Death for Dummies

I see dead people. No, I don't really see dead people. I see people who see dead people. People who communicate with the dear departed have become a part of my everyday life. The strange thing is, I never believed in an afterlife. I wasn’t raised in any religion so I've always thought that when you die, you're dead. That's it. Nothing else. Longevity runs in my family, so I figure by the time I’m 99 or so, I’m going to be really tired. Done. And I’m not really hungering for an afterlife because I want the essence of me to go on forever. But since my mom died, I haven’t been able to accept that I'll never hear from her again. Even though she lived to be nearly ninety, she read voraciously, loved crossword puzzles and was, in her words, “Tarp as a shack.” I miss her. So, bit by bit, I've explored the notion of a life beyond this one, hoping for a peek into the Other Side.
I find a kind of comfort in the TV psychics who keep in touch with people who have passed on. I just love John Edward’s TV show, Crossing Over. In case you haven't seen it, he stands center stage with the audience stadium-style around him. He pauses a moment, rubs his hands together and then, his finger pointed as a compass, walks toward someone in the audience and says, “There's someone here whose name begins with B.” When a person acknowledges this, Edward is off and running. He comes up with amazing, detailed snippets of information about a relative or friend who has passed on, or about the people who are still here—verifying that the loved one is still around, watching over the family. He is always very specific. “You have a picture of your brother in a Carmen Miranda hat.” Or “Who dressed the dog in the Superman outfit?” The people he picks look stunned. No actor is that good. Day after day, he draws a picture of a life beyond this one. And, day after day, my resistance has worn down.
It sounds so superficial to say that a TV show has changed my fundamental beliefs. But in fact, I’d love to see John Edward in person. The trouble is, with my luck, he wouldn’t hear from my mom. I’d get messages from distant relatives or my former mother-in-law. John Edward brings through ex-husbands and ex-wives, mean ex-bosses and cranky ex-landlords. Almost everyone’s got an ex in his or her life. And that ex is for a reason. I only have one ex-husband to worry about. What’s Liz Taylor going to do? My reading would slip by with me anxiously waiting to hear from my mom, and John Edward would be asking me if the phrase “cowboy room” meant anything to me. It’s a reference to a horrible old diet doctor my sister and I went to in the days of phen-fen. (All of Dr. Roston’s exam rooms had themes: the cowboy room, the diet jokes room, the world travels room and the antique medical instrument room. We hated the cowboy room. The scales were at least a pound heavier.) Actually, I wouldn’t mind hearing from Dr. Roston. Something like, “Put down that donut.”
John Edward says that our loved ones are always around us. He says, “ Don’t bother going to the cemetery. They’re in the car with you on the way.” But aren’t there places you wouldn’t want your mom to go? What about privacy? This goes way beyond a meddling mother in law. In the movie City of Angels, angels in long gray trench coats hang around people all the time, everywhere. Besides being a pretty bad movie, I found the whole idea of being watched not comforting, but vaguely creepy. Watching me shower, sleeping, having sex? Yuck! No wonder nuns are celibate.
But maybe it’s like a cosmic television, where if you’re doing something that your dead Uncle Jack shouldn’t see, he can “change the channel” and watch somebody else. Hopefully there are “channel blockers” to keep the perverts at bay. (But of course there wouldn’t be perverts in Heaven anyway, right?) Everyday life is, for the most part, really boring. Watch any reality tv show for more than five minutes and that becomes abundantly clear. So why would Aunt Helen want to watch you do your grocery shopping when she could check out Mel Gibson in the shower? Can we only see people we knew in life? Security guards monitor multiple screens with ease, so maybe moms on the other side have multiple sets so they can watch all of their children, plus keep up with their favorite soap opera.
John Edward tries his best to explain how all of this works, and he’s so good at it, it doesn’t seem at all unlikely that your great aunt Mildred is watching over you. He even hears from pets that have passed on. When my much-loved Golden Retriever, Brandon, died, many people sent cards telling the lovely tale of the Rainbow Bridge. Through tear-filled eyes, I read about the magical day when Brandon will look up from resting in his heavenly meadow, cross the Rainbow Bridge, and we’ll be reunited. But once I put down the card and blew my nose, I remembered Brandon wasn’t the only dog in my life. I had Pogo before him, and have Bodie now, and expect to always have a dog around. Are all of these dogs waiting at the Rainbow Bridge for me? Brandon, lovable as he was, hated all other dogs. I’m afraid there’s a huge dogfight brewing on the Other Side.
See, this is where I run into trouble. I start trying to figure out the logistics of the afterlife. Are the dear departed with us all the time or with God in Heaven? How can it be both? And will they recognize us when we get there, presuming we’ll be a lot older? And are these dead people ghosts or angels? I guess these are the same questions people have asked for eons. Since I don’t have a priest or rabbi, I’m left wondering. Most people born into a religion have faith. They’re not bothered by niggling details. I suppose if I were methodical, I’d take a Comparative Religion class, and find the philosophy that fits my outlook. But I’m not that organized. What I’d like is a book—Death for Dummies, a McDonaldization of answers about the afterlife. “You want fire and brimstone with that?”
Picking and choosing from books and TV, the pop culture approach works for me. I’ve even adopted notions from the newspaper. Dear Abby’s “Pennies from Heaven” philosophy maintains that when you find a penny, it means that someone who has passed on is saying hello. Her column has been filled with stories from people who have found pennies in unusual places, and even pennies with dates that are significant to them. When I'm really missing my mom, a penny will turn up. At her favorite restaurants, at the movies or at the library, I usually find one. In fact, my first day at writing workshop, I found a penny under my seat. I told the teacher, “My mom says Hi.” Mom wrote poetry; it’s fitting that she’d follow me to class.
If I only I could talk to her. The puzzle of the afterlife is just the sort of thing my mom would love to talk about. So many questions. I hope she’s ready.