I’m a skeptic, but grief drove me to see a medium
Faith and doubt exist on the same spectrum.
I always considered myself a skeptic. If I couldn’t touch it, or see it, or read some form of documentation or research substantiating it, I didn’t believe it. Conspiracy theories outrage, amuse and bore me. And I certainly didn’t believe in God or the devil.
Then my life fell apart. The love of my life, Kate, got sick and died at the age of 40. My rage at the universe knew no bounds. My loneliness was all-consuming. I felt empty, hollowed out. Surely, this was hell. Around this time, someone in my Facebook grief group asked if I had ever considered seeing a medium.
I must have laughed through my tears. A medium? You mean, like a psychic? My first thought was Whoopi Goldberg in the movie ”Ghost,” comically guiding Patrick Swayze back to Demi Moore. C’mon. Don’t insult me. I’m in mourning, and I’ve got a temper.
But I was also desperate. I asked my practical-minded grief counselor if she could recommend a good (snicker, chuckle) medium. Well, yes, as a matter of fact she could — someone another client trusted implicitly. She lives in Los Angeles , she said — because of course she does — and I should give her a call.
That was almost a year ago. I’ve been giving her a call at least once a week ever since. Along with my grief counselor, my therapist and my grief groups, she’s a valued member of my recovery team, which is bringing me back to life. I trust her, and I rely on her. I consider her a friend.
What in the hell happened? Has your faithful correspondent gone woo-woo? Can I still lay claim to skepticism?
Yes, I can. But I can also admit that death has entirely altered my conception of spirituality.
First of all, I was lucky. I found a rather remarkable woman to guide me through this. My medium is sincere and generous of heart. She has been through considerable loss in her life, and it has made her wiser. Our conversations are like philosophical discourses. I ask questions about grief and spirituality, and she responds with a lifetime of knowledge and perspective. When she discusses Kate, what she says checks out, and it resonates through me: Kate always wanted me to have a good life, and she still does. She’s not angry with me for my fragility, nor should I be. She’s with me when I’m writing. I should be forgiving, to myself most of all. The truths we discuss are more emotional than factual. I don't really test her with names of family members, or pets, or that sort of thing. Maybe I
don’t want to confront the fact that she's a mortal just like me.
My first impression during that introductory phone call was that she sounded like the kindly old lady in “Poltergeist” who advised Carol Anne not to go into the light. Then, one day when we were discussing the purpose of suffering, she texted me a photo of herself and her late husband from 34 years ago. Sitting before me was a darkhaired couple that could have waltzed out of an old Italian movie, maybe “8½.” It turns out my medium is stunning.
Do I believe she communicates with the dead? Well, I think certain people have abilities that other people don’t have, and I now believe some of those abilities are metaphysical. I believe there are planes of energy and existence that most of us can’t access. I’ve also read memoirs by alleged psychics and watched videos of them work a room, plucking subjects from a television studio audience, and I have a hard time buying it. They make half-specific conjectures — “I’m seeing a five,” “Is there someone who was in an accident that wasn’t their fault?” — that rope people in. There’s something too slick, too perfect. (See, I’m still a skeptic). I often hesitate to call my medium a medium. To me, she’s more of a spiritual adviser. And when she says Kate says or feels something, it sounds exactly like what the woman I love would say or feel.
But my relationship with my medium has as much to do with me as it does with her. When someone close to you dies your entire worldview changes. I now refuse to believe Kate is gone, whatever “gone” means. My medium is firm on this: A relationship doesn’t die just because one party leaves the earth. I tell Kate I love her every morning and every night, and several times every day. I think that love is the key here. I think, as Stevie Wonder once sang, I believe when I fall in love, it will be forever. It’s too powerful, too nurturing, not to. Perhaps love is my God.
Many people claim to believe in a God they can’t touch or see. They even live their lives according to words written by humans, often ascribed by believers to this God they can’t touch or see. This is one form of spirituality. It’s a leap of faith that helps the believer make sense of the world and ideally behave honorably in this life. Is this plausible? No more or less so than me having conversations with my dearly departed loved one. This, too, is a form of spirituality. And it is helping me heal.
When Hamlet conversed with his father’s ghost, his friend, Horatio, described the ghost’s presence as “wondrousstrange.” Hamlet was quick to reply: “There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” There was nothing logical or scientific about the ghost’s appearance, nothing that Horatio could look up back in grad school. But there it was, wondrous-strange and real.
Which is to say, the unexplainable, the invisible, can provide meaning; indeed, it always has. But you must believe, or at least be willing to consider the possibility of believing. In recovery circles they talk about believing in a power greater than yourself. This means taking a leap.
Sometimes that leap is daunting, and my skeptical nature re-emerges. These are crises of faith, and they hurt. It’s like someone has turned down the volume on Kate. My medium says I’m trying to do with my head what can only be done with my heart. Faith and doubt exist on the same spectrum; you can’t have one without the other.
I carry Kate inside me now. When I tell her I love her, I feel her say, “I know you do. I love you, too. Now go to work.” When I feel illogical pangs of guilt — a common malady among the bereaved — I feel her say, “Quit beating yourself up. I hate that.” Perhaps Kate’s spirit is the embodiment of my better angels, the life force I need to keep going in the face of impossible sadness. Kate is the finest and kindest human being I’ve ever known. I want to stay close to her.
And so, I call my medium, who has no doubts about these matters. Maybe I’m borrowing her faith. If so, I thank her for the loan. And for granting me the willingness to believe.