Adventures in the Afterlife

www.astralinfo.org.

PART ONE

Accelerated Evolution

Chapter 1

The Journey Begins

June 18, 2011

Stage four, inoperable cancer ... is all that I hear. My mind locks.

As I walk out of the doctor's office, the news begins to sink in. I am only thirty-seven years old and I'm going to die. The bitter-green hospital walls seem to close in around me. I can't breathe, can't think. Trying to hold back the inevitable tears, I'm lost in a maze of winding hallways and endless swinging doors. Finally, I recognize one of the openings as an elevator and punch at the button as though it were somehow at fault. My ears are ringing and my throat has started to close. Focusing, I struggle to remember where I'm going, although it really doesn't seem to matter. The elevator jerks to a stop at the lobby and I aimlessly follow a group of people as they herd out of the building and onto the street. The noise of the city fades as I fumble for my cell phone and dial my wife. I need to hear her voice.

The news isn't good, I tell her. I'll be home soon. The analogy of going home doesn't occur to me right away.

Tracy is waiting on the front porch and gently takes my hand, whether to calm me or to hang on to what little time we have left together, I don't know. I admit it is comforting to know that she will be by my side during this ordeal. At her request, I decide to keep this journal; I hope it will help me gain some perspective on the remaining months of my life.

July 12, 2011

Doctors tell me that chemotherapy may prolong my life. The quality of that life is questionable, but I have to do it for my family. Anticipating my first treatment, I sit with Tracy in the dimly lit waiting room. My anxiety grows with every moment. A thin, older gentleman comes in and sits across from us. A sad-looking woman signs the register at the reception desk and takes the seat next to him. She watches as his name is called and he walks unsteadily toward the nurse. When he is out of earshot, the woman tells us that her father has a rare form of inoperable lung cancer and has been given less than six months to live. He is seventy-nine years old, a Vietnam veteran. She fights to hold back the tears as she tells us his story. The chemo treatments will give him only a five-percent chance to move beyond the six-month mark. I seriously wonder if I would endure the notorious side effects of chemo for only a five-percent improvement; I doubt it. Only then does it hit me that our situations are not all that different.

My name is called next and I am guided to a green vinyl recliner, where I will be seated for the next five hours. It is a strange, sterile environment with the constant sound of TV soap operas and game shows filling the room. Identical recliners line each wall, and patients sit hooked to their lifelines of clear, toxic-chemical bags. My fellow patients read, watch TV, or participate in discussions of family stories and their life situations. It's clear that the nurses have been through this a thousand times as they listen to the patients' stories, feigning interest. I observe my surroundings and feel completely disconnected from the unfolding events; it is as if I were watching a movie of someone else's life.

I'm surprised by how nauseated I feel after the treatment, and for several days I seriously wonder if it is worth it. But when I look at my little girls, I vow to do whatever it takes to fight this monster that is consuming my life.

August 27, 2011

I can't believe how fast my entire existence has spiraled downward, completely out of control. All my life, I've been strong and energetic, overflowing with drive and ambition. Now I can only watch as my body grows weaker with each passing day. Each breath is a chore. Sometimes I think it would be easier to give in, but then Maggie brings me her teddy bear to hold, thinking it will make me well again, or Lizzie asks if I can have cookies and juice with her, and I think maybe I can beat this and prove the doctors are wrong. I need to get stronger, but inside I know the wretched truth: each day is getting worse.

September 4, 2011

My life has become a whirlwind of medical appointments. The doctors say my cancer has advanced and they don't appear hopeful that chemo will stop the spread. Deep inside, I've known for some time that this was a losing battle, but I've tried to stay positive for Tracy's sake.

For days, I prayed to God to spare me from this horror: "Lord, I promise to be a better man if I'm healed of this nightmare." But in my heart, I know it is too late for deals.

Tonight is my last poker night with the guys. We've been playing every other week since I joined the firm over ten years ago. Even though they say they want me to stay, I can tell that watching me get weaker is not fun. The baseball caps I wear are a poor disguise for my balding head and in all fairness to the group I know it's time to leave the game.

October 17, 2011

I have been unable to work since my chemo treatments began, and now it's becoming difficult to command my own limbs to move. This disease is devouring my body and I'm rapidly losing weight. Exhaustion overtakes me as I walk down the hall to the bathroom. The doctors and nurses tell me this is a normal process, but it feels as though an evil curse has been placed on my body. I find myself struggling to accept my body's relentless decline.

People say that everything has a purpose, but what could be the purpose for the daily weakening of my organs and the loss of the very memories I hold dear? Sometimes I have a hard time just remembering the names of my girls, Maggie and Lizzie, my little twin angels. They will start first grade next year, and I fear that I won't be there to hold their hands as they go to school for the first time. Every day begins with the dread of what will happen next.

Why would God allow this to occur? What have I done to deserve this?

October 31, 2011

Today is Halloween. I recognize the irony as I watch children dressed as skeletons and ghosts. They are laughing and trading candy. I feel like one of the walking dead that the costumed children are impersonating.

November 12, 2011

I've read that the mysterious process of dying is natural. I'm reassured that there are predictable stages of psychological change and I'm told that eventually I will reach a final acceptance of this malicious decay that has spread through my body. What a load of crap. There is no acceptance, only anger. I can't find a single reason for this raging insanity. It's completely senseless that the cells of my own body have turned against me, consuming my life.

December 1, 2011

I'm so very tired. Unanswered questions bore into my brain. What is the purpose for this fight to the death? Why would God allow this cellular heresy to exist? I've been a good Christian all my life; I've done the best I could. Why am I being punished?

December 5, 2011

Pastor Clark visited me today. He read some Bible passages and tried his best to be supportive. Make peace with your situation and trust the Lord, he said. It took all my strength to hold my tongue; my faith in miracles is in damn short supply. I didn't tell him, but all I really feel is a deep-seated anger that saturates every cell of my being. I feel abandoned by God.

December 17, 2011

My body grows weaker with each passing day. With my wife's help I'm making it through the chemo treatments. The spreading cancer is eating my life away with shocking speed, and it feels weird to admit that a portable oxygen tank has become my friend and constant companion.

December 25, 2011

Christmas is just sad. Family members visit and try their best not to appear shocked by my frail appearance. The awkward small talk, punctuated by poor attempts at humor, is exhausting. I just want all of them to leave. Their faces say it all and I feel like a freak in a bad circus act.

December 31, 2011

Today is New Year's Eve. My big resolution is to breathe just one more day. I try my best to look comfortable so my wife won't fuss over me. She's amazing; I don't know how she does it but she always manages to smile.

I have slowly accepted my fate. If only I could see the big picture and know that there is some kind of great, unseen, cosmic plan at work. There must be a divine purpose behind all of this but for the life of me I don't see it.

January 3, 2012

As a withered shadow of my former self, my daily care has become a demanding chore. My wife is a warrior who has done the best she could to take care of me. I know I've become a terrible liability to my family. For several days I have suggested going to a place where professionals can take care of me. She refused at first but finally conceded after my repeated insistence.

January 7, 2012

Today I was taken to the hospice care center. As I was carried from my home to the waiting ambulance, a strange thought filled my mind: this will be the last time I will see my house? How many hours did we spend picking out the perfect shade of paint for the front door? The gardens are bare now, but I know that in the spring they will be alive with color. This was our dream home, the first house we bought together. Then it hit me that the idea of possessing anything is a complete illusion. Nothing can be owned. We arrive in and depart from this life with nothing. For the first time, I clearly see that the entire concept of ownership is a grand fantasy.

January 8, 2012

My room is comfortable; not that it matters much. Tracy visits me for much of the day, but I'm exhausted and sleep most of the time. She looks beautiful. I love my kids, but I will miss her more than anything. My doctor's liberal use of pain medicine doesn't ease my labored breathing and I grow tired of the endless fight. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I wake to a peaceful, floating sensation. People surround the bed and gently touch me; they whisper my name, but the nurses don't seem to see or hear them. They are trying to comfort me. A voice says to me, We are here with you.

January 9, 2012

I struggle to focus as Tracy reads to me from the Bible. My favorite passage is Psalm 23, which I know by heart and recite silently as I drift to sleep: The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me.

I'm dreaming. It's dark and I find myself wandering through an endless series of hallways, trying to find my body. I feel like a point in space desperately attempting to locate my physical form. Then it hits me—I must be dead. I'm jerked awake, my mind is racing. I thought I was dead, but I am still here. This convinces me that the end is near.

January 10, 2012

Light is streaming through the window as I steal each breath from the power that is death. For many months I've battled this cancer, and now I face the inevitable with a strange mix of fatigue and acceptance. This war is lost but my mind is clear. Vivid images from my childhood come alive and a newfound clarity wells from deep inside. There is a simple truth: I have wasted too much of my life focusing on the lifeless objects around me. All of the possessions I worked so hard to obtain are meaningless and only the love I hold is truly important. I have been so blind. Why did it take my impending death to understand something so basic? It's ironic that it took me to the end of my life to open my eyes and finally see what living should be.

My wife sits by my bed and it is all she can do to hold back the tears as she places my frail hand in hers. It breaks my heart to think that I might not see her again. I'm too weak to speak. I can't tell her how much I love her but I'm sure she knows. My precious little girls stand by the bedside, and I can see that Maggie is startled by my withered appearance; she touches my arm as tears trickle down her soft, perfect cheeks. Lizzie hides behind her mother, unable to even look at me.

Sadness wells up inside until I feel like I will burst. Tracy's hand is stroking mine, and then she's gone. I wish I had more time.

January 11, 2012, 2:00 a.m.

I'm jolted to awareness as a powerful buzzing sound and intense vibrations surge through me. I feel weightless as I float away from my body. It's a wonderful sensation of freedom; no pain, no struggle for breath. Voices speak to me and I strain to comprehend the words. Several people feel close to me and even though their words are muffled; I clearly hear my name called. It must be the middle of night yet my room is illuminated by ethereal, silvery light. Spontaneously, I think about my physical body and I'm instantly there, lying on the hospice bed. Damn. Once again I feel the heavy dull pain of my body.

Chapter 2

Transition

January 12, 2012, 2:35 p.m.

As I drift in and out of consciousness, images of my life flash through my mind. I can't believe how fast my entire existence has passed by. In contrast, I recall how slowly the clock moved when I was a child waiting for Christmas morning to dawn. After going to evening church on Christmas Eve, we would ride around the neighborhood looking at the holiday lights. I can still smell the sweet-potato pie that my Aunt Sophie baked every year.

I find myself floating from one familiar life event to another. Coming into view is my teenage self in red swim trunks sitting on a tall, white stand at the community pool. At the age of sixteen, I was so proud to have passed all the rigorous tests to become a lifeguard. Before me there are vivid pictures from the day I pulled an unconscious, freckle-faced boy out of the deep end after he hit his head on the diving board. My CPR training was put to use until the ambulance arrived. They told me that I saved his life.

At the beginning of college, I didn't think I would ever make it to graduation. Four years seemed so far away, but as I see myself walking across the stage to accept my diploma I can only remember the confidence that my family always had in me. Tracy was there; I proposed to her later that evening. What a classy wedding, with flowers at each pew and garlands around the altar. There was a four-piece orchestra playing in the back of the church. I can hear the music now. I smile, thinking about how my bride wanted every detail to be perfect, and all I wanted was to have her as my wife.

Then we were blessed with our twin babies and I see the replay of their baptism in the same church. I've been so lucky to have these beautiful girls in my life, even for just a short period of time.

The last time I was in that chapel was to say goodbye to my mother. She worked so hard all of her life, it was almost a relief to see she was finally able to rest. I hope that she has found her reward in heaven.

Powerful vibrations surge through me, dragging me away from my visions. A peaceful light saturates my mind and all my fear dissolves away. I can scarcely tell what is real and what is shaped by the cool liquid that slowly drips into my veins.

There is no more pain. I hear voices around me and realize that my legs, which had been pressing against the sheets, now seem to be melting away. Is someone touching my hand? I can't tell for sure. Sparks are flowing up my arm; this tingling is something I've never felt before.

Then I hear music; the sound comes from both deep within and far in the distance. It's the chiming of bells and the clear tone of pure crystal singing to me. Again, there is a touch on my arm, a gentle stroking from my wrist and across the top of my hand