This challenged us to embrace a greater vision of what we thought we knew. It stretched our family, bringing us to the point where we came to realize that through the simple acts of being born and dying, we each, as “givers of gifts,” enrich all that life is. We give the gift of our potential at birth, what we can become. At death, we leave the gift of our achievement, what we did with what we had.
Two gifts: one we bring in with us; one we leave behind after we’re gone. Whether coming or going, we bless this world with the gifts that our existence bestows.
Myriam’s potential from the moment of her birth was as bright and beautiful as she was. There’s no doubting that. But what she left us with, well, that caught everyone off guard, including me. Myriam’s gift, the sum of what she had to offer, was uncompromising honesty. Never could she tolerate pretense, denials, anything hidden, anything avoided. It was as if she possessed X-ray vision and could see right through you—as if the sole purpose of her brief stay on earth was to insist that those who were touched by her life should release whatever it was that held them back from recognizing and expressing the fullness of their true authentic self. No excuses. No exceptions.
The repercussions of Myriam’s gift were as startling as the probe of her gaze.
In our family, Kelly and Lydia admitted their marriage was miscast from its inception, and they divorced. Natalie, possessed of new courage and faith, stepped forward into marriage and motherhood, and found a happiness never known to her before. Paulie confronted her past and uncovered the reason behind her many heartbreaks. John returned to his home in Washington more appreciative of the life he and Anne enjoyed, and he rededicated himself to helping others, especially immigrants to this country from war-weary nations. Diane grew wiser as her focus shifted to the deeper reaches of strength and vision within her. There were others, additional relatives and friends, whose lives were transformed as well.
And me?
My change came when the full impact of Myriam’s insistence on complete and utter honesty demanded that I face what I had been sidestepping for years: taking a personal stand on what death had taught me; in essence, owning my own truth.
You see, for a quarter of a century, I have devoted myself entirely to researching near-death experiences. I have said no to most of the invitations I have received for rest and recreation, turned away from opportunities that might have led to careers I would have preferred, and immersed myself instead in the rigor of objective observation and analysis. For the most part, the three near-death episodes I had in 1977 and how the aftereffects affected me were stored away on the back shelf of my mind, used only in brief as examples in the six books I wrote about my findings. What mattered, all that mattered, was what I could substantiate from the thousands of experiencers with whom I had had sessions. Allowing myself to be too personal would have biased my research. My job, as I saw it, was to become a blank slate on which others could “write” their story.
I do not regret the sacrifices I made in this pursuit or what I went through to produce the books I have written. But Myriam stopped me short. She flung wide the doors of my heart and validated the songs my soul sings.
Thanks to the gift of Myriam’s life, what made her special, I can now share the gift of my many moments at the edge of death and beyond. Strange as it may seem, however, death has been my teacher for a long time—since I was a child.
2
Gold Stars, Windshields, and Keyholes
“Nothing in life is to be feared, only understood.”
—Madame Marie Curie
I walked the path of death as a youngster, and it terrified me so much that it imprinted all the years that followed. Knowing about what happened then, as well as a few other incidents that occurred later on, will help you to understand why death came to overshadow my life.
Pearl Harbor. Two words that even now bring back vivid memories of people screaming and crying, in the house where I lived and outside on the streets. It’s as though the bombs were dropped in our own neighborhood; that’s the impact that one event had on my world.
Rationing, air raid drills, collecting metal, and victory gardens were the order of the day. Grocery stores had sparsely filled shelves but boasted large tables and vats at the ready in case you had enough produce from your garden to can. Along with paying for the items you wanted to purchase at the checkout stand, you also paid for any tin you used in canning. My mother and I sometimes walked to the local library where, in the basement, women gathered to roll bandages for the troops. My job was making Q-Tips. I wasn’t very good at it.
Every morning I passed signs of death on my way to school. At that time if anyone in your family died in the war effort, you placed a large decal of a gold star in your living-room window. I knew what those gold stars meant. Once I passed a house where six new gold stars had been added overnight. I just stood there sobbing. I do not recall a single morning in my entire first-grade experience that wasn’t spent quieting my sobs and shudders and feigning bravery as I walked into my classroom.
After that, I could never understand why teachers used gold stars to reward good behavior or a job well done. To me, gold stars were a symbol of death and horror and loved ones who never came home to their families. Because of this association, I grew up avoiding anything that might entitle me to a reward. I didn’t make peace with gold until I was in my late fifties; I couldn’t even wear the stuff until I turned sixty.
I was in the third grade when my mother finally found the right man and settled down. Our house was near the lip of Rock Creek Canyon, south of Twin Falls. Mostly we raised, canned, or froze our own food, including meat. My job was the chicken coop; I gathered eggs and removed the carcass of any hen who died overnight. I’d go screaming into the house, completely undone at the trauma of picking up a dead chicken, only to have its guts spew out in a flood of maggot-thick fluid. Mother would say, “Clean it up. That’s your job.” We lost a lot of chickens and other animals, too. I grew tired of screaming about this, no one paid much attention to me anyway, so I decided to learn everything I could about life’s specter. It wasn’t long before I found myself sitting, front row and center, in the most incredible classroom imaginable: my second home, the police station. My mother had married a police officer.
I spent many hours waiting around inside the police station for my new father to take a coffee break so that I could hop a ride home in the squad car. If a call came through while I was with him, I’d have to go along, too, and with strict orders for my behavior: “Don’t move, keep your mouth shut, and never tell anyone what you see.” I pretty much did what I was told, except for one time when I passed on some information to a cousin who blabbed the story all over the school. Needless to say, I never again mentioned police business after that.
When I was young, television hadn’t been invented, so my view screen on the verities and extremes of life was the squad car windshield. I saw a lot, from the more basic scenes of ongoing investigations to the complexities of muggings, attempted murders, beatings, animals run amuck, drunken parties, and the like. Especially during night calls, I’d be utterly transfixed. Since my role was to be invisible, I became the consummate observer, soaking in everything: how people used their bodies, what they said, their expressions, interactions among people, specific movements and what resulted from them.
This early exposure fed my insatiable curiosity. Sometimes during long waits I’d even sneak a peek through the keyhole of the interrogation room. When that wasn’t enough, I’d stick my ear to the keyhole. Repeatedly I heard victims telling detectives things like: “I just knew if I turned that corner something awful would happen to me”; or “I had a feeling not to trust that guy.” Premonitions, dreams, feelings, almost everyone knew in advance what might happen to him or her if one did this or that. And that puzzled me. Why, I wondered, did people go ahead