Talking to the Dearly Departed

{Just in case someone who doesn't know me might read this: I'm from New Jersey, I moved to Florida for a few years to care for my parents, and I relocated to California after my mom died in June 2010. I had nowhere I had to be, and two friends out here whom I wanted to see. One of them, Gwen, was a best friend/second mother to me when I desperately needed it. She lived with her boyfriend, John, and he asked if I wanted to rent a room from him in his house. It allowed me to save money (vs. an apartment or long-term motel), and to spend time with Gwennie, so I took him up on it. Then Gwen got sick. Then she got worse. On October 9th, 2011 she died from a rare disease called amyloidosis. And John, after Gwen went into the hospital, turned out to be a creep. But I'm stuck living in his house until I find a job and can move to a new place. Decent landlords tend to want you to have an income, not a dwindling savings account. Maybe this should go in the Profile info, and maybe I'll move it there. For now, I'm lazily leaving it here.}

I've lost people before Gwen. My grandfather and my brother Joe when I was 12. My other two grandparents died in a house fire when I was 13. Various older, not really close to me relatives over the years. And my other brother, Jim, when I was 37. Then my mom a year and a half ago. My father is still alive, but rather nuts and better off on his own.

That I know of, no one I've considered a friend has ever died before Gwen was taken, too soon, a few months ago. I say "that I know of" because sometimes we fall out of touch with people over the years. Things happen, life changes, and you don't keep in contact and don't know. My friend, Michael Seidman, was sick but doing okay (I thought), and now he doesn't answer emails and seems to no longer have the website he used to operate. So maybe he's gone, but it doesn't seem real as long as it's just a possibility.

Gwen is gone. Some days I wake up and start my day without thinking about that. But I never get through an entire day without thinking of her. It's not just that I have to deal with the man she loved on a daily basis. Even when he (blessedly) goes away for a week I still miss Gwennie. Anyone who knew her would probably say the same thing.

When she died we went to a Buddhist temple and participated in a ceremony meant to help her move on and reincarnate. While I believe in reincarnation, I have also come to believe that Gwennie is hanging out as a spirit, stubbornly refusing to choose a new life just yet. She was taken too soon, and understandably would want to stick around and watch her kids and grandkids grow up. And Gwen put no limitations, certainly not something as mundane as blood, on family. So everyone she knew, everyone she loved, was part of her clan. And she's keeping an eye on us all.

That out of the blue idea, that sudden motivation to do something that's good for me, that kind impulse isn't always coming from me. I know me. I know when an idea is mine and when it's "where the hell did *that* come from?" I know I've never thought, "Boy, broccoli sounds like a good idea about now." And, while I'm kinder than I typically let people see, I know that the urge to hand over money to the guy on the corner with the cardboard sign is Gwen acting through me -- as sure as Whoopie Goldberg got into Patrick Swayze in GHOST.

I talk to her. If she talks back, I can't hear it with my ears. But she manages to communicate on occasion, or I believe she does, with "signs." Gwen was a chaplain at a local hospital years ago. It was an important part of her life. Days after her passing, as I drove to Oxnard to "celebrate" her grandson's birthday with the family, I tearfully asked her if she was still around, if she knew that her boy had thoughtfully invited me to join them, and told her she should be proud of how considerate he was (knowing being with the group would ease some of my pain). As I told myself to get a grip, that if she whispered in my ear I'd probably crash the Saturn, a white car passed me. The licence plate read: Chapulin. Close enough! I whooped with joy that she'd heard me and sent a sign for an answer. Could it just be coincidence and all in my mind? No. This is my blog and I say no.

Another time I asked her if she liked Mozart. We were talking about putting music together for the reception after her service and I was sure of Johnny Cash but not sure about Mozart. Less than a minute after I asked her, again while driving in my car, "Rock Me, Amadeus" played on the radio. Oh, come on! *Everyone* should agree with that sign.

But while I love these occasional communications from beyond, they don't compare to talking to her, and benefiting from her wisdom and endless capacity to love and forgive. Someone upset me badly last month. I lost my temper and I wanted so, so much to lash out and give as much pain as I got. Literally the only thing that stopped me was remembering what Gwen's friend (and son, as far as her heart was concerned), David said at the Buddhist ceremony. "I know I have to be a better person if I want to see her again someday."

It would've been so much more comforting to have had Gwen to talk to, to tell me all the things a friend tells you when your heart hurts, and to remind me that I wouldn't do well in prison. But the one who did me wrong was still saved by her, indirectly. And, of course, my anger subsided and the rational side of my brain asserted control. We're all only human, and we'd want to be forgiven if we did the hurting. This is as close as I will probably ever come to wisdom earned through experience. For the most part I'm stubborn and refuse to learn things like this. It goes a long way toward explaining why the universe keeps messing with me.

Today I wanted to talk to the person who did me wrong last month, to ask some questions that had me preoccupied, and perhaps to end up feeling better in general. But he didn't choose to answer my call. I said, out loud, "Hey, Gwennie, how about messing with him just a little? I mean, really, not even answering the phone? Caller ID shows it's me. Turn his radio on and make it play nothing but country music on all the stations." I was laughing at this point. "Oooh, oooh, I know! 'Misplace' his files on his computer just long enough to freak him out, then put them back. Flick the lights if you agree that they're good ideas." And, in this stupid old house where the lights dim if I so much as turn on the TV, the glow remained constant.

"Fine, fine, be all high and noble up there!" I said, again out loud. And just as I did, John walked by my room. He's hard of hearing, but he heard that. And he knew I was alone, and not talking to him. He went from a slight hesitation to hurrying along to the garage, where he stayed for a while though I'm pretty sure he only meant, originally, to throw a recyclable in the bin.

Not only contrary -- but scary! I couldn't hear it, but I'm sure Gwen was laughing up in Heaven.