The Eagle and the Rose (18 page)

My job was now to assist this young man in his aim to prove to his mother his survival and to let her know that despite everything, he was well.

“All right now, Ricky,” I said, aware that Ricky would connect with and understand my every thought and respond to it, “tell me about yourself, your interests, the things you remember most about your life on earth.”

Pretty soon I learned that Ricky had been a very fashion-conscious lad. Clothes were important to him. It was the pair of shoes that he had bought just a week before his death, and that he described so accurately to his mother, that gave the ultimate evidence that her son was very much alive. These shoes were very special, being very light in color and extremely “unserviceable,” and Ricky thought they were wonderful. This particular fact brought a watery smile to Mrs. Jones's hitherto unhappy face, and soon she was laughing as her son described some of the antics he used to get up to. Relaxed now and feeling much more sure of himself, Ricky was able to relate many incidents to me, both about himself and his family.

He did not tell me that his suicide was a mistake. I felt his remorse, his concern for his family, and I know that his growth, the growth of his soul, will be impeded in some way until such time as he comes to terms with what he did. But I also know that there are many in the spirit world who will be willing to help him overcome his difficulties—and when he is ready for that help, all he will have to do is ask.

I would like to be able to end this story happily, but, of course, I can't. Although Mrs. Jones has been back to me many times since that first sitting, and is surely convinced that her son is alive, there still remains a sadness. Both she and her husband live in darkness, for the light has gone out of their lives; but every now and then the light is rekindled as they remember that the boy they love and who is lost to them is still there somewhere.

It was the trivia, the small but so significant details, that showed Mrs. Jones her son was still alive. His light burns ever bright in another world, and they know that one day they will be with him again.

Confronting Death

L
ike Ricky, Peter had also taken his own life. As I talked to him, I discovered that he had had a morbid interest in death, and at every given opportunity he would try to discuss, both with his family and his friends, what it would be like to die. Every time he brought up the subject, however, he found the same reaction: no one wanted to know.

Both his family and his friends would shut him up. They thought him strange and would refuse to listen, telling him that his curiosity was unhealthy.

One day, not long after Peter passed over, his parents decided to sort out their son's belongings and straighten up his bedroom, in the hope that they might find some clue, some indication, a reason why they had lost their boy.

They couldn't believe what they found. Numerous books and magazines stuffed on shelves, in cupboards, under the bed, and all of them concerned with the same subject—death.

His inquisitiveness had turned into obsession, which had subsequently led him to take his own life.

It happened one night, after his family had all gone upstairs to bed and were safely out of the way. Peter sealed all the windows and the door of the living room, using masking tape. To make sure he would be comfortable, he placed some cushions on the floor in front of the fire.

Ensuring that the gas fire was on full force and, of course, not lit, this eighteen-year-old boy lay down on the cushions and went to sleep.

It became more and more apparent to me as the sitting progressed that the only reason Peter had gassed himself was simple curiosity. He had felt a need to know, to find out one way or another, what death was really all about. The more he had read about the subject, the more questions he had wanted answered.

But no one he knew had been able to help; indeed, it had seemed to Peter that no one wanted to help. So he had come to the conclusion that the only way to satisfy his curiosity was to find out for himself.

Unfortunately, even as I talked to this confused young man, his regret at having committed this futile act was obvious. It saddened me enormously.

If only our society did not treat the subject of death as taboo, as forbidden territory, as something morbid. Perhaps if Peter had been able to talk out his thoughts and feelings with someone who could have understood why he felt as he did, he might not have felt the need to take such an extreme step.

If only we could all talk more freely about the one thing in our lives that is, more than anything else, inevitable, without being afraid, then maybe this boy, and others like him, would not have developed such an unhealthy interest. Perhaps his understandable and perfectly natural curiosity would have been satisfied.

This truly was a case of curiosity killing the cat.

All of us, at some time in our lives, have discussed the wonders of nature, and we marvel at how every living thing produces and reproduces. But no one prepares us for death or seems willing to discuss the “facts of death.”

By law, our schools’ curriculum in England must include some education concerning childbirth and the use of birth control methods. This topic is discussed widely by children and parents, and indeed most of us encourage our children to ask questions. And if we, as parents, are unable to answer perhaps some of the more searching inquiries of our offspring, we can always find out. There is always someone we can ask.

So why is it that even the mention of death, the most natural, the most inevitable act we will all perform, frightens many people?

I have come across those who will talk about it in hushed voices, but definitely not in front of the children. And I have met those who just refuse to talk about it at all. Few people can speak of death and dying, especially in relation to themselves or those close to them, as a perfectly natural happening.

One of the main complaints of those who themselves are dying, and having to endure the pain, both physical and mental, of long illnesses, is that even their families, those closest to them, cannot bring themselves to broach the subject. I've heard my patients tell of how embarrassed they become, even when out shopping, because friends avoid them. One man told me that he felt like a leper when walking down the street because people he knew would see him coming and cross to the other side or hide in doorways.

“Death isn't catching,” he complained, “but most of my friends act as if it is, and avoid the very mention of the word.”

In all cases, when I have come into contact with people who are terminally ill, I am asked the question: “What is death?”

And in each case, I can only explain my beliefs. There is no such thing. “Death” is merely a transition from one world to another. We are all in some respect afraid of the unknown, but those who are about to “die” are being made through circumstances to face their fear. And they need to be able to express their feelings.

Then there are the families of these people—husbands, wives, children, who every night will offer up a silent prayer to God, declaring to Him, and only Him, the dreadful fears that torment their minds. What of their needs?

At the age of twenty, I was one of these people, having suddenly been taken seriously ill. I knew nothing of the spirit world or of Grey Eagle at this point in my life, had never given any real thought to death or life after death, as I had not experienced losing anyone close to me. But suddenly I found myself facing the realization that death was ever near. I had undergone extensive major surgery, which I had known very little about at the time, as I had been too ill to take much notice of what was happening to me.

At this time I had been living in Market Harborough, a small market town about two hours from London. I had been married just six months, and my husband came in from the garden one day to find me sitting on the toilet, of all places, screaming in agony.

He managed, with great difficulty, to lift me up and then carried me through to the bedroom and laid me on the bed. The doctor came, and for a week I lay, in a semiconscious state, totally drugged. Three times a day a nurse came in to give me muscular injections, using a needle that was inches long, and to give me my medicine.

Toward the end of that week it became obvious that I was getting steadily worse, and when the doctor called that Sunday evening, he took my temperature and found that it had soared up to 106 degrees Fahrenheit.

I was rushed to Kettering General Hospital, where, even though by this time it was the early hours of Monday morning, the specialist was waiting to see me.

His name was Dr. Phillips, a very professional man and an eminent surgeon. He was to be responsible for my life over the next eighteen months.

For the next week or so I underwent various and extensive tests, many of which were, to say the least, extremely unpleasant.

For four days after my first operation I lay in a coma, oblivious of the care and dedication of the doctors and nurses around me. On the fifth day I came round, and I can remember Dr. Phillips sitting on the bed and holding my hand, trying to explain to me what he had found and what he had done. The tests prior to the operation had shown a problem with the left kidney, and what that problem was exactly became apparent only during surgery. My kidney was malformed from birth and unable to function properly. The tube leading from the kidney to the bladder had wasted and was useless. Several stones had formed in the kidney and had tried to pass from the kidney to the bladder, pushing against the wasted tube, creating the terrible pains I had had. My surgeon continued, explaining that he had worked on the kidney and was hoping that he had repaired it. Also he had replaced the wasted tube with a type of plastic tube, a delicate and difficult operation, he said, but he was hopeful that it would work.

Because I was very young, and still very ill, it was not until some time later, when I was fully conscious and had time to think, that I realized just exactly what was happening to me.

Fear is a funny, often indefinable thing, and it can hit you at the most unexpected moments. For nearly twelve months I knew, I experienced, what being scared of dying really meant.

I had been receiving postoperative treatment, which meant that two or three times each week, sometimes more often, I traveled between Market Harborough and Kettering, some ten miles, to the hospital, and this went on for several months.

Then one day Dr. Phillips broke the news that I had developed a serious infection that they were unable to treat, probably resulting from the length of time I had been on the operating table. It was imperative, he said, that I undergo more surgery before the infection spread too much.

Still weak from the last operation and all the treatment I'd been having, I sat in his office while he and his second in command drew little diagrams that were supposed to show me what they were going to do. He told me that he wanted to remove the kidney before the infection spread to the right kidney, and they needed to perform the operation quickly.

In a daze I listened, feeling as if I weren't really there, as they explained the dangers. It would be dangerous if I left it, and it would be dangerous if I didn't, I was told. There was only one course of action to be taken, so back into hospital I went.

Outwardly I put on a brave face, and my husband and friends gained confidence from the fact that I would survive, because I seemed so positive about it all.

Inwardly I was a quivering jelly, knowing there was a strong possibility I would soon meet my Maker, and I prayed strong and silent prayers, asking His help.

On the day I was taken down to the operating room for the second time, all my determination to be brave crumbled. Three male orderlies surrounded my bed as I waited to be wheeled away. I had had my premed and should have been nicely relaxed, even sleepy. The doctor approached me with a needle in his hand, and I knew that this was it.

Everything would have been fine if it hadn't been for one of those very nice orderlies, who at that precise moment leaned down toward me and gently and quietly whispered in my ear, “Don't you worry, sweetheart, if you open your eyes and see a bottle of blood hanging next to you. It will be because you are going to need a blood transfusion.”

Now I understand that this kind man meant only to help and reassure me, to prepare me for what was to come. But the effect it had on me was startling.

Letting out a terrified yell, I tried to leap off the bed, only to find myself pinned down by the men in white coats. The struggle that ensued is one I will never forget. I fought like a tiger for my life, kicking, screaming, my arms flailing about, struggling to break free.

The fear inside me grew like a living thing, a wild animal, and as it grew it spread through my body and through my mind. Consuming all my thoughts and all my senses, it raged on, and through it I found superhuman strength. Biting, kicking, and punching, I almost made it off the bed, but then, for a split second, I must have paused for breath.

The doctor seized his opportunity; quick as a flash he stuck the needle into my hand, and I went out like a light.

Needless to say, I survived the operation, although it was a long time before I was fully recovered. Years later I still had nightmares about it all, and I would wake up sweating, the memories vivid in my mind, and the fear of death, like a wicked serpent, would rear its ugly head again.

There is an old but very true saying: “A problem shared is a problem halved.”

If only I had understood then that putting on a brave face isn't necessarily a good thing. And if only I had realized that my husband and his family were as scared as I was, I am sure I would have been able to cope with my situation in a much better way than I did.

The effort it takes to be brave, not just for yourself, but for others as well, is tremendous, but like the old saying—perhaps effort shared is effort halved.

Learning to talk openly and freely about the facts of life, and the facts of death, may initially prove difficult, but with right thinking it's not impossible. And to encourage our children to ask questions so that we can deal openly with their curiosity is a sensible and down-to-earth way and could save lives.