Dearly Departed (11 page)

Not all passings are as beautifully orchestrated and lovingly supportive as Solomon’s. The final moment for the soul to leave the body can well be manipulated and controlled beyond our human experience and understanding. Over and over again I have had clients tell me: ‘I just went out for a cup of coffee, and she died while I was gone. Why did she do that? If only I had stayed, I could have been there until the very end. I can never forgive myself for being so selfish.’

I have learnt from many years of communicating with the other side that what seemed a lonely, isolated departure, with no loving support standing by, in some cases had been the will of the beloved; it had been their preference, their choice of departure, at that very moment. Many dearly departeds who have suffered greatly towards the end, in pain and much discomfort, felt they would have liked to pass over much sooner; however, they could hear or were aware of the neediness, clinginess and the cries of their loved ones. Some bargained with God to save them or keep them alive while their loved ones pleaded for them not to go, to stay a little longer. They felt an obligation to sustain themselves for the sake of their earthly loved ones.

Then a window of opportunity presented, and in the stillness and quietness a choice was given: ‘Come now—I am waiting for you.’ Some spoke of a vision or feeling of a divine visitor, some saw an angel, a deceased parent or loving relative come to collect them. They felt immense love and lightness to their being. They knew without reservation that now was the time to depart. There were no regrets; it felt right. They were no longer caught between two worlds; they felt free at last!

Others expressed that a number of days before their passing they had been aware of a heavenly presence in their room. Some had conversations with these heavenly visitors while others chose to listen. The loving sensations that emitted from the heavenly visitors took away any fear of dying. This unique time had prepared them for their coming sacred journey, where there would be a release, as beautiful as the day they left their mother’s womb to commence another life, another journey. Now, yet again, they were being prepared for the journey home. Their life had come full circle!

Through their guidance I have learnt a new insight—a revelation that loved ones who passed at the hands of others, for example in the case of murders, drownings and even accidents, expressed that they felt no pain at the time of impact. Some actually said they saw the event as it was occurring, played out in slow motion in a feeling of dislocation from their physical body.

They felt a floating sensation, as though they were in an altered state, giving them access to view what was happening to them at that point on the earthly plane. They could feel no pain, no terror; they were just observers. They likened it to sitting in their favourite chair and watching a movie on television. I sense this was when the soul started to pull away into another dimension.

I know scientists agree that energy cannot be destroyed; it can only be transformed. These experiences describe the soul transforming and preparing itself for the next life—the afterlife!

14
For the love of Mary For the love of Mary

What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies. Aristotle

S
ometime after Mary’s husband died, she moved into a brand new townhouse complex, giving her personal security in a close-knit community where there would be help close by if she ever needed it. Mary did have some distant relatives; however, she was fiercely independent and somewhat private, so the thought of losing control to pestering relatives went against the grain.

A ‘lover of life’ would describe her perfectly. Even though Mary was in her late eighties, nothing would stop her getting out and about—her regular daily walk to the shops, or donning a sarong and having a dip in the ocean with squeals of joy. I admired her adventurous spirit. She even encouraged Tom, her next-door neighbour, who was in his seventies, to join her in a basic computer course. She was keen to learn how to navigate the internet.

Mary was childless so Tom was like the son she never had and he, his wife Lolita and their three children became her family. It was through their daughter, Kerrie, my best friend, that I became acquainted to this tiny energy ball of a woman. We would meet at Christmas, birthdays and special events. Lovingly, Kerrie and I referred to her in conversation as ‘Old Mary’ to avoid confusion between several other people with the same name.

Returning from a trip to Canada and Alaska, Mary excitedly told me how she had been wooed on a cruise ship by a Texan widower in his early nineties—he was phoning her regularly and had proposed marriage over the telephone. He had even sent her an engagement ring in the mail. ‘What should I do, Georgina? If I marry him I’d be leaving Australia, my home and my little dog.

What do you think?’

Weighing up the pros and cons, she decided to decline the offer—after all, her garden was her pride and joy, and it couldn’t be abandoned after all her hard work.

Mary had one vice, the love of cigarettes. ‘I’ve never been sick a day in my life,’ she would constantly tell us. I presume she was trying to justify her vice by reminding us that she was ‘fit as a mallee bull’, as the saying goes.

My last great memory of Mary was a Christmas Day spent at Kerrie’s home. We sat out in the bright Aussie sun among the beautiful gum trees. Mary was in fine spirits, laughing and making jokes about Lolita wanting to pull out or prune the climbing rose bush Mary had planted for Kerrie some two years earlier. Kerrie had christened the bush ‘Mary Rose’. Mary was insistent that the rose bush would regenerate in its own time, but it did look a tad sad.

Several months passed and Kerrie told me that her father, Tom, was concerned that Mary hadn’t been quite herself—not the bright, bubbly character we had all come to love and adore—and she was sharp, a bit cranky and sometimes more distant than usual.

Her back was giving her pain, and for the first time in her life, so she said, she had to visit the local doctor. A random X-ray revealed a spot on her lung. She had to see a specialist for further tests, and return for those test results a week later.

Tom became her taxi driver, and accompanied her into the specialist’s surgery for the verdict. The ill-fated diagnosis, ‘You have lung cancer’, was delivered, and the prognosis was not good. ‘It’s estimated you have only four to six weeks to live,’ the doctor said.

Determined to beat any obstacle placed in front of her, she threw away her cigarettes and stopped smoking—yes, after all those years. Mary commenced chemotherapy within two days. As it does in most cases, the chemotherapy took its toll on her energy and vibrancy. She constantly vomited, and progressively became weaker and frailer. I sense she realised there was no turning back, that the illness would eventually take her. True to her spirit, she had organised her life, the will, the burial service, and what was to happen to her dog and assets.

Mary’s final wish was to die at home. The home-care service had modified her two-bedroom unit, as walking upstairs to her bedroom was now an impossible task. Her laundry had been converted into a shower and her lounge room was now to be the bedroom. Discussion had occurred about hiring a part-time nurse so she could have some practical assistance in the home. However, when the palliative care team met to discuss her leaving the hospital, there was a mixed consensus as to how she would cope without 24-hour care. There was one particularly strong-willed nurse who felt Mary should not be allowed home. So Mary’s request to die at home was denied. She was to spend the rest of her living life in a palliative care facility. With no goodbyes to her beloved dog and majestic garden, it would be a solitary existence.

The news was devastating—she had organised so much in her life, and done so much on her own, then her own free will had been taken from her. From that moment, she lost the will to live, declining rapidly, refusing to see anyone but Tom’s immediate family who were frequent visitors to her bedside. She had gone from a robust, energetic woman to a tiny bundle of skin and bones.

Tom was stricken with grief, and could only manage to sit with her for brief moments. It broke his heart to witness his dear friend so incapacitated, and visiting became agonising.

Kerrie’s son Joshua and his girlfriend visited Mary on one Saturday night. Kerrie lived a two-hour drive away in the Blue Mountains and had a young baby, Olivia-Charlotte, to care for, so she needed to plan her visits around the feeding and sleep patterns of her baby. After all, if they scattered the visits between family members, Mary wouldn’t be so lonely or so fatigued talking with them. But on the Sunday, Kerrie had an overwhelming feeling that she must go immediately to see Mary—something wasn’t right.

Peter, her partner, tried to talk her out of making the two-hour trip—it was getting late and she had planned to visit the following week anyway. But so strong was the internal prompting and feeling that Kerrie was experiencing, she decided to leave washing her hair and putting on her good clothes—she just threw the essentials for the baby in the car and she was about to drive herself to Sydney when Peter reluctantly agreed to drive them both to the hospice.

As they entered Mary’s wing, the nurse on duty seemed relieved, saying, ‘I’m so pleased she has a visitor’. Kerrie and Peter sat on opposite sides of Mary’s bed, each holding her cold little hands.

Mary squeezed Kerrie’s hand, acknowledging her presence. It was such an emotional time. Kerrie has what I would call a photographic memory—she remembers everything in fine detail. So as she sat next to Mary, she relived the many conversations and stories Mary had shared with the family over the years of their friendship.

These were of her childhood, the animals she had nurtured and cared for, her happy marriage and the joy of hearing about Olivia-Charlotte’s birth.

Kerrie described Mary’s garden to her—something she adored and would relish hearing about—and the flowers that had bloomed while she’d been away. Kerrie told her that it was okay to go now; her husband, little animals and parents on the other side were now lovingly waiting to receive her. Then it happened—Mary’s tiny cold hands became very warm, and within minutes her whole body was burning hot. Kerrie and Peter were alarmed and called for the nurse.

‘This is a most unusual change of events. I feel the time is very close for Mary to leave,’ the nurse said.

Kerrie sensed Mary’s soul was rising, ready to depart. Olivia-Charlotte, the baby, was becoming restless, as all little ones do, and although Kerrie and Peter wanted to stay longer, what was a peaceful, tranquil setting was now becoming rather noisy and disruptive. So Peter, Kerrie and Olivia-Charlotte gently kissed Mary goodbye, and within several hours she had passed, with the nurse by her side.

The Sign of the Rose

Mary’s passing was not completely as she had wanted it—she was denied the right to pass away at home, so those closest to her brought her home to her in stories, flowers, familiarity and love. Kerrie and Mary had shared the same beliefs about life after death, and that those departed can and will give those they love ‘signs’ they are near. So Kerrie made a decree to Mary: ‘If you are around me, I want to see twelve rosebuds—more would be even better—on your Mary Rose bush in the next two weeks.’

Well, Kerrie didn’t get twelve rosebuds—in fact, the Mary Rose bush sprouted sixteen buds! Kerrie received the message that indeed Mary was around her. Who would have thought a rose bush, living but not thriving and rather sad looking would suddenly come into bloom? Mary was true to her word that the bush would regenerate in its own time.

As I was writing this story, I rang to check some of the details with Kerrie, and she was over the moon. ‘Something miraculous has just occurred,’ she said. Several days earlier, she’d been going through a personal crisis, and had been asking the universe for some guidance. She felt she needed something to snap her out of her depression.

‘If only I could see an owl, that would make me feel better,’ she said. Kerrie had been captivated with owls since seeing the movie
Harry Potter
. She stepped outside that evening to have a cigarette. The night was very cold, so she wouldn’t be spending much time out there. Suddenly, from her right side, an owl swooped down and landed on the railing of her veranda, just a metre or so in front of her—within arm’s reach, if she had wanted to touch it.

She was stunned! She had never had an owl sit on her veranda, so close—previously she had seen the occasional one sitting up in the gum trees, but so close, never. She wanted to Peter to come and look, but felt that if she called out she’d scare the owl, so she stood motionless.

Then it flew and sat on the tiniest little branch of the Mary Rose bush. So small was the branch that not even a sparrow would be able to support itself on it. The owl fell, shook itself, and then walked some distance onto the cemented area in front of the veranda. It cheekily hopped over to four empty ceramic planters, and peeked inside them as if to say, ‘Hey, there’s work to be done!

These are empty. Get moving, what are you planting in here?’

Then the owl turned to face Kerrie, tilted its head to one side as though it was acknowledging her, waited a few moments, and then flew away.

‘It’s a message, Kerrie,’ I said. ‘Remember how the owls in
Harry Potter
brought the messages to Harry, rather than in the post?’ I believe the owl was Mary, or from Mary, after all we called her ‘Old Mary’, and reference is always made to the ‘Wise Old Owl’. ‘You’ll be fine, Kerrie,’ I said. ‘The owl is telling you all will be well.’

Devotional love

Animals bring messages, sometimes I believe heavenly inspired. Amanda’s dad had been gone for just three days and she was sitting on her veranda, pondering the forthcoming funeral service when suddenly a sulphur-crested cockatoo flew down and sat on the wooden railings. The beautiful yellow feathers of his head were open in full array, resembling a beautiful gold aura, like you see around the great masters of Jesus, Mohammed or Saint Germain. Tilting his head to one side, his eyes seemed to peer straight through her. She had never had a bird like this come to her home.