An autobiographical experience by Doug Moore…

Exploring “strange new worlds” with Grandma was a favorite past-time. One day, we were sitting comfortably in her lazy boy chairs watching the original Star Trek when I heard her gasp and start to cry.  I was immersed on an alien planet, but I quickly shifted to her, “Grandma!  What’s wrong?” Tears streaming, she said, “My father just died.”  “How do you know?” I asked.  Before she could answer, the black rotary dial phone rang, and she got the news again — her father had died a few minutes ago.  Sometime after the grief of her father, Grandma disclosed such experiences were ordinary for her.  My concept of reality was permanently altered.

Two years passed.  I was 10 years old and coming home from the last day of school, a bright sunny June afternoon in Murrysville, Pennsylvania.  The bus did its usual stop in front of my home, and I jumped off the bus eager to start summer vacation. When my feet hit the firm ground, I paused in place and felt a strange connection to the earth. I heard a low voice say, “Mom’s died”.  Mom was tall and strong, and I always felt comforted in her presence.  I felt a similar comforting presence in hearing this message.

Mom was in the hospital after breaking her back playing volleyball, but there was no thought she was going to die.  We were told she is fine and going to recover.  After a minute or so, I slowly walked the well-worn path to the front door and opened it. Dad was sitting on the couch with his head bowed and two sad neighbor ladies were sitting next to him waiting for me. They told me what I already knew.  They tried to comfort me, but I didn’t even cry.  It was surreal, but I knew she was still alive, somehow, somewhere unexplainably, but she was there.  That deep knowing has comforted me all my life.  In hindsight I imagined this must be similar to what Grandma experienced with her father.  Now I’ve experienced it with her daughter.

Ten years later mom spoke through a good friend I had recently met.  We were casually hanging out in the living room when Rodney said, “I have some messages from your mom, can I share those with you?”  “Of course” I practically yelled, knowing at this point anything is possible. He started by saying, “Your mom had a nickname, Onie, is that right?”  Oh my, that was spot on, and such an unusual name.  Her name was Eleanor, and I still had her childhood roll top desk with ONIE etched into it. Oddly, his aunt’s name was Onie too.

Rodney continued, “Your new mom fell down the stairs to the basement as she was carrying strawberry jam she made for you.  You watched her fall.”  All true. This was beginning to go a bit past my comfort zone, but at this point I was hooked.  No way was I going to stop him.

Dad married Ruby two years after Mom died.  I could see he was happy for the first time.  He was singing, “Going to the chapel…” for months before the wedding.  And he never sang before that.  Ruby and her daughter joined us by moving from Virginia Beach to a farming community outside of Pittsburgh. Ruby happened to be the sister of Mom’s best friend.  There was an immediate familiarity to this new life, and I was fortunate to have a sister close to my age and a loving and gentle new mom.

Sally and I helped our newly joined parents plant a large garden where we grew tomatoes, corn, gourds, and strawberries. My two brothers were involved in other things and were older, so I didn’t spend much time with them. We loved the strawberries and would eat half of them at harvest time before they hit the basket. Ruby learned to can fruits and vegetables and knew I loved strawberry jam. Rodney was right, I watched in shock one late autumn day as Ruby fell down the stairs carrying those jars of jam.  I have an embedded image of her lying on the cement floor surrounded by bright red mason jars that oddly didn’t break. The thought flashed through my mind; I have just lost a second mom. Luckily, she opened her eyes, got up, and was fine. I wondered if she had a little help in staying alive.  I also remember being happy the jars of jam didn’t break.  How could Rodney know of such a bizarre event? That incident taught me the difference between the thought Ruby might be dead and voice that said, “Mom died.”  The latter had a deeper knowing and a strong energy of warmth and love.

Rodney continued. “Your parents never pulled the car into the garage because it was filled with pumpkins and gourds from the garden.” He then clearly described the layout of our ranch home including the big picture window that overlooked a 400-acre farm of rolling hills.  It seemed like he was joking when he said, “The road you lived on was gay, it had the name fairy in it.”  We lived on Logan Ferry Road.  Almost an hour had flown by when he stopped and said, “Your mom wanted you to know she is here.” Through the years, occasionally he’d say, “your mom has a message.”  I learned to receive the messages as gifts. Rodney and I remained friends for over a decade until he died of AIDS in 1985.

Mom’s voice came through again in my 50’s. I was getting out of the car for an appointment with the ophthalmologist and heard, “You’re going to be OK.”  It had that same warmth and deeper knowing as when Mom died.  Although comforted I was also worried that something was wrong.  Inside the office I tried to patiently wait for my appointment as I was drawn to the TV.  Ellen was interviewing a gay son and his mother for Mother’s Day. It reminded me to connect with Ruby who had whole-heartedly affirmed me as gay.  Soon the nurse came into the waiting room and called to the woman across from me, “Mrs. Sanders.” My mouth dropped open because that was Mom’s maiden name.

Finally, I saw the doctor and was told I had high pressure in my eyes, like my grandma, but not to worry, it will be OK, we’ll monitor it.  Later that evening when sharing the story with my partner in the kitchen, he casually said, “Do you have the SPATOOLA”?  He pronounced spatula as if it had two Os in it. How odd! One of Grandma’s favorite stories about Mom was how she pronounced spatula as spatoola.  Patrick had no idea; I had never shared that story with him. It all seemed strange but natural at the same time, and it made me happy.

It was that same year that my sweet oldest brother Bob died. My tall and lumbering brother suffered from mental illness most of his life.  He tried to commit suicide while in the Army during the Vietnam War and was later discharged from the service.  In the years that followed, he was in and out of psychiatric hospitals and ended up divorcing when his two boys were in their pre-teens. Bob was not proud of himself.

In his mid-50’s, he had to have surgery on his leg for a strange infection.  While he was recovering, I said to him many times, “You have to get up and walk or you’ll die.”  I was concerned because our mom died from blood clots due to not being able to move.  Within a month of the surgery, Bob died.  I wasn’t hearing from his spirit like I did with Mom.  I was curious if he was able to connect with me.  We used to discuss expansive experiences of universal oneness and love that he’d have as part of his psychotic breaks.  I knew he was attuned to that possibility, so I went to a medium outside Cleveland where I was living.  It was my first time visiting a medium, and I didn’t know what to expect. This was before mediums were on TV, and the internet didn’t exist yet.  I avoided telling her anything about my life.

Shortly into the session she looked up and with great enthusiasm said, “There is someone standing behind you. He’s tall, about 6’2” and he lumbers.”  She mimicked my brother’s movements precisely.  “He has a message for you…he is proud now and standing.”  I wept.  I released the pain I’d been carrying for many years about his mental and physical health.  As a psychologist, I felt responsible for his well-being.  I was always present to provide the history to psychiatrists for every hospital admission and talked Bob through many crises.  It was his turn to return the favor and let me know that I could let go of that pain and rejoice that he was ok.

A few years later we had to place Ruby in a nursing home for Alzheimer’s care.  She was an amazing mother to me for 40 years, and I felt blessed to have her and her children as part of my life.  She was close to Sally in Virginia, and I was in Ohio. One night I woke up to a four foot round purple flower in the shape of a violet gently pulsating beside my bed.  It was Ruby’s favorite flower, and I felt her presence. Her sweet gentle voice whispered, “I had no idea the impact you are having on the world.  I’m so glad you didn’t become an attorney.” She and I had a running joke that I should have become an attorney rather than a psychologist because I liked to argue so much.  The next morning, Sally called.  “Mom died last night”.  I said, “Yes, I know she came to visit me”.  Incredulous, Sally said, “I’m her daughter, why didn’t she come to me?”  We laughed together through the tears, and then shared special memories. I feel so loved and am grateful for the continued connections from the other side.