From Curse to Gift

My family used to joke about the fact that I was born under police guard. I entered this world just before Halloween on October 29th, 1959, at the Royal Jubilee Hospital, in Victoria. Since there were several cult groups active on Vancouver Island at the time, the authorities stationed a police officer in the newborn nursery to prevent infants from being snatched for ceremony or sacrifice. The island, off the west coast of Canada, has always been inhabited by wackos and weirdos. It was like that back in the fifties, and it still is now. Of course, normal folks live there too. But what’s normal?

My grandmother told me that the minute she laid eyes on me, she knew I was special. Of course, everyone’s grandma says that. They’re biased. It wouldn’t be until decades later that I would understand what she meant. I was different. I was an odd-looking baby with eyes that were much too big for my tiny head. Those eyes would eventually become my trademark. The color fluctuated from icy blue to aqua green. It was often the first thing people would comment upon when meeting me. If the eyes are the window to the soul, then my eyes accurately reflected my chameleon shifts in mood and manner. I learned at an early age to blend in. Socially, culturally, and physically. I wasn’t comfortable with attention or compliments. I avoided both whenever possible.

I recognized many distinctions about myself early in life, firstly, I was left-handed, which was pointed out regularly, as if I didn’t notice. Oh! You’re left-handed, people would declare. Yes. What can I say? They tried to force me to use my right hand but I wrote everything in a mirror image. In my early childhood teachers would praise my intelligence and accomplishments, but complain about my handwriting. Alison presses too hard. Alison needs to work on her penmanship. Alison has terrible cursive technique. I was in my early thirties when I found out that besides being a lefty, I was also dyslexic. I can’t tell you how comforting it was to discover that fact. It explained so many things.

For instance, I was an accomplished dancer when focused on the music and free to do my own thing. But with any choreography, I’d be tripping over my own feet. An entire chorus line moving to the left, me stumbling to the right. I tortured myself by taking a musical theater class while studying at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in California. The unfortunate professor had to improvise a change in the class recital piece to accommodate my lack of abilities. She placed a chair in the middle of the other six women who synchronistically danced around me, I sat, looking like a boss, crossing and uncrossing my legs. The musical, Chicago, was never compromised so badly. I consoled myself with the fact that I couldn’t be fabulous at everything. I had plenty of other skills to go along with my 142 IQ.

Being a genius was a form of torture in itself. I lacked patience for stupidity, I felt sorry for people who didn’t get it. I tried to explain things to others but their lack of grasping the obvious wasn’t the same as mine. In time, I’d learn that some of my knowledge came from a different source than books. It came from instinct. I knew things but had no notion of where, or how, I had gained the knowledge. Some information came to me in dreams. Since I can remember, my dreams have been extremely vivid. I used to think they were just fantasy, or imagined attractions for entertainment while I slept, but after a few instances, I detected they were prophetic or held ominous warnings.

At first, my friends and family ridiculed or teased me about my psychic abilities. Then with each confirmation of declaration or truths, they adopted an attitude of either awe or fear. The worst was when I started to get intense and sudden stomach aches. I call them the death warnings. The first one happened with my cat. My partner, Mark and I played 18 holes on the last day of our vacation. We had planned a nice dinner afterwards followed by a new release at the cinema. We reached the pub, placed our meal order, and confirmed that we had plenty of time before the start of the film. I’d been perfectly fine all day but unexpectedly doubled over with intense pains in my abdomen. I told Mark I needed to go home straight away. He flagged over the waitress who had only a moment before taken our order. He begged her to cancel. She looked at me suspiciously, but when she saw the color of my face, a ghastly pale, with beads of sweat appearing at my hairline, she agreed to withdraw the ticket from the kitchen.

When we reached home, I staggered into the bedroom and curled up in a ball on the bed. I was in agony. It had struck me so suddenly. Mark asked if I needed to go to the hospital. Was it my appendix? I don’t know, just let me lie here and see what happens. He went outside to unload our camping gear from the truck. We had returned that morning from a week-long holiday but had decided to spend the last day of our golf vacation by playing a round on local turf, followed by dinner and a movie. It was a fabulous grand finale cut short by the onset of excruciating pain.

The intensity lessened almost as quickly as it had appeared. I was feeling a bit of relief. Mark reappeared in the doorway. “I don’t know what to do.”

I rolled over to face him, “It’s alright. I feel a lot better now.” I patted my stomach. “I have no idea what happened but that was pure hell.”

He stepped towards me, “No, not you, the cat. Cosmos is lying in the driveway. He’s been bitten by a dog or hit by a car or something. His guts are hanging out.”

I sat up to see that he was serious. “You know I can’t deal with that. You need to take him to the vet and have him put down. I can’t do it. Please don’t let them talk you into anything else. We can’t afford it.” I couldn’t even go outside to look at Cosmos. I was hypersensitive to others’ pain. I would crumble at the vet and beg that they save our cat, no matter the expense. Mark knew me well, he backed out of the room without argument.

Cosmos, my beloved kitty, half Siamese-half Tabby, held important status in our home. The vet negotiated a deal. If the cat survived the night he would operate. He promised Mark he’d repair the damage but only charge the fee we could afford for euthanasia. That cat lived another 9 years. It was the first known occurrence of my psychic pain, but many such episodes followed. It took time to connect the stomach ache to impending death, but when we did, I was terrified by it. I had no control over the sensation, and there was nothing I could do to prevent any deaths. There was no mistaking it, the pain was swift and extreme and ended just a mysteriously.

With time we called it the death stomach ache. It would arrive suddenly and intensely. Then leave just as abruptly after an hour or 2. It was always followed by a call from a loved one, telling us that someone had passed away. The pattern repeated itself enough times to verify its accuracy. After several, fear consumed episodes, I consulted a Buddhist monk who explained what was happening. He said that when someone was facing death and they were afraid to let go, I was receiving their pain. The best thing for me to do was focus on helping them to let go. Most of the time I didn’t even know who it was about. According to the Monk, I was strongly connected to the pathway between this life and the next. Whatever that meant wasn’t very comforting.

The sole instance where I was certain who the premonition foreshadowed, was with my Uncle Mike. I knew he was at the end of a long battle with cancer. I was living in Dubai and out with a friend, playing pool, in the Jebel Ali Free-zone where you could drink beer. We were in the middle of a game when the pain hit. I told Hassan he had to take me home immediately. He was stunned. One moment I was running the table, sinking balls left and right, the next hunched over and staggering. I sent love and peace to my uncle as we drove the short distance back to my apartment. Hassan was scared. I had explained what was happening, telling him distinctly that it was my uncle. By the time we arrived home, I was much better. I invited him in for tea. We sat sipping from glasses as I explained my history. He said it was a curse. I used to think that as well. People would die and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. But then I realized that I could bring comfort and peace to them. By shifting my thoughts in that direction, it was more of a gift.

My laptop was on the coffee table so I opened it to check my email. I refreshed the page and new messages popped in. The last one to present itself was from my cousin Maureen. Uncle Mike’s eldest daughter. I clicked it open and received the news. What time did we leave the bar? I conferred with Hassan then read him the message. Maureen was writing to tell me that her dad had passed away at 8:30 am. We were 12 hours ahead in Dubai. My pains started just before 8 pm. Right around the time my uncle was passing away. Hassan was stunned. He finished his tea and left. That’s not an uncommon response. Stuff like that freaks people out.

I’ve been in public places where total strangers could sense my power. It would happen anywhere, anytime, and by people who seemed either completely normal or demonically possessed. I was working on a music video and the director and I had taken a break to get coffee for the crew. I was at the back of the shop getting the hot coffees and Bill was at the front getting iced ones. I had his charge card and called out to confirm how many drinks he had so I could pay for everything. A woman was directly in my eye-line as we confirmed he had 6 cold ones; I had 5 hot ones. I paid the bill, then carried my to-go tray to join him beside the cream and sugar station. The woman approached and asked me directly, “Are you a witch?” Bill laughed, “Yeah, she’s a witch.”

The patron clutched at a cross hanging around her neck, “Do you do good magic or bad?” Bill cut in before I could blow her off, “She does all kinds.” He winked at her. I’m sure he thought it was a joke, or the lady was crazy, or on drugs or something, but I was all too familiar with this sort of interaction. That woman felt power coming from me and she was afraid. I, on the contrary, stood calmly as she proceeded to conduct an impromptu exorcism. She waved her arms around and called on the power of Jesus, Mary, and the holy spirit to cleanse my soul and banish the evil powers. The other customers in the coffee shop watched with disbelief as she attempted to banish the unknown entity that she feared so fiercely. When she finished, Bill asked, “Are you done?” She walked away calling over her shoulder, “Yes, praise God.” Bill shouted after her, “Thank you!”

I can see the humor now, but at that moment I also had to deal with a traumatized director. Bill and I got into his car to return to the production meeting and he was shaking so badly he couldn’t get the key into the ignition. “What the hell just happened?” I told him to forget about it and said that the woman was clearly insane. He couldn’t believe I had taken it so calmly. As I mentioned, these types of interactions were common for me.

Years ago, I accompanied a friend to a seance. The medium kept inviting us back. He said we didn’t have to pay. He always wanted me to sit beside him as we joined hands to summon spirits from beyond. I wasn’t comfortable with those sorts of things. I’d seen what happened when a 13-year-old girl played with a Ouija board. Do you remember the film, The Exorcist? Later I learned, that the medium was using me as a conduit.

I’ve accepted my oddities as the years have passed. It doesn’t phase me any longer if a stranger asks me crazy questions or makes a comment about the depth of color in my eyes. I’ve become accepting of my traits. Sometimes they are a gift, sometimes a curse. What I have learned is to not allow them to define me. I’m the black sheep in my family, the odd man out, so to speak. If I didn’t look so much like my mother I would wonder if I had been adopted. But maybe I was created for something special. Perhaps I was meant to be a leader or a savior of sorts. I would never use my power for nefarious purpose. There are enough horrors in this world. I can spread love and peace and perhaps heal some broken souls.

I didn’t ask to be different, but I am, unequivocally, so I’ll make the best of it.