Talk to Me (16 page)

I say this because I've witnessed this play out in my house, watching my husband Joe miss his dad. Joe's dad's memorial was on Joe's 24th birthday. Our daughter Aurora came along two years later. Born the day before Joe's birthday, she lifted the gnawing pain from his heart that was tied to burying his dad. It's as if those we love who are gone send us someone new to love. Not that we miss our loved ones less; it just replaces some of the pain with the joy of a new life. And that joy is so powerful it somehow balances out the unbearable agony.

What made it even more remarkable to Joe was that his ‘birthday baby' would see her first apparition around the age of three, and it happened to be Joe's dad, whom she described standing in her room wearing a bow tie. Coincidence? Heck, no.

The tragedy around my nephew rendered me helpless, and anyone who knows me understands I'm not good with that. I prayed a lot, I cried a lot, and I said the words to my nephew that I hoped would act as some sort of buffer between him and losing his heart with his mother. Looking into the eyes of a child who experiences death so young makes you feel like you're the very person who denied them their childhood; it's such a helpless feeling. I'm an empathetic person; I absorb people's sorrow. I willingly would help ease his if it's ever my place to do so. Time will tell.

I had some remarkable moments while Deidre was in her coma. I have been able to communicate with people who are on both sides of the veil, whether they're in a coma, suffering Alzheimer's disease, or in other suspended existences. Often, the deceased or comatose patients communicate through songs as a way of trying to speak to us. They can manipulate energy because they are already partially separated from their body, and Deidre was no different. The song ‘I Hope You Dance' by Lee Ann Womack kept playing in my head. I felt it was Deidre's way of telling her boys what she wants for them. I can understand why; the song' s message is a lovely one. It's so important when someone you love suffers loss to not be a person who disappears out of their life or who's afraid to reach out to them. They're freefalling for years, and need the grounding that only unconditional love can provide them.

WHEN DEATH TOUCHES YOUR LIFE

People assume because I'm a
medium
that death doesn't affect me, but that's not true. It's like saying that because someone's a doctor, illness won't affect their personal lives. Both professions have a greater understanding of life and death, but that doesn't make either immune to the pitfalls that await us.

Being a public figure, I do a lot of media. The upside of that is meeting the talent behind the microphones. I had the pleasure of being on a radio show in Phoenix called ‘Beth and Bill in the Morning' many times. They were a sarcastic, light-hearted pair. I met Bill Austin in 2005 and we ended up becoming friends, then serendipitously we became neighbours when he moved in three houses away from me. He used to stop over and sit on our back patio with us, and we'd make fun of one another and laugh until our sides hurt.

One morning I was in the radio building for an interview with another station, and Joe and I ran into Bill. He didn't look like his usual effervescent self; he looked troubled.

Bill turned to us, ‘Hey, guys!'

We asked if something was wrong, since he appeared so distracted.

He replied, ‘I got some bad news today. The doctor says I have cancer, and it doesn't look very good for me.'

When you hear this kind of horrible news, it's as if time stands still and the f loor drops out from under you. It's so hard to fathom an end to your life because you've just figured out how to live. Of all the nice people in the world, Bill is the classiest clown one could know. He's a five-year-old trapped in a man's body, and I adore him.

Shortly after that, my family and I moved to Los Angeles. I checked up on Bill from time to time and whenever I was in Phoenix doing radio interviews, I always tried to pop into his studio to say ‘Hello' and give him a big hug.

In December 2009, I had just finished my interview with another station in the building and I was in a hurry to get to my next appointment across town. As I went to exit the f loor, a nagging feeling came over me. I almost felt pulled backwards. I turned and walked towards Bill's studio and peeked in through the window. Always tall and beautiful, Bill was now bald due to chemo, but he was still grinning from ear to ear. You have to love that man! I said ‘Hi' to Beth, and then got a great big bear hug from Bill. As I left and looked over my shoulder—stealing one last look at Bill—I got shivers up and down my spine. My smile vanished from my face and an ominous feeling came over me.

A few months later I said to Joe, ‘I wonder how Bill's doing?'

The next day we got a call from our friend Pat, letting us know that Bill had just passed away. Of course, I was crushed.

Bill was a light much needed in this world; he didn't have a mean bone in his body. He left his mark on Phoenix, and radio and television as a whole, for that matter! And he'll be remembered by my family forever. I don't know who tugged on me that December day, causing me to go back and see Bill one last time, but I'm thankful that I've lived long enough to listen to the guidance I'm blessed with.

I shared this story for two reasons: Firstly, to give you a glimpse into my life and its tragedies so you know I'm human, too. Secondly, so you never ignore that nagging pull if you get it, because it only serves to help you. Ignoring it can create regret that can never be fully resolved. I listened to my gut and I was able to hold that dear man one last time. If you
ever
get the feeling that you should turn around to do something, don't think about how it will inconvenience you or make you late. Know that angels have you by the shoulders. So don't fight them—because if you do, one way or another, you'll lose.

OPENING THE DOOR TO THE OTHER SIDE

One special evening, Joe and I had a door opened between us and his father through someone we had met. Please keep in mind that signs go both ways—our loved ones on the other side can send them to us, but
we
can send them signs, too, acknowledging that we know they're beside us. Joe and I had moments where we sent signs to Joe's dad, Jim, so he knew he was part of the occasion.

As many of you know, my husband Joe's dad passed a long time ago when Joe was in his early twenties. Joe thought that after so much time, he had come to terms with his dad's passing—but as he soon discovered, he hadn't.

I did a reading for a vivacious woman named Dot, whose husband was a doctor who'd been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Yes, this is the same Jim and Dot Hayes from Chapter 2. This particular diagnosis is very sobering, because it's a type of cancer often not detected until it's too late, so you don't hear of it being survived often.

A few months after Dot's reading, I received a call with a request attached to it. Dot's husband wanted to meet me, but I don't usually do readings with people to talk about what happens when we die—by this I mean what they need to prepare for as they battle a terminal illness that can only bear one result. I made an exception for Dr Hayes after my cousin, Mark, urged me to do so. Mark was in charge of my bookings, and he had talked to Dot's husband, whom he liked very much. Needless to say, I agreed to conduct the reading and I met with Jim. Mark was right; he was a great guy!

It didn't escape me that this wonderful man had the same fatal diagnosis that Joe's father had, and that he also shared the same name, ‘Jim'. The time that I spent with Jim was very precious, but what resulted from our meeting ended up affecting my husband in a most profound way . . . one that I had suspected was unavoidable.

After the reading, Jim and I had parted ways, and I walked away feeling I'd shared a special experience that would stay with me for a long time. A few weeks later Dot called and invited Joe and me to go to a pancreatic cancer fundraiser with them, and we accepted their invitation. With all the universal coincidences going on, I thought it might be good for Joe to be around other people who know what Joe and his dad both went through.

Joe looked so handsome in his tuxedo, and I was sporting some new high heels that I was in love with. (Ladies, you know what I'm saying about a great new pair of shoes!)

On the way to the event, Joe and I talked about his dad and our new friend Jim, and how bad things shouldn't happen to good people, but they always seem to find a way.

Speaking of good people, Patrick Swayze's wife would be at the event, and so would Michael Landon's family. Both men the world loved and misses very much. I saw the irony in that Patrick Swayze had been in the movie
Ghost
, and Michael Landon starred in the television show
Highway
to Heaven
, so they had both sampled an ethereal existence as actors.

We arrived at the hotel where the event was being held, and I took a deep breath knowing that it would be an intense night. It also happened to be Halloween weekend, so there were people walking around the hotel dressed like Romans, cowboys and other funny characters. It was a little surreal, like walking into the lounge on
Star Wars
or something, an unfamiliar planet.

We met up with Jim and his family, and made our way over to the table. The night was every bit as emotional as we knew it would be. The emcee got everyone in the room who had pancreatic cancer to stand up, so that we could see them. It was difficult to witness so many people in a fight for their lives, while trying to save future victims of this disease with their presence and fundraising efforts. They were all heroic in my eyes, and my heart broke at the thought that this might be the last Halloween that many of them would
ever
have . . . the last anything and everything being played out for them, like the last song of the night.

Nobody else would have known that Joe was struggling through the night, but I could tell. I know him so well. I ordered a bottle of champagne, and we toasted our new friend Jim and Joe's dad and their beautiful lives. We donated $614, because Joe was born on June 14.

I know 6/14 must have been one of the best days in Joe's dad's life. Besides, the number popped into my head and, as you know, I listen to the other side. I never dismiss the ‘powers that be'. If you find yourself having a moment, and you want to make a loving gesture towards someone you miss, open your mind, and the gesture will become very clear to you.

That night Joe realised he hadn't processed all of the pain from losing his dad, and he became quite distant from me. Sometimes it's hard to understand when someone you love needs to push you away to process their pain, even when you really want to be there for them.

Joe sat and listened to speeches from other sons who had lost their fathers in the same cruel way that he lost his. They were as powerless to save their dads' lives as Joe was to stop his own father's illness from consuming him. I never met Joe's dad in life, but that night I felt like I understood my husband even better, and I loved him more for it—and I didn't think that was possible. Joe wore a bow tie that night just like his dad always did, and I think he felt like his dad was in the room with him. Of course, he was. All of the ones whom we came to honour were.

I can talk to the dead, but I can't remove all of the suffering of the living. It's time to bring awareness and support to families dealing with this deadly disease, and maybe even help prevent someone in the future from succumbing to it.

For more information on detecting pancreatic cancer early on, go to
www.pancan.org
.

SAY GOODBYE

I had to end this chapter with a woman whom I will miss until I see her again, my grandma Jenee. A very tall woman with auburn hair and mischievous blue pools for eyes, she was very intuitive. She was different, unlike anyone I've ever met, or will ever meet for that matter.

When I was little, she'd take me to the park to feed the ducks, and we'd bring Kentucky Fried Chicken in that eye-pleasing red-and-white-striped bucket, mashed potatoes—all that good stuff to eat—and we'd have a picnic. I remember her telling me to throw some chicken to the ducks, and me turning to her and saying, ‘Grandma, isn't that like cannibalism?'

She came back with, ‘Oh, the ducks won't mind!'

I couldn't bring myself to do it, but I still laugh when I think back to that moment. Grandma had the best laugh, more like a cackle, really. It runs in our family and, frankly, it scares small children, but we can't help ourselves.

I fondly remember the details of what she'd do to make me happy. She used to take me to Dunkin' Donuts before skating practice so that I could get a Boston crème and a coconut crème donut for breakfast. My grandma made me a
Muppets
bedroom ensemble when I was eight years old, complete with Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog. I loved going to her house for the holidays. She always made me the best blueberry muffins. I'd go crazy for them and eat too many, giving myself a hateful tummy-ache. Unlike some people, she always got me exactly what I wanted for Christmas, so there was never a disappointment waiting for me under the tree.

Later in life my grandmother suffered from Parkinson's disease. This was devastating, because it was her worst fear that she would lose her sharp mind and quick wit. Grandma was eventually moved into a care facility, because with Parkinson's you can have physical outbursts and require round-the-clock care. We took our kids to visit her regularly, and I'd take her sweets and we'd sit and talk. Soon after, Joe and I had her over to our house for Thanksgiving dinner with our girls. We watched
It's a Wonderful Life
, and while the turkey cooked, I slid in next to my grandma and enjoyed the moment. I asked her if she wanted a pomegranate champagne cocktail, and she replied with, ‘Do I like champagne, Allison?'

‘Oh yeah, Grandma, you love it!'