“We are either pulled by a vision, or pushed by pain.”
—Rev. Dr. Michael Beckwith
The subjects in this book strike at the very core of the human family: who we are, what we’re doing here, and where we’re headed. This book has been long in the making because, quite frankly, I didn’t have the guts to write it before. What changed for me? Well, I got real. I decided to shift my emphasis from thinking like a researcher to feeling like a person. That means, it’s time for me to “own” my own experiences, claim them. I’ve been speaking on behalf of others for twenty-five years as a disciplined, scientific investigator. Now it’s my turn to open up and say what I really want to say.
It’s only fair, though, that you know something about me to begin with, so, let’s get acquainted.
I’m past retirement age, still snappy, lots of energy and drive, and as passionate as ever. My former marriage lasted twenty years; the present one looks like it’ll go on forever and I couldn’t be happier. I’ve birthed and raised three children, miscarried three, have four living grandchildren (one more in spirit), was born in Twin Falls, Idaho, and died in Boise. Yes, you heard me right. I’m one of those near-death experiencers who physically died (as near as the medical community can determine), encountered life on “the other side” of death, and revived to tell of it. I did this three times in three months in 1977. It’s because of my third episode that I became a researcher of near-death states, but it was Elisabeth Kübler-Ross who got me started.
We huddled together, just the two of us, on a bench at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport back in July of 1978. Our nonstop chattering went on for over an hour: me, describing the three times I had died the previous year and what I had experienced each time on “the other side” of death; and she, in recognition of what she had heard, naming my episodes “near-death experiences” and me a “near-death survivor.”
In doing this, Elisabeth validated me. She said I wasn’t crazy, that what had happened to me was real and I could believe it. There are no words to describe the relief I felt when she said that. Her unquestioned expertise in the field of death and dying, however, did not suffice. I needed to know more. I had questions.
I began asking my questions that November, once I had moved from Boise to the state of Virginia. My research base now totals sessions with over 3,000 adult and 277 child experiencers, plus many of their significant others; six books record my findings; as well as a web site that is filled with even more information.
This effort can be matched with its duplicate: the years between 1966 and 1977 that I spent investigating altered states of consciousness, mysticism, hauntings, paranormal phenomena, and varied forms of spirituality. I launched this earlier work after reading The Sleeping Prophet by Jess Stearn—a book about a most unusual psychic by the name of Edgar Cayce. The book changed my life in how it enabled me to view my childhood differently and set me free to explore larger venues without fear or hesitation.
I actually conducted my first double-blind, control-group study at the age of five, though. I was experimenting with mud pies to arrive at the ratio of soil, water, and temperature needed to create the masterpiece of color and texture I wanted. I did the same thing when I learned to cook. It drove my mother nuts.
In the personal quotes and sharings this book is packed with, you’ll have an opportunity to see how individual experiences—yours and mine—can lead to greater truth. You’ll also have an opportunity to know that, far from being a disciplined researcher, I am a very human woman who loves deeply, laughs much, and is intensely curious.
1
Myriam’s Gift
“You meet your destiny on the road you take to avoid it.”
—Carl Gustav Jung
The unthinkable happened.
Myriam, an incredibly lively, beautiful, curious two-year-old with a decided mind of her own was rushed to the hospital on Thursday, December 16, 1999, pronounced brain dead the following afternoon, and died that evening. We learned later that her brain had collapsed onto her brain stem. Bacterial meningitis.
By the time my youngest daughter, Paulie, and I could fly to San Jose, California, from Virginia, the faces of Kelly and Lydia, Myriam’s parents, were shrouded in a pasty blankness—that death mask people wear who have suffered a grievous loss. Like robots, they shuffled through the demands of their fledgling business. They had workers on job sites. Deadlines pressed. The phone rang incessantly.
A crush of aunts and uncles, grandparents and friends, gathered in the tiny house to do what they could to help. Aaron, two years older than his sister, Myriam, gaped in awe at all the touching, sharing, crying, and hugging that happened as photos of happier times passed from hand to hand and memories found voices. Grief. Sobs. Laughter. Pain.
A family in crisis—my son and firstborn, my daughter-in-law, her kin, ours.
So, in the name of love, the crowd of us tripped over each other’s feet in an inexplicable urge to “do something.” Food was cooked, although few had an appetite. Errands were run, even though those who knew the way got lost running them. Clutches formed around the I-can’t-stand-it-any-longer smokers, the pink-skinned fresh-air freaks, the nonstop chatterboxes, the God-love-’em clean team, and the kid pals who spent their time frolicking on the floor with Aaron. Those who claimed the right to grieve alone still wandered in and out the front door as if drawn to the warmth of noisy bodies and the sounds and smells of humanness.
Comments lingered in the air, waiting to be repeated to each new visitor.
Kelly remembered that: “Towards the end, the feelings between Myriam and I were much stronger. She really appreciated being with Daddy. This was new, as Mommy had always come first before. I wish she were here right now. I miss her terribly.”
Lydia spoke of rushing her daughter to the emergency room at O’Connor Hospital in Santa Clara. “They got her on antiseizure medication, called a pediatrics specialist, and sent her to San Jose Medical Center with the specialist at her side. Kelly met me at the intensive care unit after he had telephoned his sister Natalie to come take care of Aaron. She was right there. From that moment on, Kelly and I knew Myriam’s time on earth was over. We spent the whole night crying and consoling each other.”
Diane, Lydia’s mom, struggled with the specter of blame. “When I told Kathi, the doctor I work for, that Myriam’s brain had herniated into her brain stem sometime after they did a spinal tap, she responded that this was a risk with spinal taps. I have dark thoughts about that and felt the doctors made a horrible mistake, that perhaps Myriam would be here if they hadn’t done that. I was sobbing, inconsolable. Kathi held me in her arms, trying to comfort me, and said, ‘Don’t even go there. The doctors had to do what they did.’”
John, Kelly’s father, grimaced. “I felt hurt when I heard the news. Deep! You’re so helpless. My granddaughter is dead. I was here with my wife, Anne, a little over a month ago to celebrate our birthdays. Myriam was two and I was seventy, sixty-eight years’ difference to the day between our ages.”
So it went, with each person taking turns weaving emotion into a single tapestry of sound-threads.
Our family, once we were notified of the impending crisis, called every prayer group we could locate. Thousands of people responded. In less than a heartbeat, the oneness of family grew to embrace loving, caring people throughout the entire nation. Affiliations or religious beliefs were never questioned. All that mattered was the life of this precious child. We prayed for a miracle, refusing to think a single negative thought. But the miracle never happened.
A senseless tragedy?
Yes, it was. Yet there is far more to Myriam’s death than the pain of her sudden