Allison DuBois: Don't Kiss Them Good-bye

He didn’t answer me, so I told him I loved him and hung up. It’s interesting that I couldn’t separate the medium in me from the daughter. My words had clearly been acknowledging loss. I just wouldn’t see it, because this time I just had to be wrong.

It dawned on me that if I’d had a choice I never would have let him go. So God decides when it’s time for our souls to move forward, when it’s time to leave this life. None of us would simply relinquish our loved ones, or ourselves for that matter: “Okay, God take ’em away! Good-bye!” No, I don’t see that happening.

Initially, I was unable to make contact with my father because I was blocked by my own pain, but eventually he reached me. The week after he passed away, I received phone calls from two of my dad’s dance students. The calls were independent of each other and neither student knew that I am a medium. I know my father didn’t tell them. His response to learning about my ability had been “Well, don’t tell anyone!”

They both shared with me that they had a dream in which they saw my father. They said he looked really good and happy. In both dreams they had conversations with him and he told them to call his daughter and tell her that he was okay. They were both hesitant to call me, being worried that I might think they were crazy. Kind of funny, isn’t it?

When loved ones can’t seem to reach you, they’ll try until eventually they find a way. I find great solace in knowing that Dad was able to send energy to soothe me through others. We should all be grateful for those kinds of signs and messages; they’re priceless.

I hired mariachis for Dad’s funeral, and of course I had them play “My Way.” In addition, Marines came for the flag ceremony and one of them played “Taps.” Dad had been so proud to have served his country. I planned the funeral he would have wanted and a wake he would have found amusing, with lots of pictures, stories, and good friends. I knew that Dad was going to be there at his funeral and wake; I wanted to give him a send-off that he could revel in. I did, and now I try to live without regret. The only thing that was strange was that I didn’t clearly see him the way I usually see the “guest of honor” at a memorial service.

We do whatever we need to in order to process our pain, and I grieved in my own way. I felt that if I heard “Be strong!” one more time, I was going to scream. I didn’t want to be strong, and furthermore I didn’t want to worry about doing or saying the right thing. If you can’t fall apart after losing your father, then when can you? Death is all about falling apart. You have to fall apart so that you can rebuild yourself. My dad died, and I am not the same person anymore. I will never be that person again, but I have learned from his death. It has definitely added several new layers to who I am as a medium.

I try to observe the strengths of those who have passed and incorporate them into myself. One of my father’s strengths was laughter. He had a good time and so did everyone around him. People loved him because he made them feel good about themselves. I now make an extra effort to be social, to stop and smell the roses with my friends. The biggest compliment you can pay to people you have loved and lost is to keep a part of them alive in yourself, memorializing their significance.

Seven weeks after my dad’s passing, my friend Randy died of a heart attack at age forty-nine. As I sat grieving with his three teenagers and his beautiful wife, I realized that Randy’s kids were not only proud of their father, they were also aware that he’d had a terrific life. They were mourning, but every other statement was about something Randy had achieved or had taught them.

Erica, Randy’s exceptional nineteen-year-old, said, “My dad will never walk me down the aisle at my wedding. He won’t be there to see his grandchildren.”

What could I say? She was right. How unfair was that? I realized how lucky I was to have had my dad for thirty years. Some people have even less time, or none at all.

But she wasn’t waiting for my answer; she went right into another great story from one of their many summers at the lake. Looking down, Randy is surely proud of his phenomenal kids.

“My Way” was played at Randy’s memorial, too. I sobbed, processing what I hadn’t finished at my dad’s funeral. Once again, the song was perfectly fitting.

Part of the reason I wrote this chapter is that so many people out there beat themselves up over the death of a loved one. They think that had they just taken their mom to a doctor, had they just known sooner that something was wrong, they could have prevented the passing of those they love.

I should be an example to all. I knew that Dad was going to pass and I knew the cause. Trust me, I did everything to prevent it but found out it was not in my hands; it never had been. When I am given information from the other side that benefits my client, or even helps to save a life, I am still only a vehicle. The information was going to get to them one way or another; I happened to be the conduit. But when someone’s number is up, it’s up. I hope I can help alleviate the guilt of failing to see a sign that could prevent a death. My father’s story should serve as a reminder to all that sometimes it’s just not in our hands.

My friend Alison sees how the deaths of our two wonderful fathers show both sides of the coin: my dad’s quick and unexpected, her dad’s slow and drawn out. There are gifts in both. Almost all experiences offer some gifts; they’re there if you look. Sometimes they’re hard to recognize through the tears, but you’ll see them eventually.

Now I celebrate Dad’s life. I’ve learned to know and love my dad even better since his passing. As I went through his belongings, searching for a shred of him, I kept rediscovering him. I found him in the many checks he’d written to Feed the Children and other kids’ charities. I found him in his box of dance trophies dating back to the early 1960s. I found him in the cards I’d given him over the years and the stick-figure illustrations that I drew for him as a child. He was in the faces of my children in the photos I sorted through with a heavy heart. As I claimed his cherished belongings, I decided to reclaim him. For he is not really gone.

To my father I say, “Until we meet again, Dad! I love you, but you already know that.”

My dad had a saying he concluded conversations with: “Cha cha cha, que sera, sera.” He always knew that whatever will be, will be.

In 1978, at the ripe old age of six, I saw my first glimpse of the other side (at least, the first glimpse that I can remember). My great-grandpa Johnson died after a long battle with intestinal cancer. I remember my mom crying because Grandpa was in such excruciating pain, and he had always been so good to her. His death seemed long and drawn out.

I went to his funeral, but I didn’t really understand what was going on. I remember Great-grandpa’s casket being so high off the ground that I couldn’t say good-bye. Mom had to pick me up so that I could look at him one last time.

Great-grandpa Johnson often wore a cowboy hat. He was a tall, friendly man who loved children. I would miss playing with him. I whispered good-bye and then I hid behind my mom, looking for an escape.

I wanted to understand what was happening. Why was everybody sobbing? I just tried to stay out of the way while my big brother Michael was busy trying to force me to touch Great-grandpa’s cold hand. This petrified me. It was a long, sad day.

That night I was awakened from my sleep by a presence. My room was filled with a soft glow. I wasn’t scared, but I was on edge.