I Asked For a Sign From My Recently Deceased Friend

Might She Appear Like My Brother Did?

My dead brother came for a visit. I hear a knock at the back door and there he is. He steps into the laundry room, arms open wide. We hug. I cry. “It’s been so long,” I tell him. Almost 13 years.

I cry some more. And then I wake up and wipe away tears.

It was so real. So. Real.

My joy over seeing him quickly clouds over with fear.

I am one of the 1 in 8 women who are told they have breast cancer. I am in the midst of testing and biopsies to determine the extent of the disease.

Doing what I do best, overthinking, I reflect on my brother’s appearance in my dream.

My God. Is this a portent of my imminent death? Is my brother doing a death angel thing like Andrew in “Touched by an Angel”?

For those not familiar with it, Touched by an Angel was a lovely TV series in the 90’s in which angels would show up as mere mortals to intervene in the affairs of folks who were about to face difficulty. Sometimes, it was to prepare for their death.

You always knew this twist when Andrew would show up in his white suit and sober smile.

And now, I’m thinking, holy shit.

Danny, were you the welcoming party for the Other Side?

I told my spiritual director about the dream. “I’m afraid this is going to take me out,” I tell her.

One of the modules in the Spiritual Direction course I graduated from was on dream interpretation. I learned to pay more attention to my dreams, they often bring messages from the subconscious. Thoughts-some thoughts so threatening to the ego, they are kept under lock and key. Until they can slip through the defenses during sleep. Freud dubbed dreams the royal road to the unconscious.

And who knows, perhaps visitors from the great beyond.

What do I do with this technicolor dream? What would Carl Jung say?

Fortunately, my spiritual director is versed in Jungian dream interpretation. She offered her thoughts.

There were a few symbolic keys in the dream. First, it was my brother. Second, he came into my home via the back door. And then there was the sense of love and gratitude.

Ellen explained that when a brother shows up, that usually symbolizes help. It’s a GOOD thing, she said. Dan was offering his support, not showing up as my Uber to the pearly gates.

The back door showed familiarity. A family member knows which door to enter. Not the front door, the back door.

This too is a good thing, she explained.

I sobbed with relief. Encouragement flooded my soul. I was not alone. My brother was watching over me. He was offering his strength and support, Ellen said.

I can still recall how vivid the dream was. And am now cheered by the memory instead of frightened.

I was reminded of this the other day when my friend Melanie died. Before drifting off to sleep with tear-swollen eyes, I asked for an appearance from her.

Might she be in a thin place for a short while, suspended between earth and heaven?

I have read a lot about near-death experiences, and it has shaped my beliefs that yes, there is life after death. And yes, sometimes a soul may linger before whooshing off to heaven’s bliss.

Please give me a sign, Melanie. Let me know you are okay.

Crying is exhausting. I fall asleep.

Aaaaaaand nothing. Zilch. Nada.

I wake up and the tears resume. Dammit, don’t start the eye faucets before you’ve even had coffee, I tell myself.

Fat lot of good my admonishment did. The tears are flowing.

I caffeinate, blow my nose about a thousand times, and ready myself for my daily trip to the gym.

I decide that the workout for the day would be lap swimming. It’s a good place to cry without creating a scene. My googles might get a little fogged but hey-it’s the chlorine irritating my eyes, right?

I am in the pool and slowly find my rhythm. I press through the pain in my shoulder-a parting gift from the double boobectomy and the nearly a foot long scar wrapping around my chest and back.

Breathe. Breast-stroke (or would that be breastless-stroke in my case?)

Breathe. I am gliding through the water.

Melanie. I can feel the tears welling.

Breathe. Another stroke. Melanie.

My mind wanders over the many ways she impacted me.

The way she would say “BAM!” with a little hand flourish when a solution was found to an issue.

I can hear her voice in my head and smile.

“Good God, Woman!” What was another thing we would banter back and forth to each other in a faux British accent. I don’t know why we found it so hilarious, but Melanie was “an easy laugh” she would say.

It was she who created my “Zany Sage” logo. It was she who encouraged me through the demise of my marriage. It was she who pulled up outside my house one day and told me we were running errands together. She knew depression was weighing heavily on me.

Upon getting into her truck, she hands me a silly mask. The blingy cheap-ass ones you’d find at the Dollar Store. “Put this one,” she says.

I obediently donned the mask even though I felt ridiculous. And we giggled our way through the car wash, the bank and the store.

And of late, our conversations revolved around our different cancer treatments. Melanie accepted her diagnosis with grace and as an opportunity to continue in her inner work of self-reflection. Cancer wasn’t an enemy, she would tell me.

Breathe. I haven’t been swimming much since recovering from surgery, but I decide I will do a half mile. A half milestone in my recovery, I muse.

Time for freestyle now. My shoulder hurts like hell as I raise my arm over my head, but I press through. I want to swim for Melanie. I want to show her I am alive and taking care of my body.

I want to honor her by taking my recovery with more intention. I want to honor her with the words that I write.

She didn’t have the option to recover, despite her heroic efforts.

I climb out of the pool, shoulder screaming at me.

Pain is proof of life, my sweetie Tom always says.

I am alive.

My dear friend Melanie is not. At least not on this mortal coil.

And I realize I don’t need a dream to hear from her.

With each memory, I realize she IS with me. She is part of my heart, my life.

Requiescat in pace, dear friend. I suspect you are dancing, though.

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