d actually end up with a clear picture from a blank piece of paper. For some reason, he began to think about his mother’s statement all those years before. Maybe he could finally talk to his father about it. It certainly wasn’t concrete, but perhaps the fact that it happened was all the evidence he needed. Maybe the story didn’t need to be as fully developed as his picture.

William looked down and saw an image appearing as he added the solutions. He let the photograph dry, thinking that he’d show it to his dad later and bring up the topic of his mother’s deathbed declaration. Once his father came home, William showed him the photo, explaining that he’d developed it himself with a kit.

His father looked at it for a while, and then said, “It’s not a great picture. You should never show something that isn’t your best work. I certainly wouldn’t present this to a jury,” and he handed it back to his son. Needless to say, William decided not to mention his mom’s deathbed declaration. He could practically hear his father quickly dismissing it.

Unfortunately, his dad would die five years later of a heart attack, and William never told him about his mother’s final words. Yet just a few years later, when William was 25, he found himself at his aunt Mona’s deathbed and caught a break in the mystery.

William sat there quietly studying his aunt’s face, thinking about how much she resembled his mother. Suddenly, Mona’s face became animated as she woke up and saw her nephew sitting there. Without thinking, he blurted out, “When Mom was dying, she told me that she was sorry about March 16. That’s my birthday.”

His aunt replied, “Your mother had a child when she was very young. We all knew about it.” That was all she said—in fact, she didn’t speak another word while he was there, and passed away the next day. William was perplexed but glad to have another piece of the story. He knew
this
was the conversation he was meant to have—not the one with his deceased attorney father, who would have needed all the facts.

William told his aunt’s daughter, his cousin Sylvia, who was a nurse administrator, the entire story. She said, “One day at work they were giving a presentation about the history of the hospital. From the first day I started, I always thought the place felt familiar. I learned that it was once a home for unwed mothers and realized that I had been there as a little girl to visit my aunt Jennifer, your mother.”

Noting her cousin’s confusion, Sylvia asked, “Don’t you get it? You have a sibling out there! Your mom had to give up her child for adoption when she was a teenager. It’s not like today—she had no choice. The family must have felt tremendous shame and sent her away to secretly have the baby.”

William contacted an organization that did work on behalf of parents and children trying to find their biological relatives. A few weeks later, someone from the agency called and said, “We found your sibling’s birth records. You have a brother who was born on March 16—”

William jumped in, exclaiming, “That’s my birthday!”

“It’s also your brother’s,” the woman stated.

Finally, William knew what his mother’s dying declaration meant. He eventually tracked down his brother and wondered if his father would have been proud of him for doing his “best work” and having the complete picture. Could he now present this information to a hypothetical jury?

William did not know that deathbed declarations are often presumed to be the truth in a court of law, and viewing them through a legal lens creates a completely different story and outcome. In terms of the legal system, a dying declaration is a statement made by a dying person that’s most often used in deciding a murder case. In Western medicine, these “declarations” or utterances, especially a statement involving an otherworldly vision, are not considered valid.

The law doesn’t comment specifically on whether the dying see visions. However, it often does consider a dying person’s words as the truth, especially when it comes to murder. The idea is that individuals who are fully aware that they’re moments away from death have reason to be completely honest, perhaps much more so than they ever did before. Even with the argument that a dying person might be retaliating or accusing the wrong person of a crime, the law still often favors deathbed declarations as the truth.

This law, which originated in medieval English courts, ascribed to the principle of
Nemo moriturus praesumitur mentiri,
meaning “a dying person is not presumed to lie.” An early example was in the 12th century when dying declarations, such as deathbed statements, were already long understood to hold a “special trust.” Typical reasoning at the time for such an admission was expressed by Lord Chief Justice Mansfield, who indicated that the dying declaration of Lady Jane Douglas was admissible, for “would she have died with a lie in her mouth . . . ?” (On her deathbed, Lady Douglas had insisted that she was the birth mother of her son, Archibald, which would make him the legal heir to her brother, a wealthy duke.)

Even today, centuries later, the legality of a dying declaration exception still stands. Therefore, a dying person’s last words regarding a crime are exempt from the “Hearsay” rule, which usually prohibits the use of a statement made by someone other than the person who uses it to testify during a trial because of the inherent untrustworthiness of hearsay. For example, if one of Nicole Brown Simpson’s friends had heard Nicole say, “I think O.J. is so mad he’s going to kill me,” that may be ruled by the court as hearsay. However, if she had been found dying and said, “O.J. stabbed me,” that would have fallen under the “Hearsay Rule Exception.”