Visions, Trips, and Crowded Rooms (23 page)

My wish is that you’ll share these stories and start a conversation.
Talk to others and ask about their stories. I believe that each
and every one of us can find someone who has experienced the
deathbed vision of a loved one. You never know: who and what you
see before you die might be as close as a family member, friend,
co-worker, or neighbor.

In life, we’re more connected to others than we ever imagined.
What if we’re even more connected in death? Perhaps heaven is
closer than we think.

EPILOGUE

F
INAL
W
ORDS

A recent pilot study examined the incidence of deathbed visions and their effects on the dying as well as on those who work in the health-care industry. Conducted by the palliative-care team at Camden Primary Care Trust in London, their findings were as follows:

Interviews revealed that patients regularly report these phenomena as an important part of their dying process, and that DBP [deathbed phenomena] are far broader than the traditional image of an apparition at the end of the bed. Results of the interviews raise concerns about the lack of education or training to help palliative-care teams recognize the wider implications of DBP and deal with difficult questions or situations associated with them. Many DBP may go unreported because of this. Results of this pilot study also suggest that DBP aren’t drug-induced, and that patients would rather talk to nurses than doctors about their dying experiences.

My belief is that many health-care workers haven’t been trained to view death as an important part of life. I had the privilege of spending time with Mother Teresa, and she once told me that “death is part of the achievement of life.” Our traditional Western medical system is far from perceiving death as the “achievement of life,” however. In fact, mainstream medicine still considers it a “failure.” Death remains an enemy and is the result of a battle that was lost.

If physicians see death as the result of their own inability to save every life all the time, how would they view a phenomenon that usually occurs on their day of defeat? When I began to write my first book in 1995, I spoke to an oncologist about being around the dying, specifically watching a person die. To my amazement, he replied that he hadn’t spent much time with patients who were very close to death. “But some of your patients die, right?” I asked.

“Yes, 30 to 40 percent.”

“Then how do you not see it?”

“They don’t need much from me at that point for symptom management,” he said. “Their primary physician focuses on them, and I move on to other patients.”

I pressed him further. “Have you ever been in the room when a patient died?”

“No.”

Many assume that to be in medicine means you’ve seen death firsthand, but clearly, this oncologist represents those in the field who are inexperienced and uncomfortable with it.

There was much this individual needed to learn. For his patients, after waging a two- to five-year battle with cancer and seeing their doctor weekly or monthly, this was a relationship that transcended just “symptom management.” Physicians like him need to learn that there’s value for the patients—and even for them—in continuing contact up to the end. This personal anecdote helped me understand why a lot of health-care workers may not be open to (much less act as great historians of) deathbed visions, and why patients may not feel comfortable to share such events with them.

As many of the stories in the book have illustrated, those who are at the end of their lives are often reluctant to talk about deathbed phenomena, due to fear of ridicule, dismissal, or even being labeled as “crazy.” Although I also think these stories prove that just because someone is dying and may be peering into the next world, it doesn’t mean that he or she is no longer aware of and connected to this world.

Family members and friends also attempt to manage their feelings about loved ones experiencing visions in an environment that often doesn’t recognize or validate them. They may feel ashamed, not realizing how common these extraordinary episodes are. Moreover, in our loved ones’ last days, most of us focus on ensuring that their care is good and that they aren’t suffering. We’re also overwhelmed at times by our own grief, searching for hope even when there is none. So it’s difficult to imagine that in the midst of all this, a relative or friend would want to go through the possible embarrassment and questioning of a near-death awareness. Perhaps if they knew that in the legal world a person’s final words are more highly valued and examined, they might view these visions differently or at least be more at peace.

In the study I cited earlier, many health-care workers interviewed stated that deathbed visions could be viewed as a prognostic indicator for nearing death, and that they “were in agreement that helping patients to become reconciled with their life is an important part of palliative care work.”

There can be no end to this book because the human story is ongoing. There are so many more stories to be told. I hope that health-care professionals and family members who haven’t come forth about the deathbed visions they’ve experienced might be a little more comfortable to finally talk about them, knowing that they aren’t alone.

Likewise, additional studies on deathbed visions need to be conducted despite the fact that there are no lucrative products or treatments that would result from gaining more insights into the phenomenon. Just because a question may not have an answer—just because it’s a mystery that we may never totally solve—that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t bring it to the forefront.

Unlike people who have near-death experiences (NDE) and live to tell their stories, write about them, and bring them into our cultural discussion, the deathbed-vision witness has obviously died. NDE survivors may feel a sense of awe and even be proud of the fact that they survived death and lived to talk about it. For the grieving who have just lost loved ones, though, there isn’t the same incentive to share their stories about a vision that the dying person experienced.

We must reevaluate our reaction to events beyond our understanding. Doesn’t this matter deserve our attention and open-mindedness now more than ever? As we strive to improve the care of the dying, are we missing something by not including deathbed visions in the quest for a peaceful and meaningful death?

Today we often assume that the only thing available to comfort the dying is more technology or better symptom management. I believe that God and nature have already built in a means of comfort by providing us with visions, and who and what we see before we die is just as vital as the cutting-edge medical breakthroughs that will continue to advance the health-care industry.

While death may look like a loss to the living, the last hours of a dying person may very well be filled with fullness rather than emptiness. No matter how death unfolds for us—whether we’re planning for a “trip,” or gazing upon our loved ones or a crowded bedroom in awe—our transition ultimately is a mystery. Sometimes all we can do is embrace the unknown and unexplainable.

The saying goes, “We come into this world alone, and we leave alone.” We’ve been brought up to believe that dying is a lonely, solitary event. But what if everything we know isn’t true?

What if the long road that you thought you’ll eventually have to walk alone has unseen companions? What if who and what you see before you die changes everything?

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I want to thank all of the wonderful people who were willing to share their stories with me. I would thank each of you here if it weren’t for the fact that most people, especially health-care professionals, request anonymity when discussing deathbed visions. Let’s hope that your contribution will help others feel less alone in their experiences.

My professional thanks go to Jennifer Rudolph Walsh and Erin Malone, my agents at William Morris Endeavor Entertainment. Jennifer, thank you for being there when I win awards, but more important, thanks for being by my side when I don’t. Erin, I’m grateful to you for making this book a reality. Thank you for ensuring that my manuscripts are ones that publishers will want to turn into books. I love you for always wanting my writing to be the best it can be.

Reid Tracy, thank you for welcoming me into Hay House and giving this book a home. Thanks to Jill Kramer for overseeing the editing process; and to Lisa Mitchell, for doing such an extraordinary job editing the work. And, of course, thank you, Louise Hay. Who could have imagined that when we worked together almost 25 years ago, we would be connected again in an incredible publishing house that you created?

Andrea Cagen, as always you keep my hands on the keyboard and help me focus when the world pulls me in a million different directions. Linda Hewitt, my dear friend, we’ve been together for so many years I’ve lost count. No matter what I’m doing or where I am, you’re always there for me. I appreciate you more than you know.

My gratitude goes to Nick Owchar, the deputy book editor for the
Los Angeles Times.
Nick, my chapter on the arts wouldn’t have been possible without you. Thank you for inviting me into the world of book reviews and enabling me to have a voice in the book reviewer’s world as well as at the
L.A. Times.
Thank you for your fine writing here and there.

To my friends: Ann Massie, thanks for your support as well as your porch to finish writing this book on. To Carmen Carrillo, thank you for always being a great nurse and person. For Annie Gad and Adele Bass, you’ve both been a true gift to me.

And to my colleagues at Citrus Valley Health Partners and Citrus Valley Hospice: thank you, Robert Curry and Elvia Foulke for the opportunity to work in an environment that encourages and challenges me every day and reminds me what’s important. Thanks also to Lori Oberon and Sandy Plouffe.

And to the two women who got me here: Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in heaven and Marianne Williamson on Earth, my thanks are beyond words. You both mean the world to me.

To my goddaughter, India, who is more than I could have ever hoped for in this lifetime. You’ve brought such joy and hope to my world in ways I’ve never dreamed possible. I love you so much.

And to my sons, Richard and David, thank you for helping me understand how deep love can go. I’m infinitely grateful for the richness you’ve brought into my life.

I promise you, Richard, David, and India . . . if there is a way, I will be there.