Talk to Me (10 page)

JENNIFER'S UPDATE

I wanted to include this update as it perfectly illustrates how a reading can keep on giving. Before I start a reading, I always preface it with, ‘There will be some information that may not make sense right now, but it will fall into place in time.' This is what happened with Jennifer, and about a year after I brought Irelynn through, she sent me two emails.

In the first email, Jennifer recalled that during the reading I spoke about a character that was purple like Barney the Friendly Dinosaur. At the time she wasn't sure what Irelynn meant, as her daughter had never watched
Barney
& Friends
, but she later figured out that it was Austin from the show
Backyardigans
. ‘She loved watching it, and Austin is purple and her favourite,' Jennifer explained. ‘Just wanted to share that with you!'

The other email was about Irelynn saying how much she loved Ronald McDonald House and what Jennifer was doing there, and that it was one of her favourite places. Even though Irelynn repeated this a few times, it didn't seem particularly significant to Jennifer during the reading—but it does now. Jennifer told me that Irelynn's name will be placed on the walkway there, and on the wall inside there will be a plaque saying, ‘All donations made in the honor of Irelynn.'

I can always rely on the fact that messages from the deceased truly mean something to them. It usually just takes us a little bit longer to figure out what they're trying to tell us, and sometimes it has yet to unfold!

STUCK IN TIME

Scott shares his story of losing his son, Adam, but in a far different way because in Adam's case it was sudden and at his own hands. I think we can all empathise with both Jennifer and Scott, and how painful it was for them to comprehend the reality of death. In both stories, neither parent had the power to stop their child from dying. Nobody did.

I meet lots of different people in my line of work. Lucky me, travelling the world and getting to know, then care about, so many people. While touring the great state of Texas, I recall laying eyes on Scott. As soon as I did I could see his enormous pain. This is because mediums feel levels of emotional intensity with every human being. Some people carry no pain because they have yet to be traumatised by life, and have the good fortune to experience a carefree adventure. They might make it through life with only the expected losses, such as the passing of grandparents and parents through old age. But not everyone has that luxury; some people experience great loss in ways that seem both unfair and unimaginable.

When I met Scott, his eyes told me he had seen things he could never really describe, even if he tried. Scott ‘felt' to me as if he was so full of intense feelings that they were hard for him to sort out. He also had a very red colouring to his face, as if he was holding his breath or physically ready to implode. He was by himself and seemed unsure of what to expect from my event, although that's not unusual. I
knew
he had to be read, or at least given the chance to be. But his eyes also told me that he wouldn't want to visit his pain on others by sharing his story publicly.

Two hours came and went and 15 to 20 readings later the event was over. I thanked my audience, descended from the stage and exited to a private room where I could unwind until the crowd dispersed. Mark came in and I said, ‘You know that man I pointed out in the beginning who needed to be read? Is he still here?'

Mark thought he was, but said he'd go and check. Apparently, after the crowd cleared, Mark was walking back into the auditorium just as Scott was walking out, and Mark invited him to come and talk to me.

Scott sat down, we introduced ourselves, and I explained to Scott that his son knew his story was personal and wanted it to be private for his dad, so he had orchestrated this impromptu private reading. Just so you know, it's rare that I do a reading after an event because I'm so beat and so
done
. But Scott's son did a really good job in being both persistent and forceful with me, though in a good way: he just wasn't about to let me take my focus off his dad.

I began relaying messages to Scott from his son: ‘He says you're not to blame. He says to tell you he loves you. You weren't just his dad, you were his best friend. He says if he could go back and undo it, he would. He rides with you in the car and listens to the “oldies” songs with you.'

Even though I was so tired and the reading only went for about ten minutes, when the deceased say exactly what needs to be heard, the healing is deep and profound.

An hour or so later I saw Scott in the hotel restaurant, and his face didn't look red anymore; his colour was normal. He looked kind of relieved and at peace. I smiled and shook my head in awe of Scott's son, saying, ‘You did it, kid, you brought him back to the living. Good job!'

SCOTT'S STORY

My brother was killed in a car accident in 1986 when he was sixteen years old, so I was familiar with the grieving process. Even so, that experience did not prepare me for what I saw on my patio that early June evening.

My son Adam, at 21 years of age, was quite simply a good man with a big heart. He had always been a good boy growing up. After all the experiences we shared together over the years, he had also become my best friend. I knew he'd been having trouble with his girlfriend, and could see that it bothered him. We went to dinner on Thursday evening. Everything appeared normal and he assured me that he was fine. Still, I suggested we get together the next evening and hang out. That was less than 24 hours away. He agreed and started to get out of the car before he stopped and turned in the seat. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his lucky poker chip from a Las Vegas casino. He said he wanted me to have it, that he had more. Adam reached out his hand, we shook hands, hugged, then he looked me in the eye and said, ‘I love you, Dad.' That was the last time I would hear his voice or see him alive.

Sometimes, 24 hours is just too long.

I came home from work the next evening and heard the sound of the sports channel on the TV. Knowing Adam was a sports fanatic, I was excited that he was home. I called his name, but didn't get a reply. Walking towards the kitchen, I noticed some of Adam's clothing on a chair by the bar table and some of his things on the table. In particular, I noticed a family picture of Adam, his sister, his mother and me. I just figured he was going to take those things to his place. I called his name again, but still no answer. Thinking he must be in his bedroom, I went there to look for him. The room was empty, but I saw that his favourite picture of us fishing together had been placed on the bed next to a handwritten note.

The majority of suicide notes are vague at best. They rarely disclose a real reason or provide closure for the family. While this note was extremely troubling, it was not definitely a suicide note. I called his mobile phone and left a message. I called his sister, but she hadn't seen him. I then called his mother, my ex-wife, thinking that perhaps he was at her house. I read her the note and she became quite concerned, too.

As I was talking to Adam's mother, I headed back to the kitchen, hoping I'd find him somewhere in the house. The back wall of my living room is lined with windows. When I was about in the middle of the room, still on the phone, I saw out of the corner of my eye a figure sitting on a chair on the patio. My heart leapt! It was dark, so I couldn't be certain, but I thought it must be Adam outside.

By the time my next footstep hit the carpet, I noticed that the person was slumped back in the chair, head tilted to the side, and that there was a dark stain covering their chest and pants, and pooled around their feet. I was instantaneously engulfed by fear and my head felt like it would explode. As selfish as it sounds, I remember thinking, ‘Please let it be anyone but Adam!' Before my next step had hit the floor, I recognised his features and I began saying to my ex-wife, ‘Oh no, it's Adam! We've lost our boy! We've lost our boy!' I won't describe the gruesome scene I saw on the patio, except to say that Adam, my son and best friend, chose to end his life by firing a handgun in his mouth. It's a sight that is indelibly burned into my psyche.

Surviving a suicide—that is, continuing life as the relative of a suicide victim—is different from other forms of bereavement. It bears all the stages of the familiar grieving process, but adds other burdens on top. Unlike deaths from cancer or accidents, there's guilt and the feeling that you're directly responsible for your loved one's death. And society STILL attaches a stigma to suicide. My ex-wife's best friend abandoned her immediately. I was shunned by coworkers, and people assumed that drugs were involved or that I was a bad parent to let such a thing happen. There's anger—if someone murders your child, you become angry, but when your child murders himself, a very confusing anger can result. And disconnection—my brother didn't choose to die; I knew that if he could, he would have remained with us. But my own son chose to end his life, and trying to resolve that permanent decision with the love I was sure he felt for me was very difficult.

For me, the burden of intense, unrelenting guilt was the worst to bear. I attended a support group and found it helped to share with others who have been through the same experience. They did not judge or make the assumptions that so many others around me did. I read many books on suicide that were beneficial. The most helpful book I read was Allison's
We Are Their Heaven
. Whereas other resources gave me intellectual understanding and told me that I wasn't alone in my struggle,
We Are Their Heaven
gave me real hope. Not just hope that I would someday heal and learn to get on with life, but hope that my boy was not really gone . . . that he is still here among us.

Oh, how I wanted to contact my son! Yet I was still heavily burdened with the guilt and disconnection that suicide leaves in its wake. I thought, ‘What if I did somehow mess up and I was the reason for Adam's decision? He chose to leave. That must mean he doesn't want to see me.'

As I continued to sink into the murky swamp of my own brewing, my thoughts evolved into a solid belief that my son was angry with me, hated me, and would want nothing to do with me—even if he could. I pushed away friends, hobbies, a girlfriend, and most forms of life's pleasures. While I felt I was progressing through the stages of grieving, I was actually stuck with the guilt and disconnection. I was living a lonely, self-loathing life, and when I did try to connect with my son, I convinced myself that I sensed only anger in return. How could a man like me deserve to be happy when he had so obviously failed his child?

I had never been to a reading. Frankly, I feared receiving confirmation of what I dreaded most. I would visit Allison's website now and then and receive her email newsletter. Then I began to feel more and more impelled to check the dates of her events. I was always ‘satisfied' to see there was nothing in my state. ‘There . . . see, can't go. Silly idea anyway.'

Eventually, it was bound to happen. Allison was having an event in a city three hours from where I live. I kept putting it off, all the while having it more and more brought into my mind. I finally said, ‘I'll open Allison's book, and if it gives me any indication that I should go, I will.' (I admit I gave this little chance of success, otherwise I probably wouldn't have done it.) So I stuck my thumb into the closed book and opened it directly to the page where she wrote of the needs of grieving fathers. I took that as a positive sign. I decided that I'd been living in guilt, pain, and fear for nearly five years. If anything was worth a short weekend trip, this certainly was.

Arriving at the hotel, I was still very tentative. All I wanted was to know whether or not my son loves me. I decided to grab something to eat and sit out on the restaurant's patio. When I walked onto the patio, the old song ‘Silly Love Songs' was playing—at the chorus, ‘I . . . love . . . you.' Coincidence, I thought.

I was very nervous at the event. I still feared my son was angry with me and didn't love me. At the meet-and-greet, I thanked Allison for her work and told her how much her book had meant to me. It was a short conversation, and then I took my seat that I had selected in the back corner. I knew I wasn't guaranteed a reading and, in my self-loathing state, just assumed I wouldn't have one. I finally had the courage to raise my hand at the very end. I wasn't chosen; I didn't know how to feel about that. Then, when I was exiting the auditorium, Mark came running after me and said that Allison wanted to have a few words with me and asked if that was all right. I followed Mark to a room backstage and sat down across from Allison.

I didn't know what to expect from a reading. I assumed it might be more vague, but I quickly became certain that Allison was communicating with my son. I won't go into all the details, but at one point I said I was afraid that Adam might be angry with me or hate me. The response was:
He loves me!
He wants to be with me, and travel with me, go on road trips with me, and he will even listen to the ‘oldies' music that I like! I broke down and cried like a baby.

With that one reading, Allison broke the chains that had kept me in bondage for nearly five years. I literally felt as if I had been born again! I had positive energy and emotion swelling in me like tidal waves, forcing tears to my eyes for days. It was like being catapulted forward from total despair to instantly having a new lease on life. I loved everything: the trees were beautiful, the sky was beautiful, people were beautiful. Most of all, I felt my son and his love! I was like Scrooge on Christmas Day after his reclamation. I didn't know whether to sing, dance or stand on my head. The following day when I drove home, I learned that it is indeed possible to drive and dance at the same time!

In the hotel after the reading, I was afraid to go to sleep that night, fearing I'd awake my ‘same old self'. But I woke about six in the morning, still feeling euphoric. I lay in bed for a while, going over the previous evening's events and trying to get a grip on how happy I was. Every now and then, I had to get up and do a little dance to release some energy. At 6.40, the alarm clock went off. The previous occupant of the room must have left it set. It was on ‘auto', so the radio came on rather than the alarm. The first thing I heard was ‘I . . . love . . . you'—the same song, at the same chorus, that I heard when I arrived at the hotel.