About a year before he died, my father began to have visitors.

The one I remember most was a Jamaican woman who would come deep in the night when everyone else was sleeping. She’d hold his hand and tell him, “You’re my son. I'll always take care of you.” He was anxious about death, so her visits reassured him.

He also started to travel.

Now, on this plane of existence, my father was in a wheelchair and living in a nursing home. The only places he went were to doctors’ appointments in a wheelchair van.

But on another plane of existence, he had quite the itinerary.

My father lived on the east side of Virginia near Chesapeake Bay, but he’d discovered he owned a home on the west side of Virginia. He was so excited! Our family could fix it up, rent it out, and make lots of money.

He’d travel to Western Pennsylvania where he had been a guidance counselor for over 20 years and where he raised my brother and me. Or he’d go to New York City where he was born and where his younger granddaughter was in graduate school.

Dad had a helper for these visits. A sort of travel agent.  She’d collect all his belongings and send his things ahead of him. When he got to his destination, he’d find a room set up exactly like his room in the nursing home.

She made sure he was comfortable and safe, no matter where he was.

Entering The Shadowlands

Most people hear the fantastical stories of their elders and chalk it up to old age and dementia. But I'm trained as an end-of-life doula, and I saw it differently. I saw the signs of dying.

My training taught me that the visions of dying people are different from the hallucinations of people with mental illness. For one thing, dying people are comforted by their visions.

For another, these visions tend to fit specific themes. These themes have been documented across time, cultures, religions, age groups, and gender.

Dying people often talk about preparing for a trip. They describe travels to places that were important to them.

They talk about visitors. Sometimes, it’s their deceased loved ones. Other times, they describe encounters with reassuring guides and helpers.

So, when my father started talking like this, I felt grief.

But I also leaned in.  I knew he had entered into what I call the Shadowlands, a place where this world overlaps with the next.  I intended to stay as close to him as possible for as long as possible.

Getting Ready to Go

About four months before he died, my father stopped socializing much. It was another sign.

Dad enjoyed other people. He participated in most activities offered to residents. He often ventured out into the broader retirement community where he was recognized by many people. They’d stop and chat with him.

Then, suddenly, he insisted on staying close to his living quarters. It wasn’t because he was depressed or despondent. He wouldn’t leave because he was busy.

“I need to get ready to go,” he’d tell me. “I have to be here when they come to get me.”

The Rally

Two days before my father passed, the Director of Nursing called me. We’d gotten to know each other fairly well and she knew I wanted to be with my dad when he died.

“Your father isn’t doing well,” she said. “If you’re going to come, come now.”

It would take me 24 hours to get to Newport News from my home in Atlanta. I knew I might not make it, but I had to try.

When I got there, he was still with us. In fact, he was better than he’d been for months.

He was with my brother and niece, who lived nearby. He joked around, watched football, and ate the Christmas treats he’d received the previous week.

The nurse on duty was optimistic, marveling at my father’s comeback ability. My family believed Dad had pulled himself back from the edge of death.

I wasn't so sure.

I knew that dying people sometimes rally. Days or even hours before they pass, their conditions take a turn for the better.  They may seem  more like themselves than they’ve been in months.

Their loved ones believe it’s a sign of miraculous healing. But it isn’t.

 It’s a last hurrah. And a sign that the end is near.

A Crowded Room

Sure enough, Dad wasn’t well when I got there the next day. He wouldn’t get out of bed. He complained about pain. He refused to eat and wasn’t  interested in talking or watching football.

Other family members stopped in for brief visits, but I was alone with him most of the day.  He stayed quiet, sometimes watching football, sometimes dozing.

Then, around 2pm, he turned to me and said “Can you drive?”

It took me off guard.

“Sure, Dad,” I said. “I can drive.”

“Because I don’t have a driver’s license,” he replied, which was true. He’d voluntarily given up driving years before when he developed neuropathy.

“I know, Dad. I can drive. But, where are we going?”

“I don't know.” He shrugged, then nodded at the foot of his bed. “But they do.”

I couldn’t see “them.” I didn’t know who they were and neither did he. But he was comfortable with “them” being there. He had full confidence that they’d tell us what to do when the time came.

Another sign. The crowded room, full of people only the dying person can see.

The Final Hour

The time came about six hours later. Dad had a rough afternoon. Lots of restlessness and thrashing. It’s a symptom of the dying process, one of the hardest to watch.

But about four hours before midnight, he settled.  I was on the phone, checking in with my husband, who said, “Tell your dad the Steelers won.”

I conveyed the message. Dad made eye contact with me, a quizzical look on his face.

Why does he look confused, I wondered. Can he understand me?  Is he trying to remember who the are?

I continued talking to my husband and, a few moments later, glanced over at my dad again.

This time, his eyes were closed, and he was completely still. His chest wasn’t moving.

At that moment, his nurse cruised into the room to administer a strong narcotic that’s used in death care.

“Chris. Is he breathing?” I asked quietly.

Another nurse walked into the room as Chris was holding the stethoscope to my father’s heart. He looked at the other nurse and shook his head.

My father was gone. And “they” were gone as well.

It was just me, two nurses, and the body my father had left behind.

I prayed he understood why I couldn’t drive.

No One Dies Alone

People ask if I believe deathbed visions are real. Are we somehow able to teleport to our favorite places for a last-minute visit before our demise? Will our loved ones and friendly entities come to help us pass? Or are these visions simply a product of the dying process?

I don’t know. Death is a mystery that none of us will unravel until it’s our turn to travel through the Shadowlands.

At that time, we may indeed find there is life after life. Or, we may discover that our miraculous imaginations create a grand finale. An internal celebration of life as our consciousness lets go.

But having watched both my parents die, I’ve come to believe two things.

First, I believe humans are masterful at finding and creating whatever we need to get through life's hardest transitions, including death.

I also believe, and this is important…

No one dies alone.

Death Anxiety Posts and Additional Resources

If you’d like to read my other posts on the topic, here are the links:

• An Antidote for Death Anxiety (Death Anxiety #1)
• Tracking The Signs of Death (Death Anxiety #2)
• You Are Not Alone (Death Anxiety #3)

If you're interested in knowing more about the research into deathbed visions, I recommend these resources:

• The Signposts of Dying (book) by death counselor and educator Martha Jo Atkins. Or watch Dr. Atkins’s TEDtalk.
• After: A Doctor Explores What Near-Death Experiences Reveal about Life and Beyond (book) by Bruce Greyson, MD 

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