MOM'S JOURNEY HOME

One bright sunny morning in late July 2006, mom readied herself to leave this world. She was 94 years old. Each year, usually in winter, she contracted bronchitis or pneumonia, presumably because she had congestive heart failure, which made her vulnerable to those maladies; but this was summer, so I wasn’t expecting pneumonia, even though it was the only reason she was ever hospitalized in the last four years of her life. She had gone to bed a few hours before I did and seemed fine. At about 6 a.m., she awoke, needing to go to the bathroom. I was tired, so I ignored the obvious movement in the bed. My bed was high, so mom sat on the edge and slowly slid down until her feet touched the small meditation cushion I used to facilitate her easy access in and out of bed. She groped her way around the foot of the bed and came over to my side. I asked her what she was doing and she said, “I don’t know. I think I want to go to the bathroom.” I said, “Stop playing around. You know you’re not anywhere near the bathroom. Go on. I’ll follow you.” She wanted me to physically take her to the bathroom, but I refused. Instead, I followed her, letting her grope her way out of the bedroom, holding onto the bed, the walls and the door. After she finished in the bathroom, I let her grope her way back into the bedroom and into bed. 

I got into the bed beside her and immediately felt remorse. I had been annoyed at being woken up, so, instead of acting from my heart, I acted from my ego and judged my mother’s behavior, something that would haunt me for a long time afterward. I had been such a bitch. What was I thinking? She was 94 years old. So what if she just wanted me to help her to the bathroom. Mom did not have a mean bone in her body and she would never wake me up unnecessarily. My eyes filled with tears as I turned toward her and put my hand on her back as a gesture of love and apology. Her body was hot and she shivered feverishly under my touch. “Mom, you have a fever. You don’t feel well do you?” “I feel lousy,” she said. My heart sank. “Mom, I’m sorry. I think you have pneumonia. I’ll call 911. You’ll feel better soon.” I immediately dialed 911 and then got up and got dressed.

About fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang. I wondered why the doorman had not used the intercom to let me know someone was on the way upstairs. Assuming it was the EMTs, I opened the door and was shocked to find four firefighters, who promptly entered the apartment. Although the EMTs are affiliated with the fire department, firefighters had never before shown up when I called 911 with a medical emergency. What was even more perplexing is that these firefighters carried no equipment of any sort; nor did they have paperwork with them or anything else that would indicate why they were there. They were very well groomed, sparkling clean and dressed exactly alike: bright red suspenders, crisp blue tee shirts, yellow rubber pants, and black boots. A soft and subtle golden glow seemed to surround them, as if they were standing in sunlight. They went directly into the bedroom without being told where it was and surrounded the bed upon which my mother lay. The home health aide, who was there to help care for mom, said, “Those are some bright and clean looking firemen.” 

One tall firefighter stood on the right side of the bed, another stood on the left, and two shorter firefighters stood at the foot of the bed. All the firefighters were white, except one of the shorter two, who had beautiful dark copper-colored skin and thick black hair. The one on the right of the bed asked what mom’s name was. “Linnette,” I said. One of the firefighters at the foot of the bed commented that I had a beautiful apartment. I said thank you. That was the extent of our conversation. These firefighters did nothing but stand quietly around the bed, smiling at mom, who was lying quietly with her eyes closed, a look of contentment on her face. After about three minutes, they left the room single file. By that time, the doorman had already buzzed my apartment to inform me that the EMT’s were on their way up. When I opened the apartment door to let the firefighters out, the EMTs were right there and entered the apartment as the firefighters were leaving. The two groups passed each other in the doorway like two ships in the night, seeming not to have noticed each other.

I directed the EMTs to my bedroom. While they took mom’s vital signs, I looked for her medications, and, at the same time, glanced outside the bedroom and then living room windows, looking for a fire truck, but saw none. I thought that was odd, but didn’t give it much more attention. I went back to the bedroom and gave the EMTs all the necessary information on mom’s medications, symptoms, and insurance, after which they placed her on a gurney and wheeled her out of the apartment. I accompanied her in the ambulance for a fast and bumpy ride to the emergency room at New York Hospital. As we sat in the emergency room, I asked mom if she had seen the four firefighters who stood around the bed at home and she said, “Yes, they were my angels.” I was somewhat surprised at her response, since her eyes were closed for the duration of their visit to the apartment.

Mom indeed had pneumonia and after several hours in the emergency room, she was taken to a room in the elder care unit on the tenth floor. The room was private and big enough to fit thirty visitors! It was a corner room on the water, the only one that had free phone and television service and a panoramic view of the East River. A blue recliner sat in the corner near the window next to her bed. I couldn’t believe our luck in getting such a room. I sat in that comfortable blue recliner and thought about the fact that I used to tell mom that whatever she did, she shouldn’t die in my bed, because I didn’t think I could handle that. I wondered in that moment if she was preparing to leave this world. Mom slept peacefully. I watched her sleep for a few hours and convinced myself that she would be okay, so I went home. 

I couldn’t get the firefighters off my mind. Something about their presence was otherworldly. Why had they shown up? When I arrived in the lobby of my apartment building, I asked the doorman if he had seen any firefighters enter the building earlier in the day, and he said no, but that I should ask the doorman who was on duty before him. The next day, I asked the same question of the doorman who was on duty when mom was taken out the day before. He said, “No.” He noted that had firefighters entered the building, that fact would have been recorded in the black guest book at the concierge desk, and no such entry had been made. 

I was mystified. I thought about everything that had happened: how this was the first time firefighters had ever responded to a 911 medical emergency, how the doorman didn’t announce them, how the EMTs didn’t seem to see them even though they were only inches apart as they passed each other in the doorway, and how the firefighters had no paperwork or other paraphernalia and did nothing but stand around the bed; and, of course, there was that glow about them. I surmised that those firefighters were indeed angels, and mom knew it. I knew in that moment that she would not be coming home again.

I had been visiting mom at the hospital for about a week, and on each visit, she slept. She was never awake. I wasn’t even sure she knew I was there. One day, I entered her room, took one look at her and exclaimed, “Oh mom!” She seemed absent and lifeless, as she slept with her mouth slightly agape. The nurse commented that mom had not gone to the bathroom at all in the last few days, a sure sign that her body was shutting down. I sat with her for a few hours, and wondered if I should go home. I tried to convince myself that she would make it through another day, but a friend who was with me, said, “You better stay.” I didn’t need convincing. I knew this was the day. So I stayed, and about a half hour later, I saw mom take her last breath as a small puff of smoke escaped through the top of her head. It wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. She was sleeping peacefully with her hand resting against her chin. She inhaled and exhaled a couple of times, but the last time she inhaled, she did not exhale. She was “gone.” Her spirit had left in that puff of smoke. I called the doctor into the room and told him that I thought she was “gone.” He asked me to leave the room, so he could examine her. From outside the room, I heard him say, “Mrs. Stallings! Mrs. Stallings! Mrs. Stallings!” I started laughing and couldn’t stop. “Is this the way they tell if someone passed away?” I thought. “I could have done that!” I eventually re-entered the room and sat down near her bed. I touched her face, which was cold, and then I cried. I already missed her. After all, she had shared my bed and my life for the last six years. She had brightened my world and made me focus on someone other than myself. She was my major source of joy, and she taught me how to find joy in everything. 

It took me about a week to pack up mom's clothes, which I donated to a charity. I knew she would want me to do that; she certainly would not have wanted me to hang onto her stuff in any sort of maudlin way. Mom was cremated a few days later. I did not mourn my mother’s death. Instead I celebrated her life, a journey well done. I put together a memorial service for her that would take place about two weeks after that. Mom had always told me that when she passed away she wanted me to buy yellow happy-face balloons for her service. She wanted them released into the air after the service. She said that way her smile would float over the city, a fitting expression of who she was. At the service, I tied the helium-filled balloons to the railing at the front of the altar and played her favorite version of Amazing Grace. I mentioned to the guests that she loved the particular version, because she felt she could “dance” to it, sway was more like it. Mom loved to dance and could always find a melody she could move to in just about any type of music. As I played the CD, the balloons, which had been motionless on that hot August evening, suddenly started swaying from side to side. The guests in the church gasped. Even they realized that that was a sign, a reminder that mom was still there dancing her way through the afterlife.

I learned a lot about my mom at the memorial service. One young man said that she took him in after his father had kicked him out. He mentioned that mom, who was almost a foot and a half shorter than he, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and said, “Neily boy, you’re coming home with me. You can stay as long as you want.” According to “Neily boy,” because of mom, he was able get on his feet, find a job, and eventually move into his own place. I heard many inspiring stories about mom that evening. We were poor growing up and we lived in the projects, yet mom’s extending herself to someone who needed her help was as natural as breathing. She always found enough room or food to share with someone who needed it, human or animal. She took in many stray or neglected kids over the years. She also took in stray animals. She rescued many cats, adopted a tiny dog, bought a parrot and tropical fish, and was gifted a cockatiel. She lived a bountiful life.

I was still thinking about those firemen three weeks after the memorial service. One evening, I was listening to a friend’s radio program, during which he was channeling a seventh dimensional energy known as Master Kirael. Mom had a particular love for Master Kirael, to whom she listened each week via the Internet. She was open to all things and she judged nothing, so listening to a disembodied energy was no big thing to her. I called during the program and asked Master Kirael who the four firefighters were who came to my apartment that fateful day. Master Kirael said, “The one on the right of the bed was me; the one on the left of the bed was Master Jesus, and one of the two at the foot of the bed was the Goddess Pele. You know who the fourth was.” I did indeed. I also remembered that one of the firefighters was copper-colored like a Hawaiian (the Goddess Pele. I was not confused by the fact that Pele showed up in a male body, because I know that once disembodied, a spirit can take any form) and I certainly recognized the other one, who stood next to Pele, but that shall remain my secret. 

Mom traveled out of body a lot while she was with me. Sometimes she’d be gone for three days at a clip. She literally slept for 72 hours, never waking for water or sustenance. The first time she did that I thought she was sick and took her to see a doctor in the middle of her snooze-fest. It was a disaster, because they couldn’t find anything wrong with her, except some dehydration. They insisted that she drink water, which she couldn’t, because she wasn’t in her body. She gagged and vomited the water up. They finally put her on an intravenous drip to hydrate her, after which, I took her home. Thereafter, when she went on a snooze-fest, I let her sleep. She rarely got up to use the bathroom and she did not eat or drink at those times. Yet, by day two or three, she would awaken rejuvenated. She would hop out of bed, all smiles and with a zip in her step. Even the home health aide got used to these incidents. When mom awoke, the aide would say, “She’s ba-ack!” Indeed she was. Mom was feeling like a young girl. It was as if she’d gone to get a lube job for her body. She would be rejuvenated for a few days and then would slowly start to feel the aches and pains of old age and arthritis again. She left her body often in that last year of her life, but she always returned better than she was when she left.

One time, I was exiting my bedroom when I heard the home health aide gasp. I asked what was wrong and she said that she had just seen some smoke come out of the top of mom’s head. Mom was sitting on the loveseat in the living room and had fallen asleep. I told the aide that mom had just left her body, which would be on autopilot until she returned. Sure enough, about two hours later, mom awoke, happy and ready to boogey. The only other time I saw that smoke come from her head was when she took her last breath.

The health aide, whose name was Annemarie, was open to spirituality when she came to work with mom, but she was also cautious, displaying a healthy skepticism. By the time she had worked with mom for a year, Annemarie was completely open to the magic of the spiritual life. She couldn’t deny a lot of what she saw and heard. She knew everything had meaning, and she slowly, but surely, learned to listen to her inner voice, and her gut feelings, and to spend less time in her head. Thanks to her relationship with mom and me, she developed the inner strength to bring a destructive love relationship to an end, move out of her father’s apartment, and get her own place. She was in her thirties and it was about time. One day, she told me that after my mother died she would not work in the health aide business again, because she was certain that she’d never find another charge like my mother. So, when mom passed away, Annemarie quit that field of endeavor. She ended up falling in love with my nephew, whom she met while he was here laying some wood floors for me. Now they live together in Atlanta and have a beautiful baby girl, whose middle name is Linnette. 

More magic: two months after mom’s memorial service, while I was sitting at my desk, I turned my head to look out the window, where, to my absolute delight, I saw stuck in a tree across the street two yellow happy-face balloons tied with yellow ribbon . They were caught on a branch and were dancing in the air. They remained in that tree for almost a month, through all sorts of weather, until they were completely deflated. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Every day for about a month, I looked out that window and cheerfully said, “Hello Mom.”

Mom knew this world was not all life had to offer. Many times during her six years with me she saw angels at the foot of the bed. I’d always ask her what the angels said and she’d say, “Nothing and I didn’t ask them what they wanted. I just know that I’m not ready to go anywhere, so I went back to sleep.” On a couple of occasions when she left her body and then came back to tell me about it, I captured the moment on videotape. You can see and hear her in her own words on YouTube (”mom travels to the spirit world” and “mom experiences the spirit world”) or just above this story.

In this world, we have a choice. We can live from our egos and see with our physical eyes, or we can live from our hearts and see the world from our third eye, where all the magic is. The latter is the easiest way to bring clarity to a chaotic world. In the interest of my own evolution, I do my best to see the world through the light of my third eye. After all, it’s the most powerful lens available to us. From that vantage point, I am always in touch with mom’s spirit.

The Reincarnation of Paco to Spirit to Light

SPIRIT

Throughout the years, my mom had many pets.  She took in strays all the time.  She had a teacup poodle named Paco, a parrot named David, a Cockatoo named Jerry, tropical fish, and too many cats to name (not all at the same time).  Mom also took in stray children.  She fed the children in the neighborhood whose mothers did not feed them, and she took others under her wing and made sure they were safe, sometimes giving them room and board.  Mom could not turn away any living thing.

When she decided to leave New York to live in North Carolina, I inherited Paco, a white, five-pound, Zen little guy, sweet and loving.  I adored him.  Paco had quirky behavior.  Whenever I was reclining, he immediately made himself comfortable on either my hip or my chest. He would never pee and poop in the same place.  He was house trained and street trained.  If he went in the apartment, he peed on one piece of paper and pooped on another.  If he went in the street, he’d pee anywhere, but he would only poop under a car.  He was tiny and could easily walk under a car.  He was fussy about what he ate and would not eat dog food.  Paco could not jump from the floor to the couch or even from the coffee table to the couch, no more than a foot away, without a lot of hesitating and numerous attempts.  He would eventually succeed, usually out of breath but triumphant.  Paco sashayed when he walked and looked as if he were dancing.  People on the street used to comment on his walk, which was really cute.  One time a businessman, briefcase in hand, came up behind me and started talking baby talk to Paco, because he was so enthralled with Paco’s gait.  That’s how cute Paco was.  Paco never licked me or anyone else, but I wanted kisses from him, so I put a lollipop in front of him one day and he sniffed it and then licked it.  That was the unwitting beginning of an obsessive compulsive licking disorder.  After that, whenever anyone picked Paco up, he licked the person compulsively, making both the person and me uncomfortable.  The licking was so intense that it seemed almost sexual.

I took him for his first grooming to a place called "People Training for Dogs," located on the upper west side of Manhattan.  They tortured him in that grooming.  The owner bragged about not using electric clippers and said that they only used scissors and an implement that looked like an afro pick to get knots out.  I dropped him off in the morning on my way to work and picked him up in the evening.  I was horrified when I saw him.  They had pulled his hair out from the follicle with that implement.  He had no hair at all on his body.  He was pink, just skin, no hair.  Only his face still had hair.  He was angry and snarled at me.  I was horrified and refused to pay them the $75 they wanted.  I put him inside my coat and immediately took him to the vet, who was also horrified and asked me what had happened.  He was in disbelief.  He gave Paco a shot and said that he hoped his hair would grow back.  It never did and that meant that Paco had no undercoat.  He developed terrible skin conditions without that protective coat and eventually his heart weakened. 

Paco lived only two more years, still fairly young.  I woke up at 3 a.m. one morning to find him hidden behind my bed, struggling to breathe.  I called a neighbor, who immediately agreed to drive me to the Animal Medical Center.  During the drive, Paco was gasping for breath and his body was limp.  When I arrived, they took us right in.  The vet told me to go home, that Paco was critical and they were not sure that they could save him, but they would do all that they could.  I left distraught.  The next morning I received a call from the vet, telling me that Paco had passed away during the night, that he had rallied, and then finally gave up. I was devastated and felt responsible for his death because I chose the groomer and was convinced that the tortured grooming he received caused all of his health issues thereafter.  It took me almost 18 months before I stopped spontaneously crying every time I found something of his around my apartment.  I decided then and there that I would get no more pets.  It was too painful when they died.   


Some years later, my mom moved from North Carolina to Florida and immediately went to the pound and adopted a cat she named Precious.  About three years later, mom called and asked me to take Precious home with me to New York.  She explained that my brother, who had moved in with her, had two seventeen-pound-cats, Ebenezer and Babette, and Babette, the female, constantly attacked Precious.  Mom had to keep Precious in a cage whenever Babette was around and she said that was no way for a cat to live.  I hadn’t been to Florida since mom had moved there and a visit was way overdue. 

I flew to Florida, and when I entered my mom’s place, I was immediately drawn to Precious, who was sitting in the window.  She was beautiful, petite at five pounds, with a long silky white coat and gold eyes.  She was a Persian and looked like the Friskies cat on T.V.  I said, “Mom you didn’t tell me she was so beautiful.”  Mom said that she had, but that I wasn’t listening because I was afraid of cats, which was true.  For some reason, I was not afraid of this cat.  At the end of the week, I went home with Precious in hand.  I paid $50 extra to carry her under my seat on the plane. When I brought Precious into my apartment, she ran and hid under my bed.  It was a new place and she was frightened.  I called to her repeatedly but she would not come from under the bed.  Finally, I thought, “I really do not like that name, Precious.  I just can’t call a cat of mine, Precious.  So what can I call her?”  Suddenly I said, “Spirit, come here,” and immediately she came out from under my bed and sat at my feet.  From that point on, she responded only to Spirit.  

Life with Spirit was intriguing.  She was a Zen cat, who never meowed, and whose poop never smelled.  When people entered my apartment, they had no idea I had a cat even though Spirit’s litter box was in a corner of my living room.  She never regurgitated hairballs, which was highly unusual since she was a longhaired cat.  She responded to commands such as “lie down” or “sit,” even though I had never taught them to her, and she came whenever I called her, which I understand is unusual for cats.  Whenever I reclined, Spirit sat on my hip or my chest.  She liked no brand of wet cat food (I fed her baby food for wet food, but she ate any kind of dry cat food), and she exhibited no cat-like behavior.  She was more like a dog.  She was a "licker," and whenever she wanted to jump from the couch to the coffee table, she hesitated, contemplated the distance, hesitated some more and then finally jumped.  She did that no matter where she needed to jump.  I would always remind her that she was a cat and should know how to jump.  Over time, with sheer concentration and determination she learned to jump onto my window seat and my bed.  

One other interesting thing about Spirit was that people who were allergic to cats were not allergic to her.  I had a friend whose allergies were so severe that she had to stay at a hotel whenever she visited her cousin, who had a cat.  Yet, when this friend came to visit me, she slept with Spirit.  I was at a psychic seminar once and another of my friends asked why she was not allergic to Spirit when she was allergic to every other cat.  The psychic, who was channeling at the time, said that Spirit could control her dander and duplicate the vibration of those around her.  I believed it because even my nephew, who has asthma and is allergic to cats, was not allergic to Spirit.  I was also told that Spirit was an “Adjuster in dwellings.”  I had never heard of such a thing and it never occurred to me to ask what that was.  About three years later, I overheard a conversation about a book called The Urantia Book.  I was curious about it and a friend said that I could have her copy.  When I received the book, I was overwhelmed by its size.  It was almost 2100 pages and the print was miniscule.  One day, while thumbing through the book, I randomly opened it to a chapter entitled “Thought Adjusters Indwellings.”  I couldn’t believe it.  Here’s some of what it said, “Adjusters are encountered in creature experience; they disclose the presence and leading of a spirit influence.  The Adjuster is indeed a spirit, pure spirit, but spirit plus.”  So much more is written, but it would freak some people out.  Let’s just say it is no coincidence that I named my cat Spirit, although mom was not too far off when she named her Precious, for she was a Precious Spirit.  

One day, as Spirit was sitting on my hip, a thought came to me, “Spirit was a lot like Paco.”  She was the same color, weighed the same, and had the same habits (all that hesitating when she wanted to jump onto something, always sleeping on my chest or hip).  I was convinced that Paco had returned as Spirit.  When I asked Spirit if she was Paco, she looked into my eyes and then put her forehead into the palm of my hand and left it there for 45 minutes, as if to say, “Finally.”   Spirit was a tiny cat, and her entire head fit into the palm of my hand.  I felt an even flow of energy run from my palm to my heart whenever she did that.  I had long conversations with Spirit and whenever I did, she placed her forehead or third eye into the palm of my hand for extended periods of a half hour to 45 minutes.  I would always receive a thought or an idea when she did that.

Over the years, Spirit occasionally disappeared in my apartment for long periods of time up to eight or nine hours.  I would search for her with no luck.  I live in 782 square feet, so the possible places for her to hide were few.  I checked every closet, behind every door and piece of furniture, in every nook and cranny, but she just was nowhere to be found.  When she did show up again, I never understood where she had been, but she always looked refreshed and new, like a kitten.  Many years later, my mom came to live with me.  She too got used to Spirit’s lengthy disappearances.  One time, we were both sitting on the love seat talking about the fact that Spirit had not appeared for about nine hours.  I was concerned.  Mom and I were looking toward the front door when suddenly Spirit popped into the foyer out of nowhere.  She literally hadn’t come from anywhere.  She was just there and it happened in front of our eyes.  Mom and I looked at each other, and mom finally said, “Did you see that?”  I said, “Yes,” and she said, “She just poofed out of thin air.  Don’t tell anyone.  They’ll think we’re nuts.”  I knew we weren’t nuts.  Spirit was special.  Over the years, Spirit disappeared for hours and sometimes days and I stopped worrying and looking for her because she always showed up, usually looking younger and cleaner than when she disappeared.  Mom and I used to say that Spirit went to another dimension for a lube job.

Spirit rarely, if ever, got sick, but when she did, her sickness always seemed tied to me in some way.  One time, she had been vomiting excessively, was hiding behind my bed, and would neither drink nor eat.  Four days had gone by before I decided to take her to the vet, who said that he could find nothing wrong with her but that she appeared to be dying.  He told me to take her home and if it continued, to bring her in again.  He might have to put her down.  I was heartbroken.  I took her home and after the seventh day of hiding and no eating or drinking, I asked a friend to do an automatic writing to determine what was going on with Spirit.  The writing indicated that Spirit was trying to show me what would happen if I did not get off the couch and go outside.  I had retired and found myself staying in the apartment and rarely if ever going outside.  I was healing from a lot of small physical problems I had while I was working.  The physical symptoms had cleared up about a month after I left work, but I was not motivated to go outside and do anything.  Anyway, the next day I went to the park for about an hour, and when I returned, Spirit came out from behind the bed, drank some water and returned to her hiding place.  The following day, I went out again for about two hours, and when I returned, Spirit came out from behind the bed, ate some food and drank some water.  By the fourth day of my going out, Spirit came out from behind the bed for good.  All the vomit that had been caked up on her coat was gone, as if it had never been there, and she was acting “normal.”  She seemed like a kitten in every way, a very Zen kitten though.  Each time that Spirit got sick, I took her to the vet and all her tests came out normal, but if I changed something I was doing for myself, she got better quickly.  After a while, I stopped taking her to the vet when she appeared “sick.”  Instead, I examined my behavior, and when I discovered something that needed to change and changed it, Spirit got better.  That is not to say that she never seemed to be truly sick.  She was prone to upper respiratory infections, something that had nothing to do with me.  I could never figure out why she had them until years later.

I found out that Spirit had a congenital diaphragmatic hernia.  All her organs were in the wrong place pushed up against each other behind a hernia that seemed to take up her entire body cavity.  On an X-ray, you could see none of her organs, except for her small intestines.  By all accounts, Spirit should not have lived as long as she did.  She had lived over 27 years with the hernia and had somehow acclimated to it.  Some would say that the hernia was probably responsible for all of her “sicknesses,” but I know better.  That hernia was responsible for her upper respiratory infections, her meager appetite, her diminutive size, and her inability to breathe properly, but not the mysterious “illnesses” that seemed tied to my behavior. The only time Spirit ever vomited was when she was hiding behind my bed that one time, waiting for me to go outside.  Spirit passed away in June 2011.  The hernia finally compressed her heart and lungs to the point where breathing was laborious.  She had lost weight, was weak, cold not stand without falling to the side, and could not eat enough to keep her alive.  I was floored by the fact that despite her weakened condition she was able to somehow jump onto the window seat in the living room and onto my bed.  I woke up at 3 a.m. the night before I took her in to be put down because she had jumped up onto my bed and howled in my ear.  I asked her how she was able to do that.  She just sat at the foot of my bed.  When I finally got up later that morning, she was sitting on the window seat in the living room.  When she saw me, she jumped down and started to walk but fell over to the side.  I knew it was time.  I had no choice but to have her humanely euthanized.  The experience was heartbreaking but kind and gentle too.  The vet assured me that I was making a compassionate decision.  She explained the entire procedure, had someone bring in a quilt to make Spirit comfortable, and left so that I could talk to Spirit alone.  When the vet came back into the room, she explained that Spirit would receive anesthesia, as if she were having surgery, that it would knock her out, which it immediately did, and then afterward she would be given the drug that would send her peacefully into another realm of consciousness.  As the final drug entered Spirit's little body, her breathing ceased and she was gone.  I always have this vision of those who die leaving like a shooting star into a boundless sky to more happiness than we can imagine.  

I grieved for Spirit about as intensely as I did for my mom when she passed over in 2006.  The first night after Spirit left this plane of consciousness, I was in bed and felt a huge energy envelope me.  Then I felt a small impression on my bed.  I knew it was Spirit checking up on me.  The next day my neighbor gave me an orchid plant as a gift of condolence.  It had not yet blossomed.  It was two long stalks with buds on it, beautiful in its nakedness.  I set it upon the dining room table and turned to go to my living room.  As I bent to sit on the couch, I had a view of the orchid plant.  All the buds had opened simultaneously in less than 30 seconds.  I smiled broadly.  “Spirit,” I said, “Thank you for showing me that the spirit truly is eternal.” 

Our pets love us unconditionally.  They never complain about our behavior and they forgive our every omission and indiscretion.  They are the epitome of what this journey is all about—LOVE, pure and unadulterated.  Some would say that I can never replace Spirit, but I believed that she would come back to me ready to continue the journey, just as she did when she finished as Paco.  Mom, if you’re listening, I expect you to send me another Adjuster when I am ready, but this time with no hernia and in a body that I can recognize. 

In June of 2011, I adopted a cat I saw on the Internet.  She was a rescue.  I watched her on the petfinder website for a few weeks, haunted by her striking resemblance to Spirit.  I had this gut feeling that it was indeed my girl.  I thought perhaps she had walked into another cat body, because this cat was two years old.  I inquired about adopting her, but was told that the woman who rescued her never sends her cats out of state.  This cat was in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.  It was no coincidence that Spirit was rescued in Ft. Lauderdale too.  This cat was a doll face  Persian (just like Spirit), had a silver coat, and was the same color and had similar markings as Spirit.  One of my clients, feeling that this cat was Spirit, said that he would pay the adoption fees and for the flight to New York.  So, on June 10, 2011, I went to Newark Airport to retrieve this beautiful formerly abused cat that I named Light because she had so much fear.  I thought the energy of the name would help counteract the fear.  She responds to Light, and Spirit, which I absentmindedly call her every now and then.  When Spirit was alive, the same channeled entity who told me that she was an adjuster in dwellings, told me that she was "on vacation" this lifetime.  That meant that Spirit entered this lifetime as pure spirit with no fear.  It was true.  She feared nothing, no human or animal, including dogs, and she sat in the lap of anyone who entered the apartment.  I was told that she would return to me, but this time she would do the third-dimensional journey and travel from fear to love.  Light is fearful because she was an abused cat and her trust level is lacking.  She is fine with me but at the time of this writing she is still fearful of strangers.  She has all of Spirit's habits and idiosyncrasies though.  I know that she will come around fully because we are in the middle of a Shift in Consciousness, and Light is bound to find her Spirit. 

My New Cat, Light

Momisms

These are Some

of my Mom’s Thoughts

on Different Subjects            

                

Her Life:  “I’ve had a pretty good life.  I’ve had real experiences and I learned from all of them.  Now, I’ve got my health, I’m free, and I have no worries.”

On Discipline:  I got beatings when I was a kid and I thought I’d never hit my own kids, but I did.  I even hit my grandkids when they misbehaved, but when I knew better, I did better.  I learned to change my behavior in my mid-sixties.  It’s never too late.”

On Love:  “There is nothing else.  That is what we are all here to do, to love.  I love everyone even if they don’t love me.  Love can’t end and it can’t start.  It just is.  What most people call love is really just infatuation or need, because when someone’s need is not met, they suddenly don’t love anymore.  That can’t be love.  Love isn’t a decision.”

On meeting a friend of mine from Texas:  “I think I’ve known you . . . you know, before.  We have the same spirit. We’re like two women in a dream.”

Movies rated with adult language:   We were watching T.V. and I hit the info button on the remote control to see what the movie was about and mom noticed that there was a warning about “Adult Language.”  She said, “What’s that mean?  I said, “Cursing,” and she said, “Who said cursing is adult language.  Isn’t that adolescent language?”

As the doctor gets ready to drain the lymph node under her arm, he tells her to place her hand on his shoulder and she says, “If I do that, I’m going to hug you.”  The doctor did not respond and when he left the room, she said, “Too much schooling and not enough spooning.”

As concerns my calling her “Old Woman” as a term of endearment:  “Don’t call me old woman.  It feels heavy.”  I said, “Well, how does it feel when I call you “young lady?”  She said, “It feels like I have wings and can fly.” 

On a Bus going to the doctor’s office:  A woman boarded the bus.  She was shaking, either from Parkinson’s or some other disorder.  Mom whispered to me, “Gee look at that woman shaking.  I sure hope I don’t shake like that when I get old.”  Mom was 90 at the time.

Visiting Nurse visit:  The nurse asks mom if she is having any pain and mom says, “No and I’m not inducing any either.”

In hospital after knee surgery:  Mom was on the phone speaking with a friend from Florida.  Her end of the conversation went something like this:  “Yeah girl, I deserve this.  I paid my dues.  I get all my meals in bed, and every morning they wheel me to the shower, hose me down, dry me off, powder me up, and dress me and then they wheel me back to my room.  In the afternoon, a handsome young man from Australia takes me on walks around the hospital (part of physical therapy).”  I think Dr. Phil is right.  There is no reality, only perception. 

On Angels:  “I saw three at the foot of my bed.”  I asked, “How did they look?”  “They had wings.”  “Did they say anything?”  “No, they just stood there staring at me.”  What did you do or say?  “Nothing, I went back to sleep. Angels protect us or guide us home and I figured I must need protection because I wasn’t ready to go home."

On angels generally:  I read that angels fly because they take things lightly.  That’s not true; I take things lightly and I can’t fly.  Angels fly because they have wings.”

On Love, Death, Anger: “Don’t love me to death; love me to life.”  “Anger is wasted energy.”

Things mom loved:  ice pops, strawberry and vanilla ice cream, pretzels, hard candy, plantains, codfish, candied yams, fried chicken, French fries, and collard greens.

             On Being Catholic:  “I don’t know why they go to confession.  It’s as if they think God doesn’t already know, like he wasn’t there when they were doing whatever it is they’re confessing about.  And who says God needs help!  To tell you the truth, I don’t think God gives a hoot about most of the stuff they confess.  He’s got bigger fish to fry.”

On Her Philosophy of Life:   “I don’t have one.  I just take what comes."

On Looks:  “Looks don’t count for much.  It’s the spirit that counts.”

On Death:  “You know, every time they put someone to death, people think they’re giving out a punishment, but I think they’re actually setting them free.  I’m not afraid of dying, but I’m not ready to die either.  I like Earth and the people on it.”

On the Body:  “I like mine just the way it is.  It’s still going and it’s the reason I’m here and you can see me.” 

On Men:  Mom loved men.  Whenever one came to the house, she'd ask, "Are you married?"  If he said yes, she'd say, "Oh crap."  One time my friend, Bill, came by for some energy work.  He got onto my massage table, and while I worked on him, mom, who was sitting on the couch, came over to the table, looked down at him and said, "May I put my head on your chest? It's been such a long time since I put my head on a man's chest."  Bill obliged her and she put her head on his chest for a few seconds and then gently kissed his cheek and sat back down.  After he left my apartment, mom said, "He's cute.  That made my day!"

One time we went to the hospital cafeteria after a doctor's visit and as we were leaving after finishing our meal, mom saw two young men sitting near the exit and she blew each of them a kiss and said, "There now, you just got something for nothing."

Going with the Flow:  Mom loved reading, but she got glaucoma in her sixties, and as she got older, she'd forget to put her drops in her eyes.  So by the time she came to live with me, she couldn't see well enough to read.  She read the first Harry Potter book, but it took her a long time given her failing eye sight. I bought her the second and third books in the audio version.  One day, I put the tapes in a recorder and put the headsets on my mom's ears.  When she finished listening to the first tape, I removed it from the recorder and replaced it with what I thought was the second tape.  I left mom in the living room while I went to the kitchen to tend to some cooking.  When I returned to the living room, mom was still listening to the tape, only this time her head was bobbing up and down and her feet were swaying back and forth.  I went over to her to investigate.  I couldn't imagine what part of Harry Potter she was listening to.  After all, I didn't recall any music in the storyline.  I removed the headset from her ears and listened.  As it turned out, mom had been listening to Rod Stewart's Greatest Hits.  

Aunt Linnette -- In Memoriam

Mom (Linnette)

My first conscious awareness of my “Aunt” Linnette goes back to the 1940’s. I was a child of seven years old with a desperately sick mother and younger siblings. My daily routines included feeding, bathing, medicating and pottying my mom, and also my youngest sister, then getting out to school on time.

I remember “Aunt” Linnette coming by our abode to lend her support. She was kind and unassuming. She came knowing that my mom never liked any kind of company at all. Mom was basically an introvert. “Aunt” Linnette’s soft and loving ways brought an aura of warmth to our home that was different from any I had previously known. She had the patience I missed in my demanding routines. She had a kind and loving touch. She would hold your hand, smooth your hair, or give a needed hug. Her eyes looked softly and directly at your soul and knew your need. She was an oasis for me. She took the severity out of the day’s chores and put in some wonder, like learning to knit (she taught my mom) and we had wonderful things to wear, although we were poor. “Aunt” Linnette also had fun kids to play with. There was Ronnie (I was in love with him at 7 years old). There was Barry and Leon and Daryel and baby Dierdra. When they came to visit, I got a chance to roam with Ronnie and play with Daryel’s wonderful hair. It was a wonderful break for me. I never, ever heard a harsh word from “Aunt” Linnette. I did not know until I was 12 that my “Aunt” Linnette was not truly my aunt at all. I was appalled until I figured out that now I could marry Ronnie. That made it all better.

Life, however, had different plans for us all, and we went our separate ways. Linnette and I wrote each other occasionally while she was in Florida, in Queens in the summers, and in upstate New York. Ironically, we lost contact when she was at my relative’s home in the Bronx. Aunt Linnette is now, and will forever remain, in my heart, my mind and my memories as one of the most profound experiences of my childhood. Throughout many bad experiences, I relished the knowledge that there were people like her somewhere out there. I just had to find them and do better. I did. God bless Linnette and her devoted daughter. Give them peace and give her rest.

Love, Sandra.

Duda and the Angel

While my mother was living in Florida, she had a Boston terrier named Duda, a serene, Zen-like dog, atypical for a terrier. Duda was so calm that I used to call him Duda the Buddha. He was a beautiful lean and stocky dog, whose paws were white up to the ankle. He had a patch of white that ran from his jowls up the front of his face to the bridge of his nose and up to his forehead. Duda wanted nothing more than to be petted and to curl up in your lap. One of my brother's friends gave him to mom and told her that he would be responsible for all vet bills, a wonderful gesture, given mom’s fixed income. Mom loved that dog. She took him to the vet faithfully for his shots and his heartworm medication each year. Duda and she walked the grounds of her mobile home park three times a day, every day. He was good company.

All went well for about two years; and then one heartworm season, a new vet gave mom medication for Duda that was calculated for a fifty pound dog. Sadly, Duda only weighed fifteen pounds. Mom hadn’t noticed the dosing information. She simply followed the vet’s instructions. After dosing Duda for a while, mom noticed that he started having seizures. She took him back to the vet, but the vet could not find a reason for Duda’s seizures, although he noted that the heartworm medication was the incorrect dosage for a dog Duda’s weight and cautioned mom to stop giving it to him. Mom was convinced that the seizures were caused by an overdose of the heartworm medication, something to which she was sure the vet would never admit.

Anti-seizure medication did nothing for Duda’s seizures. They got so bad that mom eventually started pulling him around in a little Red Flyer wagon, because he couldn’t walk long distances without having a seizure and collapsing. Whenever I spoke with mom on the phone, she lamented about Duda’s seizures and wondered whether she should put him down. I encouraged her to either put him down or get another opinion, because Duda was suffering. Mom said that she just didn’t have the heart to put him down.

During that time, mom had to have minor “female” surgery and was due to spend a night in the hospital, so a friend and I went to Florida to be there with her. Mom lived in a small single-wide mobile home that could not accommodate more than one person, so we made reservations at the Holiday Inn across the street from where she lived. We arrived in Florida early in the day, checked into the Holiday Inn and then went to see mom. When I entered her mobile home, I took one look at Duda and told her that he needed to be put down. Mom trusted me and asked if I would take him to the local humane society. I said that I would. We took Duda that day. I explained to the vet there that he had uncontrollable seizures and that we thought he should be put down. The vet examined him and agreed. I was escorted to a room in the back of the office and was allowed to hold Duda while he was euthanized. As I stroked his head, he was looking up at me with huge black eyes. The doctor injected him with lethabarb, a popular euthanasia barbiturate. Duda was gone in seconds, his eyes still wide open. I closed his eyes and wept. The vet tech wept too. Mom was waiting for me outside the room where the euthanasia occurred. When I came out of the room, I told mom that Duda was gone. Her voice cracked as she said, “He’s better now.” I thought about what a burden this would be for mom, who was having surgery the next day. I worried that it might affect her recovery. As if she could hear my thoughts, mom said that Duda was ready to die. She felt that his seizures were his way of letting her know that he had done everything he came here to do. Mom seemed at peace.

That night in my hotel room, I lamented over whether I’d done the right thing, whether every opportunity to extend Duda’s life had been examined. My travel companion suggested that I ask the universe for a sign that I’d done the right thing. So, just before I went to sleep, I asked for a sign. I awoke in the morning feeling more relaxed than I had since I arrived in Florida.

My friend and I went to the hospital to visit mom, who was out of surgery and resting when we got there. As we entered her room, she was being tended by a male nurse named John. He doted on mom, repeatedly coming in and out of the room to either bring her something or fluff her pillows. When he spoke to mom, he rubbed her head and smiled. We were about an hour into our visit, when John, who had entered the room for the seventh or eighth time, faced me and smiled. I smiled back at him, wondering why he was facing me smiling and saying nothing. I made idle conversation with mom, occasionally looking at John, who was still facing me smiling. I glanced at him again briefly and noticed that, just underneath his first name, which was printed in big block letters, was his last name, printed in smaller letters. I leaned in and squinted to read it and then gasped. It said Duda. John’s last name was Duda. I excitedly told him the story of Duda the Buddha. He said nothing and suddenly left the room, still smiling. I had gotten my confirmation.

The next day I called the hospital to find out where I could write to nurse Duda to thank him for being so attentive to mom. I was told that no such nurse worked at the hospital. I insisted that he took care of my mother the day before and I even indicated what floor he was on, but the person to whom I spoke insisted that no nurse by that name worked there.

Mom spent most of her adult life fiscally poor but rich in so many other ways. Never did she face a difficult time without an angel who showed up to ease a burden. Duda was one of those angels.

Mom and Rasputin

One early fall evening, I took mom, who was 90 years old at the time, to a channeling session with me. This was her first experience seeing a channel, so I had no idea how she’d respond. For those who’ve never seen a channel, the person who channels goes into meditation and brings through an energy from another realm, sometimes a person of note from another generation, such as Albert Einstein, or Buckminster Fuller, or a guide, an angel, or even a master, such as Jesus or Buddha. The person doing the channeling that evening, whom I’ll refer to as GD, was explaining about what the evening would entail. As he spoke, mom kept nodding off. I nudged her with my elbow, telling her to stay awake. My nudging was to no avail. She repeatedly nodded off, her head dropping forward. We were sitting in the front row directly in front of GD, so I was embarrassed at her seeming disinterest in what he was saying.
Eventually, GD went into a brief meditation and Rasputin came through. Despite all the history about Rasputin’s mysterious and sinister relationship to the Russian royal family (Czar Nicholas, et. al.), those of us familiar with him through the channeling, got to know about his energy as a healer and mystic and we loved him. He was irreverent and outspoken, yet, loving. When Rasputin came through, he said, “Hallo” in a thick Russian accent. Mom immediately came to attention. She lifted her head and leaned forward in her seat as he spoke. I don’t recall the details of what Rasputin was saying, but it was an opening statement, during which mom blurted out, “I feel that I’ve known you before.” Rasputin, amused, paused and said, “Oh yes, we’ve known each other for about eight billion years.” “Oh,” mom said, “I didn’t know I was that old.” I sat there shocked, because mom seemed to know the difference between GD’s energy and Rasputin’s, and she was no longer disinterested or bored.

As Rasputin lectured on the beauty of love, mom said, “What if you love everyone?” Rasputin knew she was asking about herself and said, “Yes, we know you love everyone. That is what the people here are trying to learn. They want to know how to love everyone.” Mom said, “Just do it.” Rasputin laughed and said, “Yes, just do it. You heard her.” As he spoke about judgment and how it related to duality, mom blurted out, “Oh I would never judge anyone.” Rasputin said, “We know. You are here to heal the people on this Earth with your love.” Then mom said, “Sometimes I feel like the mother of the Earth,” and Rasputin said, “You are the mother of the Earth. You are Earth mother.” Mom sat through the rest of that channeling without falling asleep, hanging onto every word Rasputin spoke.

At the end of the session, GD came out of trance and mom seemed to know the difference, because she said, “What happened to the other guy?” I explained that he had left GD’s body. She said, “Oh” and went over to GD and hugged him, thanking him for a lovely evening. A couple of other people went over to talk to mom. GD moved aside and excitedly called me over to him. I asked what he wanted and he said, “You have no idea who you have with you.” I said that I did and he said, “No, no. You don’t know what I mean.” I said that I did, that I knew my mother was open, which was why I brought her to the channeling. Then GD said, “You don’t understand. I couldn’t tell the difference between your mother’s energy and Rasputin’s.” He explained that any time someone asked a question, he could always see the polarity in the other person’s energy as it related to Rasputin’s energy, which was not polarized. GD said, “This time, I couldn’t find a line of demarcation between Raz’s (those of us familiar with Rasputin’s energy called him Raz) energy and your mother’s.” I said that I wasn’t aware that she would come across that way energetically, but I knew she would make an impression.

I knew that mom had a way about her that was healing. People who spent time with her always felt better afterward. In fact, whenever someone I knew was not feeling great emotionally, I’d say, “Come with me to see my mother.” They’d always ask why and I’d say, “You’ll feel better” and they always did.

Mom was open to everything and she was filled with wonder. She even used to let me do energy work on her. She’d get on my massage table and say, “Do that thing you do,” and then pretty quickly into the session, she’d be gone, out cold, asleep. Mom trusted me without reservation and was open to anything I wanted to do for, with, or to her. She experienced a lot of alternative healing in her later years, and I think it, along with her own ability to love, was responsible for her complete healing from cancer without the benefit of chemo or radiation even though the doctor felt that she should at least have radiation.  I said no. She was already 89 years old and I didn't see the point.  She had CHF, so chemo was out.  She had a lumpectomy, and eventually a mastectomy of her right breast.  The doctor was certain that the cancer would return without the radiation.  It did not.  She recovered quickly from bypass surgery and a valve replacement. She never experienced pain during those times either.  In addition, mom’s short term memory was bad, and that, coupled with her lack of pain, she quickly forgot that she had cancer and heart surgery, so she never focused on those things. Instead, she was busy enjoying life.

It’s a wonderful thing to have a mind opened by wonder rather than one closed by belief. To mom, everything about life was wonderful or interesting. She used to say, “I love Earth and the people and animals on it.” I always thought that was odd phrasing.  It was as if she were from somewhere else and knew that she was only visiting this plane of consciousness for the experience and to share her love. I’m not saying that mom was perfect all her life. She wasn’t. She made some mistakes, but she learned from them, and in doing so, she aged her soul. You age your soul over a lifetime, but it takes only a moment of knowing to reach full realization of your own divinity. Mom’s moment of knowing came in her late sixties and she had the good fortune to live within that fullness until her death.