Specters and Human Angels

Sometimes when Howard slept, I could sense that much of his essential nature—his soul, if you will—slipped out of him and stayed out until he awoke again. One evening, the sense of it was so powerful, I felt he was already gone, already dead, even as he lay sleeping in the next room.

Late in November, I awoke in the middle of the night and sensed that the entire upper level of the house, the bedroom level, was filled with spirits. I could identify some: my council of guides, my mother, what I sensed were his guides and some of his ancestors. Others I could not identify. These specters returned, again and again, over the coming weeks. When I first sensed my father, I was surprised. While my mother had adored Howard (and he her), my father had died long before Howard and I met. They hadn’t known one another. Then I realized the sense to it. Like Howard, my father had been in the military. Like Howard, he had been an intellectual and a writer. Like Howard, he’d enjoyed chess. Of course he was there. They were going to be great friends on the other side. I was eventually able to discern what I thought were Howard’s parents and his cousin Jack among the ghostly visitors. It was comforting, and it was also telling. I knew that they were all there to help him with the process of leaving his body.

I was happy to take comfort in whatever form it came. After years of bucking up, I cried every day, multiple times a day. I mostly kept it from Howard, but not always. He didn’t question it. He knew his time was short. Some nights, I crept into bed with him, put my arms around him, and just lay with him. Sometimes we talked; other times we just soaked up one another’s presence. And sometimes we wept together. Those were sweet times, those nights. There was a deeper level of intimacy than we’d had in years—maybe a deeper level of intimacy than we’d ever had. It wasn’t about words and it wasn’t even really about physical proximity. It was about the partnership, the unstated contract between us to be partners during this pilgrimage to his death. The unstated understanding that we were what we had been saying for years: best friends. And best friends sometimes just witnessed one another’s lives. I was his witness.

He slept most of the day every day. He could no longer get up and down the few stairs from the bedroom level to the living level without a struggle. He only struggled to do so once or twice a day, mostly to get to the kitchen. I was happy to bring food to him, but he needed to demonstrate to himself that he could still make the stairs. He made one effort to sit in the living room, then asked for a chair in the bedroom. Antonio helped me move a comfortable one from the journey room (the room in which I did shamanic work with people) in the lowest level of the house up to his room. He used it only a few times, but just having it there made him happy.

Everything was beginning to make me nostalgic. I turned on the television to find an episode of Globe Trekker on Fiji. We had been married in Fiji. Another day, the movie When Harry Met Sally was on. I smiled and cried because it was one of many movies he liked a good deal. And while Howard often referred to the house as my house—an accusation more than anything else that I’d arranged it according to my own tastes and needs—everywhere I looked in it, I was reminded of Howard and our life together. It was as if he were already gone. And in some ways, he was. He was slipping further away from me every day.

Yet, a few days after Thanksgiving, he asked if we were going to see the new Harry Potter movie. He had almost died days earlier and he was completely unable to get down the series of stairs that led outside. Still, he seemed to have told himself that he could do this. When I finally got ready to return the borrowed oxygen tank to the cancer center, he said, “I’d like to go with you.” Again, it was a physical impossibility for him. Did he sense that he would never again see the nurses and doctors who had been so kind to him? Perhaps, though it did not occur to me at the time. What did occur to me was that he was becoming farther and farther removed, mentally, from his physical reality. Getting to the bathroom was a major undertaking. Leaving the house? No chance.

Finally, in the last days of November, he agreed to hospice. But even here, he insisted on doing it his way. He slept until he had just enough time to get himself up and together before they came to the house to meet with us. He dragged himself to the shower, dressed, and struggled his way downstairs to the dining room because he did not want them to see him as an invalid. He did not want hospice to see him as an invalid.

The meeting was a negotiation. The hospice staff quickly determined what he was made of and that he would need more than their respect, he would need their agreement to participate in the hallucination that he was not the dying man they saw before them. They stepped up. They’d done this before. He had feared that bringing in hospice meant he would no longer have access to blood transfusions. I knew that he’d already had the last one he would need in this life, but it was an important consideration in his mind. They assured him that it was not beyond the realm of possibilities and that it could, in fact, be done at home.

At one point, during the discussion with hospice, he said, “Maybe I’ll just disappear . . . leave the house, drive away, and not come back.” It was a threat. He wanted them to know that he was still in charge. He wanted them to know he’d already had enough of his body betraying him, before signing on with them, and he didn’t want nonsense from them (or me).

Of course, he would have needed me and a couple of strong men to get him downstairs, outside, and into his truck by this point. Still, I had no doubt he could still drive if he could be helped to his truck. Where would he drive to? No question about that. He would be off on another adventure. Maybe the trip to Alaska he’d been sorry to have never made. No Thelma and Louise action from him. Never.

Unbeknownst to him, hospice and the nightly cadre of spirits were preparing him for his next adventure. No escaping to have an adventure on his own. Not this time.

Copyright 2011 by Melanie Mulhall

Advertisements

Tags: , , , ,

6 Responses to “Specters and Human Angels”

  1. Kathy Kaiser Says:

    Wonderful observations, Melanie. Thank you for illuminating this tender and sad time of Howard’s and your life and for opening the door on a process that too often we don’t want to talk about.

    Like

    • Melanie Mulhall Says:

      Kathy,

      Thank you for commenting. I’m a writer, so writing about this time just seems natural to me. I journaled a bit during those days, and that has helped me write about it later. It helped me then, too.

      Melanie Mulhall

      Like

  2. Barbara Snow Says:

    Melanie, as one shaman to another, I thank you for sharing *all* your perceptions and the gifts they bring.

    Like

  3. Gail Storey Says:

    This is wild. I’m glad you had a sensitive hospice team, and although they’re used to all kinds of people, I’m guessing they never met anyone quite like Howard! ;-D

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: