Angie, Mary, Lisa.  Easter, April 2000, two months before Mary”s death.

June 24th will mark 17 years since my beloved sister, Mary, 15 months my senior, left this world due to the ravages of cancer. The sting of her death has lessened through the years, and anyone who has lost someone knows you think of your loved one daily – hourly, not only on the anniversary of their birth and death. Enormous gratitude for having had the person in one’s life becomes the focus, while loving memories bring comfort and solace.

During the last week of Mary’s life, a fascinating incident occurred which I have always wanted to share. I believe it engages one’s beliefs, and raises questions about life, death, and our connection to the spirit world.

I arrived at the home Mary shared with her fiancé, on June 14, 2000. The next day, hospice arranged for a hospital bed to be set up in the dining room, centrally located, providing easy access. Many family members and friends visited daily, showering Mary with love and support; lightening the burden of sorrow for all of us. The hospice nurses and caregivers, as well as her family doctor, were the epitome of compassion.

As hospice provides palliative care, Mary was consistently and heavily medicated. However, she still experienced a great deal of breakthrough pain, necessitating a bottle of morphine always within reach. As the morphine dropper was filled, Mary would open her mouth as if a baby bird, eyes closed, seeking relief from the incessant pain that racked her body. As she grew weaker, unable to swallow pills, we—primarily my younger sister, Angie, Mary’s best friend, Lynn, and I, used a mortar and pestle to grind the pills, mix them with applesauce and feed them to her.

Late one evening Lynn was at the house with me, as she had volunteered to take a turn sleeping in the recliner next to Mary’s hospital bed. A necessity, after Mary, frightened and disoriented, had climbed out of her bed during the night a week earlier. Albeit now, Mary was either asleep or semi-conscious most of the time, unable to get out of bed unassisted and spoke on a limited and infrequent basis. Sleeping next to her eased our fears, hopefully hers as well.

As midnight approached, Lynn and I mixed Mary’s medication with applesauce and I attempted to feed it to her. However, after two bites she refused, became agitated and started saying, “One cent, one cent for a soda.” She chanted the line over and over again, then abruptly stopped, appearing calm. Lynn and I talked briefly and decided she would keep trying to get Mary to take her medicine, and I would go on to bed. As I started down the hall I could hear Lynn talking softly to Mary. She quietly called, “Liz, Liz, come back, she’s talking.” I turned and said, “Maybe she’ll take her medicine now?” Quite unexpectedly, Mary, very clearly repeated exactly what I said … except she sounded like a very old man with a strong east coast accent!

I quickly grabbed the applesauce mixture off the kitchen island, making my way around the end of the bed. Mary, who continued to speak like an old man from the east coast during the entire event said, “Better get over here or I’m gonna kick your tight little ass all the way to China!” At the same time, she grabbed the bed railing on both sides and attempted to pull herself up—Lynn and I quickly assisted, and she was sitting up for the first time in days. Lynn and I giggled under our breath as our eyes met in astonishment.

Not quite knowing how to react, I started feeding her the mixture. Mary took a few bites, then stopped, saying she didn’t know what she was eating. She started moving her jaw up and down, as if she was trying to figure out what was in her mouth—she said, “Texture … crunchy.” Then Mary clamped her mouth closed, indicating she didn’t want anymore. I tried to give her one more bite and she said, “No.” I insisted, “Come on.” And she said, “Do you wanna wear it?”  Although her response was out of character and unexpected, Lynn and I didn’t feel threatened, but we both realized we weren’t dealing with Mary. I asked if the person talking was Louise—a person Mary had told Angie and me about a few days earlier. She said she wasn’t Louise, and Louise wasn’t there. I asked if she knew where Louise was or if she had seen Louise, and she replied, “Mr. Louise to you.” Heavily emphasizing, Mister.

I decided to talk to her as if I were actually dealing with an old man from the east coast. I told her (him?) if she took more medicine I’d give her $5. She glanced at me and dismissed my offer with a slight wave of her hand. I offered her $10, and she waved me off a second time. I finally said, “How much money will it take for you to take your medicine?” She immediately replied, “20 bucks and get your tight little ass outta here!” Seconds later, her green eyes distant and unblinking, Mary said, “Gotta go now.” She closed her eyes, leaned back and slowly fell onto her pillow­—as if someone had blown out a candle. Lynn and I met each other’s eyes with bewilderment, breaking into nervous laughter—and not simply because there wasn’t anything tight or little about my ass! We were flabbergasted. Mary went back to sleep – or to whatever level of consciousness she had previously inhabited.

Incredulous, Lynn and I couldn’t fathom what we had just experienced. Who was that old man we were talking to and how did he take over Mary? Was Mary’s behavior the result of her medication, or had we witnessed a phenomenon related to her impending death? Would “he” be back?

Emotionally exhausted from our daily routine and dumbfounded by our experience, I went to bed and Lynn settled into the recliner next to Mary. The remainder of the night was uneventful. The next day Lynn and I related our story to the disbelief and wonder of Mary’s many visitors. Each visitor told the next until the house was abuzz with the tale of our midnight visitor. No one had ever heard of such an occurrence.

In remembering that June night, the very second Mary started talking with an east coast accent, an image immediately popped into my head—that of a 90-year-old man who worked on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. (I still lived in Denver at the time.) In my mind’s eye I saw his soul journeying through space, briefly filling a void in Mary’s consciousness—as if he was just passing through, came upon an opening, stopped in for a few moments, then moved on to his spiritual destination. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to go, or took a detour, or perhaps like Mary, he was terminally ill, and unbeknownst to us, human consciousness is collective and capable of migrating from one mind to another under certain circumstances.

Whatever the case, it was a phenomenal experience in every sense of the word. Mary was 42 years old, grew up in the Midwest, and although she had a marvelous ear for accents, it was not Mary speaking to Lynn and me that night. I am not religious, but I do believe energy moves through a dimension unseen by human eyes and unknown to human minds. I truly believe Lynn and I glimpsed the supernatural, soul—spirit—energy, in transit, journeying to its source after being released from human form. I believe that same energy connects me to all of humanity, as well as to the many loved ones who have journeyed before me—connecting us eternally through thought and feeling—however subtle or sublime.