Well done by a rare medium

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Well done by a rare medium
May 30, 2009

By Karin Fuller
wvgazette.com

CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- Growing up, I was fascinated with ghosts, psychics and most anything paranormal. Over the years, my interest faded until my only forays into mystical matters were when I caught the occasional episode of "Medium" or a middle-of-the-night airing of "Crossing Over."

But a few months ago, something happened that dragged my old interest to the forefront again.

I had gone to Flatwoods for the funeral of my friend Becky's son, Josh, who died at the age of 19 from complications of GSD-1A (glycogen storage disease). Although it was getting late when the service was over, I stopped for coffee with friends, then was about to head for home when -- even though I'd visited the Flatwoods outlet mall bookstore just a few hours before -- I felt compelled to go back.

Upon entering the store for the second time in a day, the first thing I saw was an audio book titled "We Are Their Heaven" by Allison DuBois, the real-life psychic whose life inspired the television show "Medium."

I read the back cover and decided the book seemed interesting enough to help keep me awake and alert on the drive home, so I handed over some money and then got on the road.

It didn't take more than a few minutes of listening to the book before I realized my purchase hadn't been meant for me. It was for Becky. Still, I couldn't stop listening, and even though I sent her my copy the very next day, I ordered another for me.

From a literary viewpoint, the book has some flaws, but for someone who is grieving, especially the loss of a child, there is so much wisdom and perspective and comfort to be found that I can't recommend it enough. You don't even need to be a believer in mediums to gain from what Allison DuBois has to say.

I've experienced enough bizarre happenings in my life that I'm no longer a skeptic, but that doesn't mean I'm not wary of what I'm witnessing and trying to see how it might be a scam.

A good "for instance" happened a month or so back, when I was invited to participate in a group reading with a medium from Ohio, and I found myself growing increasingly annoyed with the generalities she was tossing out.

"The person coming through -- they died of complications of diabetes."

Oh, c'mon. This is West Virginia. What are the odds there isn't someone here who has lost a loved one to diabetes?

Somewhat amused, I started jotting down notes.

"Was someone cleaning their stove right before they came here?" the medium asked. "And when they were doing it, they made a loud bang?"

I said nothing, even though the very last thing I'd done before leaving that day had been to clean the stove, and while doing so, had dropped the iron burner, which made an explosive sound when it fell.

Lots of people probably wipe off the stove before they go out, I reasoned. I'm not raising my hand.

She mentioned several more things, all of which absolutely applied to me, but were still general enough that I said nothing. Frustrated, the psychic apologized for having to be repulsive, then said, "OK. He's telling me this person he's here for says that crap is the theme of her life. Literal crap, like dog poop. That all they ever do is clean poo."

She had me there. I raised my hand.

Just that day, I'd started an e-mail with the words, "Crap seems to be the recurring theme of my life." (We have three dogs and three cats. One of them is sneaky and gross.)

So while the psychic definitely seemed to be getting something, how much of it was coming from the "other side" and how much was observational, I don't know. Still, my favorite uncle Edgar was clearly on the line for a while, giving details so specific I have no doubt it was him.

But tickled as I was to have my uncle come through, I was still disappointed. He wasn't the one I'd hoped to hear from.

Tomorrow, June 1, would've been my daughter Camille's seventh birthday. So hungry was I to hear from her that, unlike with my uncle, had the medium said anything at all that I could've twisted into having been from Camille, I would've been waving my hand.

Still, even having lost a child of my own, I'm finding it hard to help Becky deal with her grief. We're at such incongruent levels -- she, caught up with feeling she could've done something more; I, tangled up in the feeling that I've moved on too well.

And yet even with the two of us at such different places, this DuBois book helped us both. Becky has now listened to it several times, while I've gone through my bound copy with a highlighter, marking each place where I found perspective or peace. There's something in how DuBois phrases what she believes that make it seem both logical and apparent.

"Your loved ones don't want you to suffer for the rest of your life, paying homage to them through your tears," writes DuBois. "They sit there with you while you cry, and the harder you cry, the louder you get to them. Do you want to share only sorrow and pain with them daily? I think they would like to share in your happy times."

Becky's son was taken too young. As was Camille. As are so many more. If we allow their loss to stop us from living, it doesn't honor their memory or prove how much we loved them. According to DuBois, those who have died want to continue to share in our lives, and we should love them enough to live large for ourselves, because it's also for them.