Coincidence?

Coincidence?

Shattered after the sudden death of my thirty-nine-year-old son, I wandered through a murky fog, occasionally stumbling head on into abrupt kick-to-the-gut grief attacks, yanking me out of anesthesia. Each time the tidal wave struck, I was tossed, depleted and exhausted, onto a lonely and barren beach.

After fourteen months, I decided to hook up with a well renowned psychic. My kitchen lights had been flickering, and I wanted to believe that my boy was trying to communicate.

“It’s just a faulty bulb,” argued a friend. “Change it.”

I left that bulb intact, not wanting to admit my practical friend might be right. It continued to send me intermittent signals for many months until the bulb died and was replaced. There were no flickers after that.

Seeking solace, I waited for a prearranged phone call from a psychic medium on Jan. 29, 2021, a man who claimed he could communicate with the dead. After a few introductory remarks, during which I was careful to reveal nothing personal, he got started.

“I am getting the impression of a sudden massive impact to the head. A male is telling me that he died by his own hand, but it was an accident. It was a slip. He never meant to hurt you. He is saying you were the last person he ever wanted to hurt. He wants you to know it was over in seconds. He didn’t suffer.”

My throat spasmed in sudden grief and relief. The psychic continued.

“He is showing me the word FRIDAY. I also see orange. Now he is telling me it happened very suddenly. He surprised himself, thought if he could vomit, he would be okay. Does any of this make sense?”

It was time to validate his impressions, so I relayed the following information. On Nov. 8, 2019, I came home in the evening to find my son Russell lying face down on the orange carpet in my bedroom. It was a Friday. I remember shrieking, calling 911, and running to a neighbor for help to turn him over. I knew as soon as I saw his blue face. He had died of an overdose.

“I am sorry for your loss. He is telling me again that he didn’t feel pain.”

As I wiped away tears, the psychic asked, “Is there a Katie?”

His question infused my soul with a warm current of gratitude. My son, estranged and continuously plagued with remorse, longed to connect with his daughter, Katie. His addiction had destroyed his marriage and hopes for a family. He used drugs to ease his suffering…a vicious cycle.

This simple question was an encouragement to continue reestablishing my long-lost connection to my granddaughter. I shared the back story with the psychic, amazed that he had said her name.

 “Now I see a broken pane of glass. He is telling me you need to get it fixed. He is urgent about this. He’s talking about duct tape and telling me it isn’t good enough. Does this make sense?”

A memory, more of a trauma, flooded my senses. Russell was in full-blown, drug-induced paranoia and rage. I fled for my safety, and he responded by punching his bedroom window. Later, full of remorse and shame, he used duct tape to try and stop the crack from worsening.

How could the psychic possibly know about this? Convinced of the authenticity of the message, I decided I would hire someone to repair the damage.

The psychic continued. “Do you have plumbing issues? I am seeing water. Something to do with plumbing or pipes. Watch out for leaking or flooding.”

I admitted that my toilet frequently backed up and overflowed, but my industrial-strength plunger was great at remedying the problem.

“This will be worse. Your son is warning of extensive property damage if you don’t keep an eye out.”

I agreed to be vigilant.

“Do you know somebody named Daniel? I am getting this name over and over.”

“No, that name doesn’t ring a bell at all.”

“Interesting. Don’t close your mind. Write it down. Sometimes a message can make sense hours, days, weeks, even months after a reading.”

I certainly didn’t know anyone named Daniel, but the next day, my toilet backed up so badly that my trusty plunger failed miserably. Afraid the flooding would leak down to the tenant below, I was forced to call a plumber. Eerie.

A week later, I called an agency that contracted out workers to fix household problems. I described the cracked windowpane and scheduled an appointment. Time to replace the window entirely.

A man arrived, removed the screen and the window, and left to order new ones. He returned two days later to finish the job. I was delighted and relieved.

I invited him into my kitchen to have a coffee. As he took in the surroundings, he noticed a nametag hanging on my bulletin board.

Are you a friend of Bill W.?” he asked.

“Yes!” I answered with a sense of instant kinship.

His question was code for an anonymous fellowship we both belonged to. Suddenly, we had a common language that exceeded home repairs, and we embarked on sharing our stories and positive experiences.

“If you need any help in the future, you can call me directly, and I will charge you a lesser rate. Here is my card.”

As I tucked the card into my wallet, I noticed that his name was Daniel. Goosebumps.

That spring, a squirrel and her babies nested in a nook just above my old and failing air conditioner. I called Daniel for help and was delighted that he remembered me.

While he was able and willing to install a new cooling unit, he drew the line at squirrel removal. Fair enough. I hired a specialized company to do that. First things first.

My new unit was especially appreciated this past summer.

Thanks to Daniel. It’s so comforting to know I can call him at any time,

It is also comforting to believe that my dear departed son, who struggled so much in this world, is watching over me from a place of peace and serenity.