Voices From Beyond

 

Barbara Brown

May 24, 1949 to October 14, 2010

It was October 14, 2010. I was sitting in a chair on our little lanai in Hawaii. The sun filtered through the mango and banana leaves, as the birds chirped and buzzing drone of bees filled the air. 

My heart was in turmoil. My aunt Barbie had been admitted to the hospital again the night before. She was having complications due to stage four uterine cancer.

This was a nasty cancer. The tumor had grown large and was wrapping around other organs, as well as applying pressure on her spine and nerves. 

The doctors had dismissed her symptoms numerous times, saying her pain was from a compact disc from a car accident. They stuck by this diagnosis even though she, a menopausal woman, was experiencing bleeding.

The cancer was not diagnosed until she began having fainting episodes. By then, she was already stage four.

I was trying to figure out how to travel. How I could see my aunt before it was too late. Money, as always, was not available. I was more than three thousand miles from my aunt and grandmother, with an ocean separating us.

While I sat on my lanai with a million thoughts and emotions flowing through me, I was surprised when I heard my aunts voice clear as day. It was as though she was right there, but I couldn't see her. She sounded forlorn. 

"Missy? I'm sorry. I can't go back. I'm too tired and the pain is too much. I'm sorry, I don't want anyone mad at me. I can't do this anymore. Please tell everyone I love them and I'm sorry."

Tears welled in my eyes. My aunt was leaving?! 

Staring into the surrounding greenery around me, I told her, "Barbie, no one wants you to be in pain. No one is going to be mad. You don't need to be sorry. We love you. We will miss you, but we don't want you to be in pain. I'll tell everyone for you. I love you."

"I love you too," said my aunts voice. 

Shook, I stood and walked into our little hale. My husband, daughters, and son were watching TV. The tears were ever flowing from my eyes. 

"What's wrong, Mom?" Someone asked.

"Barbie's gone." I announced. My phone, sitting next to the sink began to ring, while my stunned family voiced their questions.

"Wait."

"What?"

"How?"

"Did someone  call?"

As I grabbed my phone to answer it, I also answered the last question, "No one called. Barbie was here. She told me."

My ringing phone announced, Mom, on the screen. I took a deep breath as I accepted the call.

"Hi Mom." I said chokingly. 

Her voice was full of emotion and I could tell she was crying.

"Barbie's gone," she managed to get out.

"I know."

"You need to call your Grandma... Wait, how did you know?"

So, I explained how I had been sitting on the lanai when I heard Barbie's voice. I told her everything Barbie said.

"Wow. Um, okay. Call your grandmother. She's at the hospital. She needs you, Honey."

We said our goodbyes, and I hung up.

Immediately, I attempted to call the hospital phone number. The call went to a voice mailbox for the hospital.

That's strange, I thought. I hung up and tried again. Again a voicemail box answered. Somehow, this struck me as being funny and I laughed as I hung up again. 

My kids and husband were looking at me, questioning my sanity. Here I was crying and laughing. I shook my head as I explained the hospital was not answering their phone.

The heaviness in my chest grew, and my eyes were so puffy, I could barely see. The third time I dialed the phone number it went through and I was able to tap in the room number.

"Hello?" My grandmother answered. 

"Hi Grandma."

"Oh, Missy! She's gone! Your aunt Barbie's gone." She sobbed into the phone.

"I know, Grandma. I know." I longed to be there with her, to comfort and support her. I knew my Grandmother was dealing with this alone.

I told Grandma about Barbie's visit to me and her message to all of us. My grandmother listened, and it seemed to ease her mind a little bit.

Grandma expressed that Barbie was in a tremendous amount of pain. The tumor had ruptured her intestins and Barbie had sepsis from it.

I reiterated that Barbie wasn't in pain anymore, and expressed that she was still with us, even though her body had given up.

Grandma and I talked for a little longer. Then she said she needed to start making calls and deal with the final arrangements.

My aunt and I were very close. There's not a day that goes by that I do not think of her. I've said goodbye to many loved ones through the years, but Barbie was the only one who said goodbye to me in such a way.

What I experienced fourteen years ago was called clairaudience. 

Clairaudience means clear hearing. It is the ability to hear the thoughts of the living or the deceased. 

When Barbie spoke to me, she was physically 3,000 miles away. It seemed she was just crossing the threshold of the veil. She was between life and death.

This extraordinary experience I shared with my aunt confirmed my belief that we do go on even after death. 

I've only experienced clairaudience with such clarity one other time. 

That one was between my mother, who's very much alive, and my 15 year old self. I'll tell you that story another day.

Barbie, wherever you are, I love you. We love you. Thank you for the gift you shared through me.