“I had something happen to me after Randy died. I haven’t dared tell anyone about it, but Randy came to visit me.”
“Really!” I said.
“Yes. Really, he did. . . .”
“Tell me about it,” I said, feeling a shiver go through me.
“Well, as you probably know, Randy and I were married for seventeen years, and during all that wonderful time, we never spent a night apart. That first night after he died, I slept on the living room couch. We have two kids, a boy, twelve, and a girl, fourteen. I wanted to hear them if they were up during the night—and I wanted to be near his recliner. I didn’t sleep well at all, In face, I didn’t sleep at all. The second night, I gathered up my courage and lay down in our bed. I tossed and turned all night. You know, I could smell him on the sheets, and all I could really do was weep.”
As I listened to her, I thought of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s words in her book Living Until We Say Goodbye: "If we dare to love, we must have the courage to grieve."
Julie continued, “I was exhausted, numbly making funeral arrangements. The third night, when I got back in our bed, I started crying all over again. I’d reach for him and he wasn’t there. I think I finally fell asleep around 3 AM. At about 4 AM, I was awakened by the sound of footsteps in the hall. I sat up in bed, listening, thinking it might be my son. I had closed our bedroom door so that my sobbing wouldn’t wake up the children. Doctor, the next thing that happened was the most amazing thing that has ever happened in my life.” She paused and I waited.
“It was Randy; those were his footsteps. I saw him walk right through our bedroom door. It was dark. I don’t even have a nightlight, and I could see him clearly; he just glowed! He had a wonderful smile on his face and walked right up to the bed. I could believe my eyes. I was shocked! We talked for a long time. He told me what to do with our children and their future plans. We talked about finances and the property that I couldn’t see until I had that damn death certificate!” (I now began to understand her urgency and anger over the death certificate.)
“But that was not all. I felt so calm, so reassured, so okay in his presence, for the first time in almost four days. I told him I didn’t want him to leave and what he said then will last be a lifetime. He sat on the bed next to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He wiped the tears from my eyes and told me that our love would be forever—that whenever I needed him, to just think of him and he would com rushing to my side. He told me that I would feel his presence and love in my life many times and in many ways and that he would be there to help our children throughout their own lives. I can’t even put it all into words, Doctor. There are no words to describe the comfort that I felt . . . but there is more.
“When we finished talking, I felt overwhelmed and wrapped up in his love. As I said, we had never slept apart and always slept wrapped together like spoons. As far-fetched as this sounds, Randy then lay down in bed beside me and wrapped his arms around me.”
Her voice shaking a little, she added, “I felt the weight of his body and the warmth of it. I slept soundly and contentedly for the first time in three days.”
“My, my, what a marvelous experience!” I said.
“Yes, when I awakened the next morning, I was overwhelmed and, most of all, comforted. I could feel that he was gone, but when I think of him now, I feel a warmth around my back and neck. I know that is his love.”
In Janis Amatuzio, Forever Ours: Real Stories of Immortality and Living (New World Library, 2004), 111-113.
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