Soul View
by Jeff Inlo
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Jeff Inlo
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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120120516
By Jeff Inlo
Fantasy:
Delver Magic Book I – Sanctum’s Breach
Delver Magic Book II – Throne of Vengeance
Delver Magic Book III – Balance of Fate
Delver Magic Book IV – Nightmare's Shadow
Delver Magic Book V – Chain of Bargains
Spiritual Thriller:
Soul View
Soul Chase
When Do I See God? (by Jeff Ianniello)
Science Fiction:
Alien Cradle
Humor:
Counterproductive Man
To Joan, your soul is brighter than any star,
and to Lucky, for being in charge!
Chapter 1
Most everyone knows life isn’t always comforting. Life can be hard and sometimes events occur to accentuate that very point. When that happens, we end up in places we’d just as well not be. Emergency rooms and intensive care units in hospitals come quickly to mind.
To be fair, medical centers were never really designed to be welcoming destinations for vacationers, tourists, party seekers, and day travelers. They don’t have to be. Let’s face it; folks don’t seek out hospitals for the food, drink, and entertainment, although some do end up in one after a long night of such frolicking. People go to a medical facility because they are running low on alternatives, or they are brought there because they are in no condition to move on their own. If they could, they probably would start running in the opposite direction the moment they sensed that antiseptic smell.
As distressing as these facilities can be, hospitals are usually always busy. Not everyone runs away, even those that are capable of doing so. Most incoming patients and their family members do not savor the need to be present, but there are others that walk the halls of health providers and remain there by choice. They stand readily available to assist, not out of need, but out of some desire to help. They are incredibly caring individuals that choose to offer their services, and many do so on a volunteer basis.
I give these people monumental credit. They choose to serve in a place where broken bones, illness, blood and vomit are commonplace. If it were me, I’d much rather help out at a candy store or an ice cream parlor. I like it when sugar is commonplace. The volunteers I see, however, don’t need such sweet incentive. These people are not even being compensated in money, let alone sweet, decadent treasures.
The reason I see these people is because I also spend a great deal of my free time volunteering for a hospital in one of the busier sections of Philadelphia. I do so under the guise of offering assistance to others. In truth, however, I’m there for my own selfish reasons, though no one else knows that. The hospital staff, supervisors and administrators think I’m one of the noble volunteers. They think I’ve chosen to help those in need out of the goodness of my heart.
I won’t sell myself completely short. I do help, even though that’s not my true incentive. That’s why they allow me the latitude I’ve been given. I’m a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist, or MFT for short, and I initially offered to help out as a grief counselor.
In the beginning, I waited in visiting areas and back offices, and I allowed the nurses and doctors to guide people to me. Eventually after proving I could truly provide support, I became bolder in where I would wait. I stood in the ER administrative and triage areas, chatting with doctors, nurses, and emergency medical technicians.
Ultimately, however, I wanted more than this. I wanted free and complete access to the entire ER including treatment rooms, and my focus did not end there. I also wanted the ability to journey about freely in the intensive and critical care units. I can’t see what I am there to see from the waiting room, from an office stashed away in a corner, or from behind some curtain. I need to be closer, closer to those that are about to die.
At first, I heard my request to roam about the facility was met with resistance by supervisors and eventually by the hospital board—the group of doctors and administrators that make all the decisions about how millions of dollars get spent and that get to sit wherever they want at the annual fund raising dinner. They did not think it appropriate for a grief counselor to be stalking about as if waiting to pounce. I guess they believed I might have aspired to be some kind of grim reaper.
In truth, I could see their point. A person that makes a request to walk about any facility in order to be physically present when a patient dies sounds more like a ghoul than a counselor. I tried to defend my appeal by stating the act of simply being near gave me greater empathy towards those I intended to help. My presence at the end removed the sense of detachment and it allowed me to better understand the grief of those that just lost a loved one. The people that suffered the loss would also be more willing to talk with me if they knew I had witnessed the actual passing. It gave them a connection to me. It sounded good on paper, but I didn’t have much faith in a positive answer.
Still, a young doctor that has become one of my few close friends went to bat for me. His name is Dr. Paul Paxim. He’s a young fellow that appreciates my ability to talk with some knowledge on most sports topics. It doesn’t take much to do this, just a good memory and a daily perusal of the sports page. I assume he liked having me around the emergency room and wanted to make sure I didn’t leave because I might be insulted by the board’s decision.
When they took up my request, he met with them to explain that I never get in the way, that I never pounce on anyone, and that I am extremely respectful of the circumstances around me. He insisted I was about as obtrusive as a bedpan waiting on a shelf. No one really pays too much attention to it, but it comes in real handy when it’s needed. He insists he actually said that at a meeting, and I have no reason to doubt him.
I was given the go ahead to move about the hospital at will with the understanding that if there was one complaint from a patient, from a patient’s family member, or even from one of the staff, this privilege would be revoked. If no such complaints surfaced, I could go anywhere I wanted.
The first few times I took full advantage of this opportunity, I had to fight back severe doubts regarding my decision. It’s not easy to look at the dying up close and personal, especially those that were dying from some extreme trauma.
As I previously implied, an emergency room can be a very disturbing place and I’m not here to hold hands with the guy that has a bad back or the lady with an upset stomach. The people I’m looking for in particular are usually wheeled inside covered in crimson soaked bandages with plastic tubes sticking out of their bodies. They can’t raise their heads to look at you, and at times their faces are so swollen and bloodied that they wouldn’t be able to see you even if they could.
Roaming about the intensive and critical care units is not much better. These are the people balanced between the border of life and death. They are fighting illnesses and diseases that can kill you as quickly as an oncoming truck, but don’t always give you as much warning. People fight bravely, but many end up looking weak and frail. It’s often difficult to look them in the face and find comforting words when you really know what they are up against.
It’s hard enough to watch these injured and sick people from a distance. When you are close enough to really get a good look at nearly every wound, at each expression of hurt and fatigue, it’s downright painful—probably more so for me as most of these sufferers are unconscious or on some serious pain medication.
As bad as the patients appear, there is an underlying scene that has become apparent to me which is even more difficult to watch. After spending time with the hospital staff and the EMTs during less stressful moments, brief however they might be, I gained a greater insight toward their inner sentiments. It’s not all that surprising. I spent years training to be a therapist so I’ve learned to watch for clues that reveal such things. When a badly injured victim is brought into the ER, I can begin to sense the personal prognosis of the staff almost immediately.
Emergency personnel, as well as nurses and doctors, often wear a near constant mask of fatigue. They smile through it and move without hesitancy, but it is there to serve as a shield. It is difficult for patients to judge an expression when it simply appears tired. I, however, have learned to look past this mask, and I can see the expectations in their unseen expressions. I can pretty much tell which patient doesn’t have a chance just by looking into the faces of the EMTs before I even take a glimpse at the body they are wheeling through the electronic doors.
Then, I watch the nurses, and I see the same glint of sorrow that is etched ever so slightly across their brow. It is their own understanding that it’s too late even before the doctor is called over.
As the doctors move in, they each in turn listen to reports of vital signs knowing full well they are hearing the recipe for death. It is difficult for me to watch people that are dedicated to save lives face a situation that is beyond hopeless.
Still, they all shift into a gear of desperate action, always believing that one particular patient might just have the will to beat the odds and hold on. Their job is to make sure they give every possible chance for the injured or sick to find something to grab onto. No one wants the patient to die, except maybe for me.
Well, that’s not really fair to say. I don’t want anyone to suffer loss, to go through tragedy, but it’s not as simple for me, because I’m actually looking past the blood, the sickness, the broken bones, as well as the tubes and machines that keep people alive by a meager thread. I try not to see the horror of some terrible accident or the heartbreak of some dreadful disease. For me, I watch for something different because for some reason I see something others can’t.
When I look deep into someone, I start to see a glimmer of light. It quickly takes the shape of a human body, but one with no real distinctive features. There’s no distinguishable face—nothing like a pair of glistening eyes, a charismatic smile, or a pronounced nose. In fact, there’s very little to substantiate the form beyond the border edge of this shadowy figure. For certain, there are arms and legs. I think there are also fingers and toes at the end of each limb, but the shape gets rather fuzzy around the edges so I really can’t say with certainty about that. The form is like a glowing shadow of a person that resides within the body as opposed to outside on the floor or against some wall. I am certain that what I’m seeing is a person’s soul. I will explain why in a moment.
In my experience, souls come in all different colors. I’m not sure what that means, but they cover the full spectrum of the rainbow along with white, black, brown and gray.
One time I spoke with a psychic that professed she could see auras. I never revealed my own gift to this woman. I just explained that I was interested in her ability. Apparently, this is quite common for her, and as she saw my interest was genuine, she did not hesitate in her explanation.
Anyway, she told me she sees different colors surrounding people. She tried to explain to me that certain colors meant certain things. The hues often change depending on the person’s mood, their health, or on the circumstances the person is currently facing.
That may be, as I never watch one soul long enough to see if the color alters over time. Under normal circumstances, I have to focus to see this ethereal figure, and although every now and then I will see a soul without concentrating, that is usually rare. For the most part, if I don’t actually try to look, then I’ll see what everyone else sees. For those occasions that I willingly focus on seeing this inner spirit, I only watch for a short time, but it’s usually a very important time—death is an important time for a soul, and once it occurs I usually no longer have to concentrate to see the spirit.
I don’t get too caught up in the colors, but what I notice most of all is the magnitude of the light and the size of the form. I have fashioned the belief that a happy, healthy soul is large and bright. It fills the room with brilliance just as it fills the body it occupies. A sad, weak soul is small and dim. It appears almost lost in the cavern of the body and barely defies the bleak florescent light that filters down from the fixtures in the ceiling.
In an emergency room, death is ready to happen at almost any time—night or day, weekend or weekday, summer or winter, rainy day or snowy night—you get the idea. It doesn’t happen regularly, but it does happen. It also happens quite often in intensive and critical care units. That’s why I wanted unregulated access throughout the hospital. I want to be there when a person’s time comes.
It is when I see a bright, large soul in a very broken body that I begin to hope the end is quick. As I said, I don’t like to see anyone suffer through loss, but I can see what happens for that soul at the end, and I know what they’re about to enter is so much better than what they are currently facing here.
I retain vivid memories of what I have seen and the beauty of my special gift washes away the otherwise disheartening aspects of my encounters. I try not focus on the tragedy of death, but rather the hidden truth of what death really is.
While I remember several particular instances, there is one that always comes quickly to mind when I wish to recall the grandeur of what I have witnessed. It was a middle-aged man in a car accident. He was brought in alone. His vehicle was struck at the driver’s side door by someone that ran a red light. He wore a seat belt, but that just served to keep him alive long enough to get him to the hospital.
When they wheeled him in, I didn’t even have to look at the body to know there was little hope. As I said, I’ve learned to read the expressions of the EMTs as well as the hospital staff. They wouldn’t say it, but they were baffled that there was still a pulse.
As for looking at the soul, that didn’t take much effort, either. I think the soul becomes more apparent to me when it knows its time is near. This soul burned as bright as a bon fire on a clear October night. The bright shadowy essence was also very large. Here was a man that had a very strong and happy soul, and it was about to be set free.
I always stand in a far corner. I don’t always have a direct view of the patient, as so many medical personnel surround the body, but I always make sure I am not separated from the area by a wall or a curtain. When things get very frantic at the very end, when the heart stops and the monitors go into a flat steady pitch, my focus rises just above the body. Here is where the glory begins.
This particular man died about five minutes after they brought him into the treatment room. His large, beautifully bright soul leapt into the air very much like a small child leaps into her long absent father’s arms. Once the soul is free of its host body, my view is unspoiled, and spectacular doesn’t go about explaining what I can see.
Like other souls, this one hovered in the air above the now lifeless body it once called home, appearing to look down at the hectic activity. I’ve always viewed it as a last goodbye, and it never takes very long.
I’ve never seen a soul pulled back into the body once it has left. I’m not saying that doesn’t happen. I really don’t know for sure. I’ve just never seen it. I’ve also never seen Neptune, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
Anyway, now free from the body and floating in midair, the man’s soul glowed with unequaled brightness. I’ve never seen a nuclear explosion, and God help us, I hope I never do. I’ve read that if you look into the blast, it is so bright it will melt your eyes. I can’t possibly believe it is brighter than what I saw here, and yet, my eyes did not melt, they simply filled with tears.
What happened next didn’t take long—it never does—perhaps only a few seconds. All of the space around the floating form filled with light and color as if a thousand fireworks exploded in one exact instant and the pulsating flashes were frozen in time by some incalculable force of will.
Now the truth of the matter is that I can’t hear anything when this happens, not a sound. The entire spectacle is completely visual and apparently for my eyes only. No one else notices this grand display, which at times blows my mind. There are no scents or tastes in the air. As for feeling, well my body always bursts with a tingling sensation I can’t describe, but I’m sure this feeling comes from the joyous wonder inside of me.
As I said, I never hear anything, but trying to explain this event in terms of what I see really doesn’t come close to doing it justice. A painting, a photograph, even a motion picture—no matter how dazzling in light and color—always seems limited to me. Your eyes focus on a single rectangular space. Even if I try to describe something grander in scale like a mountain scene with a rainbow, lightning, and the pyrotechnics of the latest rock and roll concert, it still doesn’t seem to capture what it is I witness. What I see is much more encompassing, and that’s why I like to compare it more to music than to a visual image.
Music always seems to fill an entire space, it covers all angles and with a wide array of force and measure. It contains different emotions all at the same time. There are so many different instruments that can make so many different sounds. When put together with a genius mind and a single purpose, hundreds of different sounds can be brought in concert to make perfect harmony.
With that in mind, imagine that what I see is like a wave of music from a stadium filled to capacity with choirs and symphonic orchestras. There are church bells in every corner and drums encircling the rooftop. Instruments and voices are brought together with a single focus, and they join simultaneously to play and sing a song written by a team of the most talented writers ever assembled. The arrangement is so hypnotic and so elaborate that it is a wonder that any one instrument or any one voice can be heard above the rest, and yet it seems almost possible to define each and every one.
Now imagine being in the center of that arena and what it would be like to have all of that beautiful music focused directly at you. If you can conceive of what this might sound like, take that sensation and turn it into a display of light and color. If you can envision this, then you might picture a fraction of what I see at that moment. This is why I believe what I see is a soul because I believe when this occurs, I am looking into the entrance of heaven, and this is beyond anything I can possibly describe.
Encompassing the entire ceiling of the treatment room, a magnificent aurora encircled the shadowy, floating form. The man’s soul began to swirl and shimmer just as the other colors and lights matched his movements. The beauty of this moment was just as glorious as I tried to previously describe and I almost lost my breath. Within an instant, the lights and colors and this one man’s spirit meshed together into one glorious wave of exuberance, and then they all disappeared together.
I heard the doctor on-call announce the time of death a moment later.
Chapter 2
My name is Dr. James Sagacity, but I want people to just call me Jim. I earned a graduate degree in psychology and went on to a doctoral program in Marriage and Family Therapy. It's this training that opened up the door for me to become a volunteer grief counselor. The fact that I am a doctor probably also assisted in my request for unfettered access throughout the hospital.
Had I aspired to be something else in life, such as an IRS auditor, I doubt the board would have been as willing to let me go probing around. Then again, they might have been too petrified to deny my request. Now that I think about it, an IRS auditor not only would have been granted complete access, but might have been given a golf cart to get around that much faster. Scooting around in such a vehicle, I could have played bumper cars in the hallways with the patients in wheel chairs. IRS auditors can get away with such things. Now I’ll have to reassess my career choice.
Despite the lack of a golf cart, I still have been able to get around the hospital with great efficiency. While not prying into patients’ medical histories, I have asked the staff to inform me of situations where my counseling services might be needed. Thus, they advise me in advance of those individuals in critical and intensive care units that are facing difficult times, especially those with Do Not Resuscitate (DNR) orders and those patients with such illnesses so advanced that treatment beyond hospice is no longer an option. I do my best to be available when the time comes for these individuals.
In the ER, it’s never as clear cut. They have to deal with what comes through the door, and no one can predict that. I have often left the ER certain that it would be a quiet night only to be called back moments later. ERs just don’t work on an appointment basis.
On many of my volunteer shifts, I don't get the opportunity to see what I’m there to see. Not everyone that is brought in suffering from a heart attack or a stroke dies right in front of me. Many, most in fact, recover. Others are not so lucky, but they often pass over to the other side before they even reach the facility. Sometimes I miss the event because I’m just at the wrong place at the wrong time. I know that sounds horrid, but please remember why I’m there. I’m just not at the facility 24 hours a day. I have my own paying patients I must see at my office. I also have to eat and sleep, thus I’m not always lurking about the medical center corridors waiting to seize upon every dying patient.
With all of these constraints and obstacles, it’s truly a wonder I ever get the opportunity to be present at the actual time of passing. Achieving this objective makes those marvelous spectacles even more rewarding when I am right there able to witness a transition up close. I wish I could watch them all, but time and space are not physical restrictions I have discovered how to overcome.
In any event, I have learned to cherish the moments I am at the right place at the right time. There are, of course, considerations I must keep in the forefront of my mind during these episodes lest I make a very bad impression. As much as these scenes are uplifting events for me, I always have to remind myself where I am.
For everyone else in a room where I’ve just witnessed something spectacular, there is no wealth of joy, no epic celebration. There is nothing here but death. I am the only one that can see the awe-inspiring event of a soul’s departure into another realm of existence. The family members and staff do not share my gift, and thus they only see the end of life.
With that understanding, I realize I can’t share what I’ve just experienced. I can’t go around yelling “Hallelujah!” or explaining that the person is so much better off I can’t even attempt to describe the lights and colors I’ve witnessed. If I started talking like that, you can bet my privileges would be revoked before the next patient was wheeled through the ER doors.
Unfortunately, it is not so simple to remain dour faced or even detached in a corner as the dejected staff move on with greater optimism to another patient in the next battle against that very grim reaper. The difficulty for me lies in the simple fact that I just witnessed the spirit of an individual leave for some place extraordinary. It’s not something I can easily just bury inside.
There are things you can witness that you can keep to yourself—quiet, serene moments that become special memories just for you. You don’t have to speak of them if you don’t want to and no one will really notice. There’s no inner need to share them, no sense that if you don’t speak of them you will just burst. These can be wonderfully fulfilling moments that become etched into your spirit and you remember them until your own passing, but they are moments for you and you alone.
What I see is not like that at all. I’m bursting with elation because I don’t see death. I see that death is a lie. I don't observe the end for some poor person, I witness the beginning. That’s not something you just bury inside with a wave of the hand.
It’s kind of like the moment a couple trying to have a baby realizes that they’re about to move forward with success. I wouldn’t expect them to simply shrug their shoulders and go about folding the laundry or cleaning up after dinner like nothing ever happened. They would want to tell people, they want to share their joy.
Of course, sharing the news that someone is pregnant is very different than explaining what I see. No one is going to call you a nut for announcing a baby is due.
Well, actually that’s not really true. I think a lot of people are nuts for having kids, but that’s because I’ve had the joy of counseling teenagers. I know that a little bundle of joy is going to grow into a big mess of a terror, but that’s for the parents to find out on their own and well after there’s anything they can do about it. You can’t even sell teenagers, no one in their right mind would buy one. You can only wait until they’re old enough to send to college and then spend an obscene amount of money to get them out of the house.
Be that as it may, announcing a pregnancy is certainly within the realm of reason. Announcing that I just saw a soul enter heaven is sufficient reason for a competency hearing.
Another problem that forces me to hold my tongue has to do with my immediate circumstances. I am in the emergency room of a hospital or some critical care unit with family members gathered around a loved one. There might be blood everywhere and a corpse on the table, or an empty withered husk of a cancer patient with tubes sticking out of every visible portion of the body. Someone has just died, and in some cases very suddenly and very traumatically.
There are people around that tried valiantly to prevent that conclusion. They fought to deny the passing of life in a pitched and sometimes exhausting battle. These people all feel defeated, not victorious. I simply can’t be wearing an expression that reveals unbridled joy. Remember, I’m the grief counselor. Put the two together. It doesn’t work.
In order to bury my inner emotions, I have learned to wear that same exhausted expression many of the other hospital staff utilize to hide their own emotions. When the transition is complete and the soul and the swirling colors have evaporated into some distant dimension, I usually bow my head so no one can see my face. I appear as if I’m collecting myself from this tragedy and preparing my thoughts in case I am needed to counsel any relatives.
A couple of times nurses have come up to me and asked if I was alright or if I needed something. I simply mumbled that I was fine and thanked them. Eventually everyone has become used to my silent, stoic presence, so they leave me be.
The next difficulty I face is actually doing what I’m supposed to be doing. I have to go from witnessing a soul transcending the physical bounds of life to counseling a grieving family member. The unfortunate part is the timing of the two. I wish the process was reversed. It’s like getting the good news first and then the bad. It’s really not unusual; much of life is like that. You eat dinner, and then pay the check. You enjoy a night out with friends, and then face the hangover. Still, I would prefer it the other way around, but it’s the price of my admission so I accept it.
Not everyone utilizes my services—I would say less than half of those affected by a death in the hospital end up talking to me. Most that do, thank me for being there and this has reinforced my position that it is indeed helpful that I am present at the end. As for how the counseling goes, that usually depends on the circumstances.
There are a few times I’ve been yelled and screamed at. I’ve been told it’s not fair, and I always agree. Life isn’t fair when you look at it from their point of view. I can’t argue that. I see anger, I see unbridled sadness, I see despair.
I do what I can to help and I always rely on my training as a grief counselor. I don’t try to tell them what they’re feeling, but I do try to let them know that whatever it is, it is normal. I listen and I allow them to dictate the flow of any conversation. I always stay very focused on the blueprints of grief counseling.
The truth of the matter, however, is that I don’t want to stick to my training. I want to throw those blueprints and all the checklists right out the window.
From my own special experience, I have the ability to share with them some greater insight. The desire to reveal the truth is overwhelming, and I can’t tell you how much I really, really want to tell them exactly I’ve seen. I want to give these people, especially those that are suffering through enormous misery, a sense of hope. Yes, they have lost a loved one, but not lost forever, not by a long shot. And even though I know I can’t put into words the beauty of the transition, I want to give it a try.
This, of course, would be going well off the normal guidelines for grief counseling. I mean, it’s not even close. We are talking opposite ends of the earth here. I just don’t remember anything in the text books or manuals indicating ‘if you see the deceased’s soul enter the great beyond, make sure you advise the next of kin.’
Despite my desire, the truth of the matter is I have never once intentionally revealed what I saw to a relative. Beyond the fact that I know it will get my butt kicked right out of the hospital, I’m also afraid that I’ll convince too many to join their loved ones right then and there. Someone that just lost a spouse, a parent, a grandparent, or God forbid a child, is going to be riding an emotional roller coaster as it is. If I start throwing that bone into the soup, I’m just asking for trouble. I realize that if I start describing a transition of unfathomable beauty to someone in that kind of mental state, there’s going to be an overwhelming urge within those that are suffering to determine if I’m telling the truth. Actually, that fear did in fact come to pass... just once, but I really try not to blame myself.
After a man had a massive heart attack and died in the ER, I went to counsel his wife. I spoke with her a bit like I usually do, but only after a few sentences, she stopped being angry and sad. She peered deep into my eyes as if she could see into the dead center of my own thoughts.
“You saw something here, didn’t you?” the new widow asked me in a tone that didn’t sound accusing, but it defied me to lie with every fiber of her being. “You saw where he went? You saw it and it’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Now, I’m not sure, but I’ve always wondered how she was able to know this. She didn’t waste a lot of time and got right to the point of my thoughts. Maybe she could read my mind. Heck, if I can see souls, why not?
She actually smiled at that moment. The husband she cherished was dead not more than 10 minutes and she smiled as if the world was new and free of pain, as when it was first created.
“You won’t tell me what you saw,” she said through that smile “but that’s ok. I can still tell. Thank you.”
She left me without another word and in less than 24 hours she was in that same emergency room as a patient. Her car struck a utility pole at some absurd speed and she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. I wasn’t there when she passed, and that’s probably a good thing.
I’ve had to live with that one for a while, and I’m still not sure how to deal with it. Whenever I want to reveal what I have seen to some despondent, suffering relative, though, I think of that woman. It keeps my mouth shut.
I keep to my training, I remember the guidelines and I help as best I can. The medical center staff always seems very happy for the times I’m there. They’ve even given me a pager in case something happens in the emergency room or a critical care unit while I’m wandering about other wards of the facility. I took that as a great gesture of confidence in me.
Still, it’s not easy to go from the heights of watching heaven open up to the depths of consoling the grief stricken. It takes something out of you to listen to the wailing, to hear the cries and curses. Even when family members take loss with courage I can not comprehend, the feeling of loss eats at my own core. Yes, I experience great exhilaration at the passing of souls, but I also must face the suffocating strain of loss. This accumulates over time, grows like a cancerous tumor that weighs down my own spirit. Luckily, I’ve learned how to deal with this as well, another great benefit of this gift I have.
After too many trying days or nights at the hospital, I always go to a dog park that allows owner’s to set their pets free in a fenced, tree-lined area. I like late Sunday afternoons the best. I can tell you with absolute certainty that people are not the only ones with souls. Any one that tells you differently is the most short-sighted of human beings and is going to be as surprised as the atheists when he or she gets to the other side. I’ve seen the most stunning souls in dogs and horses.
Whenever I need a boost, I go to this nearby park and watch a bunch of happy canines race around like nuts. If you don’t think heaven exists, see what I see when a dog gets to romp around with other dogs with a big stick or a ball in his mouth. I don’t even have to concentrate to see their souls, and they shine here like the sun.
As for horses, I have to go over to some stables and that’s more of a trip for me. Still, it’s worth it. Horses glow with brilliance when they are running through the fields or even when they are rolling around on their backs. Apparently both of these activities make them very happy indeed.
I’ve also seen souls in cats, but these are things I have difficulty describing. While dogs seem to be creatures of joy, cats seem to be much more calculating. I have a feeling they can sense that I'm looking at them differently, and I don't think they like it. I’ve never understood cats, and well, this new revelation didn’t make it any easier for me to figure them out.
Sometimes, however, I need a bit of a pick-me-up and I just can’t leave for the dog park. I’ve always tried to schedule my volunteering time in blocks. There are times a difficult session occurs right when I arrive. Since I’ve pledged to be available a certain amount of time, I can’t simply call it a day when I want. There is, however, a vending machine that sells candy in the waiting area. If I can’t watch dogs running free, at least I can have a chocolate bar.
One day, I witnessed a young woman die of an embolism. Her passing into the next life was indeed glorious. I had to counsel her just-as-young husband immediately afterwards, and he did not take this curve ball into his life well, not that I blame him. This was a difficult meeting and I needed a break. I went to my trusty vending machine to grab a candy bar, and my life changed right then and there. Who knew a lust for chocolate could lead to so many consequences.
Chapter 3
“Dr. Sagacity, did you enjoy the show?” the unannounced stranger asked.
He walked up to me by the candy machine as casually as someone would walk up to a high school buddy he’s known all his life.
“I’m sorry?” I stumbled over these simple words, and they came out garbled and almost indiscernible.
The man understood me none the less.
“Nothing to be sorry about. Listen, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but I’d like to talk to you, and I think we both would be more relaxed with some privacy.”
I looked the man over and immediately realized that as opposed to making people feel uncomfortable he was well equipped to put people at ease. In fact, everything about him was made to make others feel quite comfortable around him. He was handsome but not so striking as to make you feel you were in the presence of a movie star celebrity. He was dressed neatly, but not to appear formal or even picky about what he wore. His clothes seemed as relaxed on his body as the smile that adorned his face. He moved with a simple grace that was neither threatening nor defensive. He appeared like a regular guy, the kind of guy you hoped to have as your next-door neighbor.
Still, his approach caught me off guard and the way he looked at me gave me the impression he knew something about me, something more than just my name or that I was a volunteer grief counselor. Despite the calming nature of his gestures, his appearance, and even the musical tone of his voice, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anxiety.
“Do I know you?” I asked somewhat suspiciously before I agreed to move. “Have we met before?”
“No, never, but I will admit I know about you. My name is Stan Adanais. I’m not a stalker or anything. I just have sort of this gift.” He paused here and gave me a very knowing glance. “I know about people and I know about their gifts as well. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you about yours for a bit.”
At this point, I didn’t know what to do. This man didn’t say anything concrete. ‘Enjoying the show’, as he put it, could have meant anything. The truth of the matter is emergency rooms are made out to be dramatic places. I think they’ve made about nineteen thousand television programs using one as the main theme. I personally liked the one in the 1970’s where the exam rooms were pretty bare. I think the paramedics were the true stars of the show and the focus was on the scene of the accident. Still, they had to get the patient to some place after they removed him from underneath a bulldozer. They couldn’t just drop him off at the curb, so the ER became the logical area to conclude most scenes.
Still, the woman dying of an embolism was really not all that dramatic. She went very quietly. There wasn’t a lot of blood or gore, so I was still rather puzzled as to what this man was referring to, and thus, also a little reluctant to go somewhere private with him. After all, he might have had a grudge against people that liked chocolate.
The gentleman picked up on my hesitancy. If it bothered him in the least, he didn’t show it.
“Listen,” he said, “I know you’re a grief counselor, but I also know that’s not why you’re here right now.” He looked around to see if anyone else was paying attention. He then turned back to me, and with that same very relaxed smile said something that surprised the hell out of me. “You see beyond the pain that happens here—you see deep inside. I think we both know what I’m talking about.”
It was a very clever line. It revealed much, but only to me and no one else. Anyone else listening would have thought that I was simply very good at my job and had great perception, but nothing out of the ordinary.
I nodded my head and decided privacy might not be a bad idea. “If you’d feel more comfortable talking in private, I can accommodate that. I have a small office they let me use around the corner. I think it was a broom closet once, but they cleaned it out and it fits a few chairs.”
I led him out of the visiting area and down a hall to the aforementioned space that I use for counseling. It comes in handy for those that are very distraught and need some privacy.
“Have a seat,” I offered as we moved through the door which I closed behind him.
“Thanks,” he replied as he casually turned and sat down. “I don’t want to make you feel any distress, so let me get right to the point. Your name is Dr. Jim Sagacity. You volunteer here as a grief counselor. You are very helpful to everyone you assist, but that’s not why you are really here. You see things when people die. Actually, you can see the inner essence of people even when they are alive, but you come here to see this essence escape the body.”
I really didn’t know what to say at this point. Maybe I didn’t feel distress, but I sure as heck felt shocked. As far as I was aware, no one else knew about what I could see. I hadn’t told anyone since I was a little kid, and at that time, I didn’t get far with the one person I spoke to about it.
I tried to tell my sister when we were both very young. Right after I announced I saw something inside of people, something that looked like a ghost but I thought it was their souls, I got a look that I can not describe. It wasn’t simply disbelief, it wasn’t simply disgust. It was a combination of the two and a whole lot more. I never got the chance to tell her everything I could see because she put a stop to it very quickly. I was happy she did because once I saw that expression of hers, I really didn’t want to continue.
We never grew up to be close as most other brothers and sisters, never had that type of relationship. I believe that particular moment was the reason for it. For myself, I knew right then I could never share my gift with her. That was tough for me. I had this ability and I suddenly felt it was something I had to keep inside. I didn’t have any other siblings, and I didn’t want to tell my parents. You give them a story like that and you face two options—a visit to the doctor or some severe punishment for making up lies. I passed on those. That left my sister, and after that one attempt, I knew I didn’t even have that.
I’m not sure how she felt about the whole thing. Perhaps, she was equally upset at me. Maybe she thought I was trying to scare her, or make myself sound more special. Whatever she thought, she had no problem in keeping a nice safe buffer in our relationship from that point on. We grew up together more like casual business partners than relatives of any sort.
As time moved on, we grew even further apart. She married a man she met in college and we don’t talk much anymore. The last time I saw her was when my mother died. My father died years earlier and I guess there really wasn’t any reason for us to see much of each other since.
Putting that little family tidbit aside, now I faced a man that knew my secret and I couldn’t guess how that was possible. I doubt my sister suddenly remembered our conversation, filled in the gaps, had me followed to see what I was currently up to, and revealed all of this to some casually dressed, handsome stranger. I like conspiracy theories as much as the next person, but even if you believe in the government hiding dead aliens in the desert, this set of circumstances remains a bit of a stretch.
Still, he seemed to know what I could see. He made that much pretty clear and he didn’t even beat around the bush or waste much time in doing so.
I’m also professionally trained to see things in people and take cues from there behavior. Yes, he was straightforward with me, but he didn’t come off the ‘blunt’ or ‘callous’ kind of guy that just says things because he doesn’t care. He dropped this on me quickly because he wanted it out in the open right away. He did it on purpose. He also noticed my discomfort with the situation and wasted no time in working on that as well.
“Stop worrying about it,” Stan said in a very soothing tone. “I know I have you at a great disadvantage, so let me change that. I also have a gift, just like you. Mine is rather strange, though.”
Strange? I thought to myself. More strange than seeing souls leave a body? I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear any more. Perhaps at that moment, I understood how my sister felt. Instead of cutting him off just as my sister once did to me, however, I let him continue.
“I see other people’s gifts. Well, it’s not like I see it, but I sense it. It’s deeper than sensing. It’s kind of hard to explain. It’s just that I know when people have a special talent.”
I still didn’t know what to say at that moment, as I worried that this might be some kind of complex trick to get me to admit to something I really shouldn’t say. I decided to fall back on my training and simply allow this newcomer to do most of the talking, and I would do so by asking simple, open-ended questions.
“How do you know these things about people?”
“I just do.”
“Can you explain it in a bit more detail? Is it a gut feeling? Do you see things in a dream?”
“It’s basically just an understanding that comes to me. I don’t think I can describe it any better than that.”
“So you study people for a long time, and then make assumptions on what you see?”
“No, I don’t have to watch them for long at all. I just have to take a quick look at them.”
“So you just look at people and basically know they have a gift?”
“That’s pretty much it, but don’t let that make you think you’re not special. Because you are… very special. I can look at a thousand people a day, every day, for a month and not find anyone that has a gift. Then I’ll come across someone like you, someone that I know has a truly great talent.”
“I don’t mean to press you on this,” I stated with what I regarded as an apologetic tone, “but I would like to understand it better. Can you describe what it is you see that makes you think one person has a gift? Do they glow? How do they look different from everyone else?”
“No, they don’t glow, and they don’t look different from everyone else. I don’t see anything like an arrow pointing down at you, or some magical light over your head. All I really have to do is take a good look and the understanding forms in my mind. I guess if you really need something to illustrate it for you, imagine what it’s like when an idea hits you. It doesn’t matter what kind of idea, maybe you’re trying to figure out a problem or wondering what kind of present to get someone for her birthday. All of sudden it comes to you and you know what to do. It’s like that for me. In my mind, I get the undeniable understanding of your gift. Without you or anyone else telling me, I know exactly what it is you can see. You see ghostly forms inside of people, you can sense the strength of the spirit by the brightness and size of what you see, and you come here to watch this essence leave the body at the time of death. You watch spirits leave this plane of existence and enter the afterlife.”
Once more, I was shocked at just how much this man knew. I never got to explain much of what I saw to my sister, so he was spouting information I had never, ever revealed in my life, to anyone. It’s also not information he could have gleaned simply from watching me. He knew the full extent of my gift in a way I could never have imagined possible.
I’m
sure I appeared baffled, wearing an expression of utter confusion as
if I just walked into a room where aliens were analyzing mangoes, and
the large fruits were actually responding verbally to some rather
probing questions. I did my best to force this astonishment from my
thinking, but just like trying to forget talking fruit and aliens, I
doubt I did a very good job.
“And you get this insight just by
looking at people?”
“Just as you do.”
Being a doctor of psychology, I decided to treat this as a more clinical situation. Here was a person explaining that he had insights that extended far beyond the normal abilities of others. Such delusions are not uncommon and there are ways to deal with it. The problem was I knew his claims were not delusional. It would have been easier if he said he saw me talking to aliens that liked to hold conversations with mangoes. I would have been better prepared to deal with that little problem.
“Do you see many people with gifts?”
“No, very few indeed.”
“Do you see anything else within these people besides these gifts?”
“What else is there to see?”
“I’m not sure, there are endless possibilities.” I was hoping he might say he saw Martians, then at least I would know which planet the aliens came from. “So you don’t see anything else out of the ordinary about these people?”
“They’re regular people, just like you. They just have a gift, a special ability.”
“What kind of gifts have you come across?”
“All kinds and some gifts are much stronger than others. Yours is a very strong gift.”
Try as I might to keep the spotlight off of my abilities, he continued to turn the conversation back toward me. I, however, wouldn’t give up.
“Stan, can you tell me about some of the other gifts you see in people?”
“I can, but do us both a favor and try to lose the doctor-patient routine here. I’m not here to get psychological treatment from you. If you think I’m crazy, let’s just call it a day and I’ll take my leave.”
I had to give him credit here; he boxed me in pretty good. I didn’t want him to just leave. I wanted to know more of what he could see and how he knew the things he knew, but he wasn’t going to let me do it by simply asking open ended questions. I was going to have to admit in some way he was right. I did the best I could to acknowledge his gift without admitting too much myself.
“No, I don’t think you’re crazy. I’m just curious as to what other gifts people have. I think if we speak a little bit about that, it might help me understand what you’re talking about.”
“Fair enough. I’ll make a deal with you. Let’s just put this discussion in hypothetical terms. I’m not asking you to flat out admit that what I know about you is true. I see that’s making you uncomfortable, and that’s not why I’m here.”
At that point, I almost stopped him to ask him why he was there, but I sensed if I did, it would send us back to where we started. I held my tongue and let him continue.
“For argument’s sake,” Stan offered as if making a concession, “let us, for the moment, simply assume that you can see a spirit within a person’s body and I have the ability to know you have this gift simply by looking at you. Neither of us are confirming or denying anything, but rather discussing the aspects if such phenomenon were true. Now at this point, you want to know what else I have seen within other people. You are curious as to what other types of talents people might have. I will not reveal their names, which should reassure you somewhat, because I don’t think it’s right to reveal their abilities without their consent. I do not, however, have a problem revealing some of the gifts I have seen in general terms."
He paused, but only for a moment. When he continued, he did so as if plucking examples from a long list.
"One person I met could tell exactly how many children some people are going to have. Another could tell how long someone was going to live. One man could see another person’s physical health much in the same manner you see the inner ghost. A strong healthy body was very bright to him. A sickly person appeared faint, dim, and hollow. One person was able to determine another’s level of happiness, and another can see character.”
“Character?” I interrupted.
“Yes, you know, their levels of honesty, integrity, courage. That sort of thing. The embodiment of what makes up a person’s values.”
I considered that for a moment and I unthinkingly blurted out the first question that came into my head.
“Wouldn’t seeing someone’s character be the same as seeing someone’s soul?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
I raised my eyebrows revealing my surprise. “Really? Why not?”
“I’m sorry to do this to you, but I have to turn the question back on you. Why would it? Why would someone’s character be an absolute reflection of someone’s spirit?”
“I don’t know. It just seems logical to me. If the soul is the essence of the person, wouldn’t that mean it would be a collection of their actions and intentions? You just said that character was the embodiment of their values. I would think the soul would be considered the same thing.”
“I don’t necessarily agree. If it were, that would mean the spirit is simply defined by the person’s past. Have you ever stopped and thought what makes one person’s spirit appear so big and shine so bright versus another’s that is small and dim?”
“I try not to think about it.”
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