Yes, I consulted a psychic who says she’s talking to my late husband; she says he’s happy – and still using the F-word

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Of course a psychic will enter the picture. Of course.

As I write this, it is 12 weeks to the day since Michael passed, or died, or crossed over. There are moments when he feels near, and others when he seems to be so permanently gone that just thinking about him and feeling no hope at ever seeing him again, my chest hurts and I have trouble breathing. 

As if there is a deep, guttural scream rising to the surface and is in danger of escaping. And, as there is no one in the house but me, would it matter?

I have, once or twice, let it out. I then rock back and forth in my chair until the storm subsides. It is exhausting. 

As time has passed, the reality of what happened – an unexpected cancer diagnosis right as Michael was about to retire, his death just weeks later –  has become real. And now this, the aftermath. 

I have removed his shoes from his closet and given them away. I have shared many of his shirts with friends. His two bikes are now being ridden by two of his buddies. But his dresser drawers are still filled with T-shirts and socks and shorts and pajamas. Items that feel much more personal. 

I slide a drawer open, take a look, and push the drawer back in. Tomorrow, I think. Or next week. Or never. 

There are things one must do when a diagnosis like Michael’s comes. Friends and family must be made aware of what is happening. Of what is going to happen. We sent out emails when it was appropriate. We made phone calls, and we shared the news in person whenever possible. 

Even though doctors told us from the beginning there would be no effective treatment and that this was going to be fast and ugly, none of us were ready to accept that prognosis. Michael’s oldest friend, Sid, who has known Michael since childhood, decided to explore possible options for treatment. 

He was simply not ready to have Michael leave. Not yet. Not like this. Sid began to check in with our daughter, Kira, regularly. What could he do for her, he asked. 

Unable to find any medical treatment options, Sid then focused his attention on Kira –  texting her, calling her. Sid and his family live in Los Angeles and so does Kira. He continued to reach out as the days went by. 

It was through Sid that we met the psychic. 

One morning, the phone rang at Sid’s house. It was his wife’s former college roommate. She had spent years as a journalist and news broadcaster in Arizona, but a few years ago retired to focus on what she has always called her “gift.” Sid had not spoken to her in a long time. But she was driven to call him this particular morning. 

“Did you recently lose a friend to cancer?” she asked Sid. When Sid confirmed that he had, indeed, she told him that this person had been determined to get a message to Sid.

“Tell Sid I am fine. I am happy. And tell him thank you for all of his help.” 

Sid was gobsmacked.

Sid called Kira and Kira called me. I was in the garage when I answered. 

After hanging up I stayed in the garage leaning against the washing machine and sobbed. Relief that Michael was perhaps happy and fine? More proof that he was indeed gone? Anger that I wasn’t the person receiving messages? I mean, why was he talking to this woman in Arizona when I am perfectly willing to open up lines of communication? Fear that we were being manipulated? But how? 

Apparently, this woman has a successful career. She has an eight-month waiting list to book an appointment. But Sid pulled a few strings and she offered to speak with us by phone if we desired. We desired. And mensch that he is, Sid gifted us the session. 

I flew down to L.A. so Kira and I could be together when we had our phone appointment. The psychic did not know our names. She did not know where we lived. She had us call her so she would not have our phone numbers in advance, which could lead to some kind of Google search.

Kira and I sat side by side as we placed the call. A normal-sounding woman answered and explained the process and what she was going to do. No weird voices like in the movies. No head spinning. But, she told us, once the visit was over, she would not remember what had taken place. 

We began. She spoke of lights. One light in particular was coming through. She said this was our person. I began to feel anxious and started to cry. She picked up on it immediately, even though we were not on FaceTime and I had been shedding silent tears.

Was she really talking to Michael? Were we in some kind of sacred triangle, Michael communicating with her and she relaying his words to us? 

There were things she told us that would be applicable to just about anyone. Things like, “you will be together again.” Or, “when you see birds, I will be sending them.” But then, there were things much more specific. Details about our life that this woman could not have known at all. Aspects of Michael’s life and his death that did not feel like lucky guesses. 

“Hair,” she said. “Hair.”

Kira got it first; Dodger, my grandson, had just cut his very long hair and donated it to Locks of Love. 

When Kira confirmed what “hair” might mean she told us yes, that was it and that Michael liked the look.

He says he misses food, she told us.

It is true Michael loved to eat. Really really loved to eat. And apparently where he is there is no need for food, but he remembers how much he loved it. And he really did. 

“Italy,” she said. 

Italy was the first place on our wish list to visit after Michael retired. We had gotten new passports, bought a guidebook, saved some money for travel.

“He says you should still go, he will be with you.”

At one point, she laughed, saying that she never curses but that Michael was forcing her to. The F-word, she said, seems to be one of his favorites. 

It was indeed.

After speaking and listening for an hour, our time was up. And that was just as well as I was emotionally and physically drained. We recorded the episode so we might listen to it later with clear heads. I have listened to it more than once. I don’t know what to think. I truly don’t.

I am not going to reveal the name of the psychic. I am not here to promote using a psychic or fortune-teller or any other kind of guide into the spirit world. I know there are many out there who claim to have a gift. And I doubt I will book another appointment. If it is true that this woman has a way of communicating with the dead and Michael has said he is happy and fine and surrounded by friends and family who have also crossed over, I will be comforted by that. 

And if all of it is hogwash, then there is no point in going further. 

But oh, how I wonder about it all. The only conclusion I can come to is that I am intelligent enough to know that when it comes to understanding what happens to us as this life ends, I have no idea.

I can only speak with conviction about what happens to those of us who are left behind. Our hearts break. We wake in the night and wonder how we will ever fall asleep again. And after we do, and morning arrives, we wonder if it is worth getting out of bed. We force ourselves to throw back the covers and rise. To eat breakfast. To take a shower. To choose what to put on. 

We tell ourselves that if we can accomplish one thing today, pay the water bill or answer some emails, or order groceries, or make one more run to the Goodwill, we will have inched our way closer to the waiting sun. We will have begun to ascend out of the deep, deep valley of despair. We also understand that missing a step, falling down is part of the journey.

P.S. Yesterday I visited the bank where our vacation account has been nesting and decided to close the account. To remove the money we had saved. There is a large screen mounted on the wall behind the teller counter. Images like new cars, tropical locations, new houses, etc. rotate on the screen. And as they were handing me the check there was a gondola floating down the canal in Venice at sunset.