Visions, Trips, and Crowded Rooms (21 page)

“I’m not sure . . . it isn’t open yet.”

“Do you know what’s on the other side?”

“No, but I guess I’m going to find out soon,” Dorothy replied.

Toward the end of her life, she’d mention the golden door more often, saying, “They’re trying to push the door open.”

“Who?” her mother asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You said ‘they.’ Do you think there’s more than one person at the door?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it.”

The following day, which was Dorothy’s last, I was visiting and we were talking about God. In the middle of the conversation, she looked up toward the corner of the room and said, “They’ve pushed the door open!”

Martha had already told me about the golden door, so I asked, “Can I see them?”

“There they are!” Dorothy exclaimed. “Can’t you see them? Oh, it’s getting so crowded in here!”

Martha and I didn’t know what to make of her comment.

The only people in her room were the two of us and her nurse from hospice. That was hardly a crowd.

“Why do you say that it’s so crowded?” I asked Dorothy.

“All of these people keep coming through the door, and it’s getting packed in here.”

Dorothy was slipping in and out of consciousness, but when she was awake, she’d point to the door and to everyone who was filling her room, saying, “Mom, look how many are here for me. They’re going to help me.” Hours before her death, she spoke only of the door and the crowd surrounding her. She was so happy. Moments before her death, her mother gently said, “Dorothy, you can go with these folks if it’s time.”

I placed my hand on the dying woman’s and said, “It’s all right to go. I’ll take care of your mom.”

Dorothy died very peacefully, and her mother was comforted by the fact that people were there for her. Although at first Martha didn’t believe that the vision was real, as time went on she realized that the door and the crowd were exactly what her daughter needed.

I told Martha a few stories about other patients who had died seeing a crowd of people, and I assured her that the golden door was something heavenly.

E
VERYONE
I
S
T
HERE

by Kim

My work as a psychologist in a Catholic hospital is very fulfilling. I spend most of my time counseling teenagers in our wellbeing program.

My parents were always enormously proud of me. I was raised in a family of born-again Christians, and we attended church regularly. When my mom was stricken with a serious heart condition and had to prepare for surgery, our entire congregation was praying for her.

The operation went well, and my mother was out of the cardiac unit in record time, even starting to walk on her own again. Things were looking up and we were discussing the date of her discharge when she mentioned to a doctor that she felt like she was coming down with the flu.

A blood test showed a dramatic increase in my mom’s white-blood-cell count, which indicated an infection. Her doctor immediately started her on antibiotics, but within 24 hours she was in the ICU, fighting a massive infection.

My father and I couldn’t have been more stunned when the doctor told us that we needed to make a decision about what to do if my mother’s heart or lungs failed.

We prayed at Mom’s bedside while members of our church gathered in the lobby to pray for a full recovery. At one point, I heard my mother mumbling, “Mommy, Daddy,” as if she were a little girl. Not sure what was happening, I said, “It’s okay, Mom. Everyone is praying, and God will help you recover.”

“Mommy, Daddy,” my mother repeated. “I’ll come if I have to.”

Alarmed and not sure who my mother was talking to, I said, “You have to stay here. God wants you to stay with us.”

But my mother responded, “Everyone is there. There are so many people—I have to go.”

Those were my mom’s last words. I finally realized that she was seeing her deceased family, and there was nothing to be afraid of. Even though I was sad, I knew that death isn’t something to fear.

When I prayed to God to keep my mother here, that was my will, not His. When God wants you, that’s it, and my mom was ready to go to heaven.

Today I’ve taught my own children that even after I die, someday we’ll all be together again. My mother’s vision gave me a much deeper appreciation and faith in the promise of everlasting life. I also feel the gift of becoming a more compassionate and caring person. From what my mother saw in her last moments, I know firsthand that we live with God on a daily basis, because He sent my whole family to guide her to Him.

T
HEY’RE ALL
W
AITING

by Jan

I’m a therapist who focuses more on education than having a private practice. I hold a Ph.D. in psychology and teach classes in a graduate program. I love my students’ enthusiasm and get a kick out of hearing them say things like: “Oh, that’s why I’m always mad at my boyfriend,” or “Now I know why my mother and I don’t get along—we’re too much alike!”

I thought I’d heard it all until I listened to a story from Anil, one of my students from India. His father had died two years previously after a long illness, and he wanted to talk to me about Hindu views on death. This religion doesn’t see death as an ending; rather, adherents believe that there are many more lifetimes to come. Anil was confl icted because he wasn’t sure how his father’s dying experience fit into his religious beliefs. This is what he told me:

During the last two weeks of my father’s life, he was still alert and at peace. The family knew that he was dying and made the funeral plans, which involved cremation because fire represents purification in Hinduism. We talked about karma, the belief that all deeds in the past would affect the present, and all decisions made now will impact the future.

All of a sudden, my father became fixated on a point in the room. It was up in a corner, high above everyone’s head. He suddenly said, “Mother is here.”

He was referring to his mother, and explained that she and his father were visiting him although my grandparents had died years ago. My dad kept staring at the same area on the wall and began naming all the people who had stopped by to see him that day. Every day, more and more arrived—and every one of them had already died. Concerned, my mom pointed this fact out, but my father simply replied that it didn’t matter.

Two days before my dad died, he said, “There are so many here—they’re all waiting for me.”

And moments before he left this world, Dad opened his eyes, smiled broadly, and told my mother, “Look. The lovely lady is here; Mother is here. She’s calling, and it’s time to go.”

My father was smiling and staring at the same place until his face relaxed, his head sank back onto the pillow, and he stopped breathing and died.

My mom didn’t know how to put his “crowded room” in the context of Hinduism. Shortly after his death, we went to see a Hindu priest who said all that mattered was that my father’s experience brought him comfort. What more could you want from death?

Anil admitted that it took him a long time to tell his story to anyone. I told him that I admired his courage, and he thanked me for listening without passing judgment. I was amazed and humbled to hear such a powerful story.

M
AYBE
T
HEY
W
ERE
R
IGHT

by Sonia

I love being a nurse at a large hospital. My unit caters to general medical issues and some postsurgical cases and cancer patients who need chemotherapy. I’ve seen my share of deathbed phenomena on the oncology unit during my 11 years there, but the story that I’ll always carry with me is about my mother, Cara.

My mom was always very active. Even though she stopped driving in her 80s, she lived close to many of her favorite activities so that she could walk to them. She was a bingo fanatic and knew where every game in town was played. She also attended church regularly and enjoyed volunteering at the local nursing home.

When Mom was diagnosed with cancer, all of her family and friends took it hard. And for me, although I’d taken care of hundreds of patients who had cancer on my unit, now I had to picture my mother as a patient.

Life became filled with one round of chemotherapy after another. I thought that Mom should fight it at every step, but I also knew that it was an aggressive form of the disease. Tired of being nauseated all the time with no results, my mom decided to let nature take its course.

I convinced my mother to move in with me, and she was very independent at first. She cooked dinner for me and helped keep the house tidy, but soon became too weak for these tasks as her condition worsened. I switched to part-time work and eventually took a leave of absence to care for her.

As Mom’s health deteriorated, I’d sometimes come into her room and find her looking up toward the corner and talking. Unfortunately, I knew this meant that she didn’t have much time left.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked one day.

“Alvin. He’s here, and he’s waiting for me.” Alvin was her husband, my father, who’d died nearly a decade ago.

“Dad is here?”

“Yes, of course!”

I found her attitude surprising. The mom I knew and loved would have never taken a conversation seriously that included talking to a dead person, but apparently that had all changed, as she began having regular chats with my dad.

One day I found my mother crying in her room. She was talking to my brother, who had tragically died in a car accident when he was a teenager. “It’s just so wonderful to see him again,” she told me later. “I never thought I would.”

Other people came to visit as well. My mom was naming one dead relative after another, remarking, “Sonia, it’s getting so crowded in here.”

“That’s what you get for entertaining so much,” I teased.

The next day, my mother’s tone shifted. “Well, they’re here,” she said with a degree of resignation. “They’re calling me, but I’m not ready yet. I told them they have to wait because it’s not time.”

As Mom grew weaker and closer to death, she was in and out of a coma. When she was conscious, she told me, “I think it might be time. Maybe they were right.”