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About Me

Found 113 results

  1. Hi, I recently lost my grandmother. She was old and fragile, and I was worried about her for months. I had been taking care of her but I never thought this would happen so soon. I don't think you can really prepare for death. I know that everyone dies, but I find it so hard to accept. She was very generous to everyone, which makes her loss so difficult. Unfortunately they are located so far away they haven't been able to see her. She was in no condition to travel. I am trying to keep it together, but I feel so incredibly empty. I don't have much desire for life, but I had been struggling with that for my whole life anyway. I have been depressed before, and I believe I have social anxiety to some extent. I don't have many friends, so I find this all extremely overwhelming. I hope I can move on somehow. I am avoidant and it is hard to connect with people. Thanks for reading.
  2. On march 6th at about 8:30am my husband was hit by a semi truck and died instantly. I'm struggling to find ways to get through the day. Every minute I think about him and the day he died and how he died my soul hurts. He was my everything,my life,my world,and I'm really struggling with this. I need someone who has been through this to guide me and tell me that this some how gets better.
  3. I've never done this before but it was recommended by some friends to try and find some people online who understand. Growing up I had an amazing life, both parents always around, I was always daddy's little girl and Moms little angel. At 13 my parents got a divorce. My dad got really depressed and started using drugs. We always stayed in touch and hung out pretty often, even when things got rough. My mother and I were living house to house for about a year. We found a nice apartment and lived there for 5 years. When i was 18 on 5/8/2015 I lost my father he was 45. It was a very rough 2 months for my family and I. He went into the hospital for shortness of breath. The next night i get a call saying he went into cardiac arrest, after that in was in an induced coma for 2 months. They would wake him up once a day for me to be able to visit with him, He couldn't talk due to the tube in this throat but he was still there. He had multiple surgeries all of which were my choice (since i was 18 and the oldest child i was next of kin) and after his last surgery he lost all function of his brain. It was my decision to let him go. I know he wouldn't have wanted to be like that. It's almost been 2 years since that's happened and i still think about it everyday. I don't think I will ever make it through that. At age 20 on 2/24/2017 I lost my mother she was 50. In December she went into the ER because she wasn't feeling to well and the doctor had told us she had stage 4 breast cancer. I was completely destroyed. My mom was the healthiest woman ever, didn't smoke, didn't drink, ate healthy, took all her vitamins. She started chemo not to long after that, after her 3rd session she had come home and called me, she said she wasn't feeling to good and of course we all thought it was just the chemo. The next afternoon my 15 year old brother came home from school and called me saying he couldn't wake her up. He called 911 and we all met at the hospital, They pulled us into the "family room" and i knew at that point that this couldn't be good. The cancer had made its way into her stomach, she bleed out so much that her heart completely stopped. My mom was my best friend, my person to run too. We had a very close relationship from beginning to end. We were there for each other in the hardest of times. Now I am a 20 year old, with no parents, a 15 year old brother and no support. I am completely lost and broken.. I feel like giving up myself but i can't do that my brother needs me right now and i can't even hold myself together.
  4. I lost my first son due to a miscarriage followed by active labor and an emergency DnC in 2010. I lost my second son after active labor and a very traumatic miscarriage in 2013. In 2015 after 72 hrs of active labor and 30 hours after my water broke my son Uriyah was born at 23 weeks. It took the Drs 8 hours to stabilize him. So tiny but so perfect. He steadily made progress for 6 days in the NICU until his body couldn't handle anymore. Our sweet baby boy died in mommys arms just 5 hour shy of being a week old. It was the hardest thing I have ever been thru. Here we are a year and a half later and my roommate is pregnant. No one understands why I'm uncomfortable being around her 7month pregnant belly. No one understands why I'm not ok with having an infant in the house. I'm being told I'm being selfish; it's been long enough; I'm giving up before I even try; if I'm uncomfortable I can leave. What do I do? I'm with the man I want to marry and he's not understanding at all why I am not okay.
  5. I lost my first son due to a miscarriage followed by active labor and an emergency DnC in 2010. I lost my second son after active labor and a very traumatic miscarriage in 2013. In 2015 after 72 hrs of active labor and 30 hours after my water broke my son Uriyah was born at 23 weeks. It took the Drs 8 hours to stabilize him. So tiny but so perfect. He steadily made progress for 6 days in the NICU until his body couldn't handle anymore. Our sweet baby boy died in mommys arms just 5 hour shy of being a week old. It was the hardest thing I have ever been thru. Here we are a year and a half later and my roommate is pregnant. No one understands why I'm uncomfortable being around her 7month pregnant belly. No one understands why I'm not ok with having an infant in the house. I'm being told I'm being selfish; it's been long enough; I'm giving up before I even try; if I'm uncomfortable I can leave. What do I do? I'm with the man I want to marry and he's not understanding at all why I am not okay.
  6. I lost my mother a month ago to a sudden heart attack in bed. She was fit and healthy and had no health conditions, so this came as a huge shock to us all. I was visiting my parents for the weekend and was sleeping in the room next to them, and my Dad woke me up saying that he couldn’t wake my mother up. We both then tried to wake her, called 999 and the paramedics did all they could to save her, but were unable to do so. One of the problems I have during my grief is that because my Dad and I were the ones first on the scene, we saw her at the most horrifyingly worst - blue lips, helpless body and eyes all over their sockets, and then we saw her being given CPR for around 45 minutes on the floor of the bedroom. I just can’t get these images out of my head at night and they come back each and night as soon as I decide to go to bed. I’m sure there must be some link to the fact that it happened just after I went to bed that night and they therefore come back at the same sort of time. I don’t live in the same house where it happened, but that hasn’t really made much of a difference with this. I’m curious to know if anyone has had any similar experiences to this and whether they found a solution that stops this regular recollection of what I saw that night. I’ve tried reading more books than usual, especially in bed at night, which helps a bit but it hasn't solved the problem. It wouldn’t be so bad if I was recalling the best memories I have of her but it’s always these absolutely terrible ones. I’d also like to know how people have got through the first few months in general. I was numb for the first 2 weeks, and then going back to work I’ve felt a bit more normal but some days are very painful indeed. I’ve heard people say that a sudden death like this takes longer as the numbness and shock need to get over first before the proper grieving starts, and now I feel like I’m right in the full grieving process. I’m not religious, but I still like to feel my mother will always be by my side in some sense and always there to offer an opinion and answer a question - which is good because she was always right!
  7. Hello, I am a reader who recently loss my soulmate. I thought it might be a good idea to review some of the books that I've read lately about grief. In our situations, sometimes it's hard to seek outside advice/support when we feel the way we do. Sometimes we just want to be alone. Having a good book dealing with the emotions that we are facing can help. So, here goes. The first book I read was "Healing After Loss, Daily Meditations for Working Through Grief" by Martha Whitmore Hickman. The book has 365 pages, each page a day of the year. Each page starts with a quote from a famous writer/philosopher/etc. The rest of the page the author explains the quote, sometimes with an anecdote. The bottom of the page has an affirmation that pertains to the quote and information on the page. The author said she wrote the book in this format because when grieving, our attention spans are quite small. Reading a whole book, cover to cover, can be overwhelming in our condition. I found that I would only ready 3 or 4 pages at a time, then put the book down for a day or two. That way I could assimilate the information, and apply/use in my daily activities. Picking the book back up after a day or two; is not like starting the book over. The book has some gems of wisdom for grievers, and explains a lot of the feelings that we are experiencing. I highly recommend this book. The second book I've read was "When your Soulmate Dies, A Guide to Healing Through Heroic Mourning" by Alan D. Wolfelt, PH.D. This is a smaller book which only has 150 pages. The book explains that the loss of a soulmate is the greatest loss one can experience. Soulmate love is the biggest, most intense love/relationship one can have; and the grieving from losing your soulmate is much more involved than previously expected. He says it takes what he calls "heroic mourning" to heal from this type of loss. He talks about the need for evaluating/experiencing the six heroic mourning needs: 1. Acknowledge your soulmate's death. 2. Embrace the pain of the loss 3. Remember your soulmate 4. Develop a new self-identity 5. Search for Meaning 6. Receiving ongoing support from others. This book is mostly about soulmates; and the author is very understanding about the bonds that are involved with soulmates; and the extreme devastation in the loss of a soulmate. He outlines a plan of action for healing this tremendous loss. I also recommend this book. As I read more, I will update. I hope this helps somebody; the books have helped me. Mike
  8. My father died the same day my son was born! My father died at 5:08am and my son was born at 11:46am. He was a fire fighter, police officer and EMT. Every year I'm reminded by my son's birthday of that painful day. For years, I've tried to figure out how to manage the hurt and I've come to this conclusion. I have to except the facts but is there anything I can do to make the pain of losing me easier on my family when I pass away. Then I asked myself "what is it that would make my pain a little easier to deal with regarding my father". The answers was videos! I wish I had videos of my father. Not home videos but videos of him speaking directly to the camera from his laptop or cell phone telling my how much he loves me and reassuring me he will see me again. Maybe even a video wishing me a happy birthday. The possibilities are endless in what he could have made for me. So, you know what I did? I'm having a website built to do just that for everyone in the world to have. I'm taking my hurt and giving back to the world. I want everyone to have what I don't have. A chance to ease the pain by letting people create and upload personalized and confidential videos that they can leave for their loved ones. The website is called "Psily" pronounced (sigh-lee) and is the acronym for p.s. I Love You. I thought it would be a good name for the site. I am designing the site with everything I would want from my father like being able to create photo slide shows with background music, create audio files like a family member singing you happy birthday that you can listen to whenever you want, themed pages, just an over all very nice website. Think of it as a time capsule so to speak. CD's get broke, phones break, messages get lost, phones get stolen, computers crash. On my website, everything will be safe from all that and only the people you want can see the content you've made for them will see it. Some families aren't functional so we don't want a video made for a step mother or father to be seen by the biological parent, unless you want them to see it. There are many details going into this. I hope my hurt can help you as it will many others. You can find me on Facebook if you search "Psily". This is how I'm channeling my hurt. RIP dad I love you. www.facebook.com/neverforgotten208
  9. The other day, my dad suddenly passed away. On Friday at around 1:30 in the morning I was woken up by my mom. She told me not to freak out, and that my dad has been in a car accident. I immediately freaked out and started sobbing. I couldn't control it, but my sisters were sleeping in the other room. I eventually calmed down and my mom told me that she was going to the hospital. After she left, I tried to sleep. I couldn't. I stayed up the rest of the night texting my mom to get as much information as I could. She said that his brain was okay and that he could move his arms and legs. He did, however, have internal bleeding. He was taken into surgery and died, because his heart stopped. I had fallen asleep for an hour, because I thought that he would get through this. I thought he would get out of surgery and he would come home. My mom called me from downstairs, waking me up, and said that she wanted to see me. I walked downstairs and before I could get to the bottom, I saw boots that resembled my dad's. I immediately got excited and stepped down a few more only to see that it was my uncle. I walked into the other room where my mom was. I heard my sisters crying, but I thought it was because they were told he was in an accident. Then my mom looked at me and whispered, "Daddy didn't make it." At first I refused to believe her and I ran back upstairs sobbing. It didn't seem real. That whole day was pretty bad. I would go from sobbing to being fine, back to sobbing. It's still like that today. Every time I see something of his or something that reminds me of him, I start crying. I think that the main thing that bothers me is that his death wasn't fast. He was drunk and speeding. He wasn't wearing a seatbelt. He missed a curve and ran into a ditch and the car flipped 7 times. He was ejected from the seat and broke some ribs, his pelvis, neck, and severed his spine. He was still conscious when the police found him an estimated 45 minutes after the accident. They put him under anesthesia in case they had to do emergency surgery. I believe that he would have lived if he was found sooner. My last words to him were, "Get out of my room." He was drunk and yelling at me. I didn't see him after that. My dad has been an alcoholic his whole life. It sucks, but he was an amazing person when he wasn't drunk. He was selfless. He did anything he could to help any and everyone. I loved him so much. I'm only 17. The funeral was today, but the viewing was on my birthday. When I saw him for the first time, I wanted to explode. It took everything I had to not drop to the floor and scream. He was drained of his usual red tint. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that he wasn't alive. I stared at him for 20 minutes expecting him to just get up and tell me it would be okay. I calmed down by convincing myself that he was at peace. My dad was only 46. He had a good 40 or so years left, but that was cut short. I'm having trouble coping with this whole thing. I don't know when the crying will stop. I haven't felt genuinely happy at all since before it happened. I've had a constant feeling in my chest since I heard the news. It feels like a weight is sitting on my heart. I don't feel like eating, drinking, leaving my house, or anything. I just want to sleep, because sleeping is the only time I'm not thinking about it. I constantly feel like crying. When I'm not, I'm angry. I feel like there is a void that can never be filled. My uncles will probably step up and be a father figure to me and my sisters, but it won't be the same. I have felt alone since it happened. I've been surrounded by friends and family since this whole thing began, but I've felt so alone. I've tried talking about how I feel with people, but it hasn't helped. Every time I think about how much of a good person he was and how he impacted my life, I cry even harder because he didn't deserve what happened to him. I feel like my whole world has collapsed around me. I haven't stopped crying since the start. I don't know what to do. I'm trying to accept God into my life. I had my doubts before, but I think my faith will be my only solace.
  10. Hi everyone, This is probably going to be a long post, and I apologize if it's a little disjointed or hard to follow. I've got a lot on my mind right now. Early in the morning of February 5th, my wife and I got a call from the vet that our cat Shadow had suffered a seizure and died. We'd brought him into the vet due to his lethargy and refusal to eat. For weeks he'd been slower to move around than usual, and in the early going he had a runny eye. Since our other cat had just gotten over some sneezing that had lasted a couple of weeks, we didn't think much of it at first. We took him to the vet for the first time because his lethargy had gotten a little worrying. The vet took his temperature and said he had a really bad fever. He gave Shadow a shot to reduce the fever, and a couple of antibiotic shots to keep his upper respiratory infection from letting bacterial infections in. He sent us home with some ointment for Shadow's eye as well. For a couple of days, Shadow was almost back to his usual self. Then he started getting lethargic again. Our usually highly-social cat was hiding and growling if he thought we were going to try to move him, or whenever we started to pick him up. We brought him back, and the vets gave us a gel-style medicine to try to help him fight off the virus. He took this medicine twice before turning his nose up completely. We stopped worrying about giving it to him, but within a couple of days, he was not eating at all. So we brought him back to the vet. On this trip, like trips before, he seemed to do better as soon as we got to the vet. The doctor tried giving him some special recovery food, designed to be extra palatable, and Shadow went nuts for it. We brought him home with a few cans of the food. That was Thursday night. Come Saturday morning he wasn't eating at all. He wasn't moving under his own power. On Friday we had him up on the bed and he didn't move at all when he had to pee. He just wet the bed. We found him Friday night wedged into a corner, his head caught behind one of the bars for the radiator. We had to struggle to get him out. So Saturday morning we made another call to the vet, and brought him in for an appointment at 5:30 that afternoon. He barely responded to anything. The vet did some bloodwork and got him set up on an IV. The bloodwork didn't show anything life threatening, just a few levels that were out of whack, consistent with having an infection and not eating. Once we were done talking to the vet, we said our goodbyes and left Shadow there on his IV drip, figuring we'd be picking him up in a day or two. It was that night that we got the call about the seizure. When we went in to see him, they told us that his front legs had seized up, stretched out in front of him. His jaw had locked in place. He'd vomited up pieces of tissue, and his stool was black and tarry like he had suffered internal bleeding. The vet said it was consistent with poisoning, but I know we were careful with him. We knew he would eat the most random things, and we wouldn't have left anything dangerous. We didn't even have anything containing strychnine, which the vet said it looked like. We think maybe it had been cancer, or some other disease that had riddled his insides without us knowing. I was, and still am, completely crushed. Shadow was only about eight and a half years old. We'd adopted him shortly after losing another cat, whose death I had also taken very hard. We'd had Shadow for five years, and he'd had a couple of health scares a couple of years ago that were resolved. But now that he's gone for real, I'm struggling. At first, I was just devastated. I was crying and screaming and punching my pillow--all the usual signs of grief. Then for a day or too, I thought I was okay. I was keeping it together. But for the last few days now, I'm not okay. I'm not as outwardly upset as I was at first. But I keep thinking about him. When I recognize that he's gone, it brings a lump to my throat and I say and think things like, "I wish you could come home." But the worst part is that I still keep thinking of him as alive. It's the emotional equivalent of missing the last step going down the stairs. I just get completely jarred and rattled, because one second I'm thinking about him like he's still there, and the next second I'm reminding myself that he's gone. It's like I start to feel normal again, but then normal ends up hurting me, because I forget that he's gone. I want to stop forgetting. I want to start adjusting to it. But everywhere I look in my apartment, I can see him. He was a huge part of my life, and it feels like there are significant parts of me that just aren't ready to accept the fact that he's gone. I want to accept it. I want to be able to remember my baby without feeling the emotional sucker punch that comes with it. I just don't know how to get there. Anyway, thanks for reading. To anyone else who is going through something similar, I'm sorry for your loss. My Shadow meant the world to me, so I know how much you're hurting right now too.
  11. My beloved cat, Starbuck, died on Monday, January 16th. He was diagnosed with cancer about a week prior, and the vets at his care center gave him his first chemo treatment the day after diagnosis. Starbuck's full story can be found here : Starbuck's GoFundMe Page (we are no longer seeking donations). Long story short (unless you followed the link), Starbuck got better, then worse, then a little better, then even worse, and through it all, the doctors continued to give me hope, saying things like, "If we can just get him over this hump, the chemo can do its work", and "If we can just get food in him for a few days, he'll be much more stable." I just wanted my kitty to live a little longer, and it seemed like a real possibility, the way they explained it, and all the research I did online seemed to support what they were saying. But after we'd spent $6000 on blood transfusions and a feeding tube and meds and oxygen and ultrasounds and centesis and hospitalization, we ran out of money. The vet called me Monday morning to check in, and let me know Starbuck was doing about the same. I informed him that we had to bring Starbuck home at this point, because we were flat broke. He said he'd write up some detailed instructions for home care. My dog died in November of 2016, we'd had to have her euthanized at this same veterinary facility. The cost was $900. My four children and I got Starbuck home around 1pm. He was MUCH worse off than I'd been led to believe. He was pitiful, and it was obvious he did not have long. My kids were seeing this first hand, and with the exception of one holdout, we agreed that Starbuck needed to be put to sleep, as a kindness. The one holdout, my oldest son, was fully on board with euthanasia by the time of Starbuck's death, which was at 2:30. Until the last minute, he'd still had hope we might find some more money, or that one more dose of medicine might help, or maybe if we waited long enough, Starbuck would improve. He was grasping for any straw out there, he wanted his kitty to live, and I love him for it. Unfortunately, we never had time to act on the euthanasia plan, even though I had found someone to come to our home and do it, at a price my parents were willing to pay, due to our current financial situation. I had read up on ways to comfort a sick and dying cat, and we'd prepared our home in every way we possibly could. He had a cozy bed and blankets in a warm, quiet, draft-free part of the house. His water dish and litter box were right at hand. We had quiet nature sounds playing, and soft, indirect lighting for him to see by. There was room for all of us to gather around him and pet him. We had tried to see to Starbuck's every comfort, and between the five of us, we were ready to provide round the clock care. It wasn't enough. His ending was awful. We were all there, petting him, telling him we loved him, saying that it was okay to stop fighting and let go. He gasped his last breath surrounded by loved ones, but it wasn't peaceful, it wasn't dignified, and I wished to god I'd had enough time to arrange a better ending for him. He was such a good kitty, he was so sweet and gentle and funny, he was so LOVED, and he didn't deserve to die like that, to spend his last moments on earth in distress and pain. I can't stop seeing it over and over in my mind, and it hurts more than anything I've ever experienced. How do I get past this? I can't sleep, I can't eat, and everything I see reminds me of Starbuck. I'm a useless person while I'm consumed with this much grief and guilt, and I want to get better. What do I do?
  12. My partner is currently going through a grieving process and undertaking professional help following the suicide of his ex partner. The event happened at the very start of our relationship almost a year ago and he has been in denial and pushed it to one side for some time in order to not have to deal with it. We have been together for a year now and we have both admittedly been in denial as to what happened. He said it wasn't hurting him, or causing him guilt and I was happy to to believe this, but we both knew it wasn't true. Today he will start his first class with a professional to talk through what he is going through. Is anybody going through the same thing? Its the hardest thing to see someone hurt so much and know that I need to give him space and understand its not something he can talk to me about. (Talking about it has caused huge difficulties and at times pushed him to feel that we would need to separate in order for him to deal with it.) More than anything I want him to be happy and deal with all the pain he is feeling, and I want to be there for him when and if he needs me. I can't bear the thought that he could decide that he feels we can no longer be together if he is going to deal with this, I don't want him to push away the people that he loves and who love him unconditionally.
  13. so basically my partner of 9 months lost her husband to suicide just over two years ago although i have suffered grief i can't begin to understand what she experienced and I'm not trying to. I just want to be there for her and help her through her darkest times, i lost my mum three years ago and i found it so so hard and that is nothing compared to what she went through finding her husband hanging in the house were they lived together and she has ben so strong for so long its unreal and i don't want her to carry this trouble alone anymore. we go through so many ups and downs together i just wondered if anyone had been through something similar and had some advice to help. thanks in advance jay
  14. Hi - I'm new here and so glad that I found this forum. My father passed in 2004 at age 60 from lung cancer. He and I were very close. I still miss him dearly. My mother passed away January 1, 2016. My mother's passing was not expected. Her health was failing, rapidly in the last month but there was always hope mostly because no one really knew what was going on. I was long distance (7 hour drive away) with two small children to take care of (now 5 and 7). I am an only child. I feel like I could have done so much more for my mother. I often have feelings of guilt about this. I was sometimes unkind to her out of frustration. I have a tendency to get angry when I'm upset and/or feel out of control. I also feel guilty because, at the time of her death, I felt a bit of relief. I feel like I haven't really grieved her. After the week of the funeral - clearing out her apartment in a hurry, dealing with an unfriendly landlord, and financial issues - I went right back to "normal" life. Everyone where I live assumed I was strong, brave, whatever, and didn't really support me. I have felt very alone but sort of tucked that away. Over the last two months, I've developed intense anxiety.I started medication that sometimes works, sometimes doesn't. I constantly feel like my life is about to fall apart. I have stressors that are real and some that are my own invention. For instance, I can feel my heart rate go up and have my stomach get upset just trying to figure out what to pack in my girls' lunchboxes in the morning. My spouse is tired of hearing about my anxieties. He tries to be supportive, just doesn't know how and does get exhausted hearing the same things over and over. I've only cried a couple of times. It came out of the blue and didn't last long. I'm wondering if anyone has experienced, is experiencing, the same and/or if anyone has advice to offer. My gratitude in advance for any feedback. Peace, Jess
  15. Here is my story as it is still relatively fresh in my life, in hopes to find insight from both sides as to how I should continue with my situation. I am a 19 year-old college sophomore and about 3 weeks ago now I was left by my girlfriend after a beautiful two-year relationship. And, yes, it pains me how cliche my situation is. However after some complexities, it becomes more unique. After two years of being together- meeting in high school, both going to college down in LA (she's a grade below me)- her dad was diagnosed with lung cancer and soon passed two months after his diagnosis. She's 18 years old. I tried to be as supportive as I could possibly be. I drove 8 hours to be with her while her dad passed. I brought her family closer to mine to give support during their grieving process (invited them to our Thanksgiving). In every way I knew how, I was there for her. It was difficult for me to be with her every second as we went to schools an hour apart. Long distance is no stranger to us, as we maintained our relationship when I was 8 hours away from her in LA for my first year of college. And during the past 4 months we have been both happy maintaining our semi-long distance relationship at different schools. When the holidays came around, I was offered the opportunity of a lifetime to climb Mt.Kilimanjaro for free. I did the trip, but felt incredibly guilty not being with her in support as she went through the first Christmas and New Years without her dad. While I was away, we talked whenever I had internet connection and were both excited to see each other. When I got back, we spent a great few days together before I invited her to come on a vacation with me to Tahoe (in hopes it would both bonding and therapeutic). In the last minute before leaving, she told me she needed to be with her family and couldn't go. When I got back from Tahoe, she sat me down and told me she couldn't continue our relationship anymore because she needed to grieve her dad alone and valued the opportunity to be alone more than the opportunity to continue our relationship. That to me is something that is hard for me to fully understand. It hit me like a train. That night was sleepless and filled with anxiety attacks. I had 8 days before we each drove down to LA again. In my head I thought back to the 6 days prior when we were still together and everything was seemingly great, Only in retrospect do I realize she had been wearing a thick mask to hide her sadness, but I still am lost as to when the love slipped away with it. The dynamics had changed in our relationship after her dad, but my perspective was I was giving her the chance to be sad without me forcing her to be happy. Again, I didn't know how to handle to situation as I have never been there before. For the next 8 days, I spent time with her, cuddling, laughing, wrestling. She made it clear we were still broken up and used this time as a chance to easily transform our relationship into friendship. I saw it differently. I saw the 8 days as a chance to fight for our relationship. She would openly say she was confused, to the point that on night 5 she slept with me. From my perspective, there was hope and I wouldn't accept the idea that the relationship was over. When I tried to confront her about it, she would tell me I needed to forget about her and move on. And of course that’s the last thing I wanted to do. My mind was split between fighting for what we had to rekindle whatever had been lost, or to give her the pace I knew she needed. Still, the entire week I suffered anxiety attacks and cried excessively. In the last days before we parted to school, she became stern with her decision to split up and I truly began to mourn our relationship. On the day of departure, still a wreck, she kissed me goodbye and told me she wanted to stay in contact. My mind was spinning with the never-ending question of “why.” After she had expressed her desire for me, she still kissed me goodbye, told me she cared about me, and went on her way. I texted her on good terms as we each settled into our lives separated in LA, but told her to reach out to me when she wanted to talk. After a few days I never heard anything from her. It was so difficult to see her continue with her life so effortlessly. “Business as usual.” I used social media to see that she was having fun and still in contact with her friends, but I somehow had been cut out of the picture. I still loved her, but it was impossible for me to move on. I was an emotional wreck, lost in our memories and attempting to take my first steps towards recovery. I finally had the courage to call her after a week of silence, knowing that by giving myself a week I would get over the initial blow of emotions I would go through in the first week of separation. It was hard. Like withdrawal from a drug. My chest always carried around an aching pain, while my mind went on autopilot throughout the day. I would take advice and keep myself busy, meeting with friends, getting out of the house. I even picked up running. By the time I called her I thought I could begin to foster a friendship, knowing that giving her space would be the best thing for her. Deep down, I hoped she would turn back and say that she was wrong, but of course she didnt. We made small conversation about how our weeks had been, acting as though we were friends with no history. My mind was ruptured. It hurt that she never reached out to me in our week of silence, but boy was it good to hear her voice now. I quickly realized she didn’t want to get into the relationship. She made it obvious she was over with me, but my mind still hung onto this idea of hope from the kiss, sleeping with me. My mind seeded this idea that she was confused and still in love with me and there was some hope deep down. I knew it wasn’t healthy for me to cling on. But at the same time the last thing I wanted to give up on something that was so good. Finally I mustered up the courage to be direct about the situation. I understood she needed space, but was there any way I could be in the picture for that? No. Why did you kiss me goodbye? Closure. I want you to tell me you don’t love me anymore. I don’t love you anymore. We took a few minutes discussing why she felt the way she did in a blunt conversation. In the end she told me she needed space to be independent, not worry the stress of our relationship. But how could you give up on we happiness we had? I expressed my passion for our companionship, how happy we were together. A bad tactic, I know. At the end, I told her that for my sake we shouldn’t talk for several months. A peppy “OK. I understand.” Today I find myself in a situation where I know the healthiest thing to do would be letting her go and moving on completely to enjoy my time here in college. However it’s difficult to ignore the potential our relationship our had and the incredibly unique experiences we shared at such as milestone in our lives. My head has moments of clarity where I see the future as a single person, where I can develop myself, be with other people. But I am constantly reminded of the amazing memories we share and still not entirely understanding why it had to end with me out of the picture. My heart is suffocating from the anxiety and withdrawal of having a best friend. Where I need guidance is to assess where I stand in her life and how much should I be part of that. All I want to do is talk to her everyday and support her in such a difficult time in her life. The irony is before I didn’t know how to support her because I had never gone through any major grief in my life, and now that she’s left me, I see through her mask and can recognize the pain she must be in. I have several anxiety attacks each day, almost a month after she left me, each one inspired by a rabbit hole of thought as I think about how she is fine without me. I am reminded constantly of our past and am intimidated about the future. I’ve been told to support her from afar, but how do I do that without hurting myself? If I don’t talk with her will she drift too far and I then lose all hope of us getting too far? I want to give her space, but keep me in the picture as support. Should I fight or fall back? How do I cope with the anxiety? If anybody has lost a parent, what has been their experience with their relationships? What is it that she needs and is there anyway I can be in her picture? I know I am 19 and the story sound like the classic first loves drama. But the pain that I am going through gets harder every day as I think about her drifting. TL;DR My girlfriend left me after the passing of her father for reasons pertaining to her needing space to grieve. She fell out of love with my, however gave me strong signals of hope after we had broken up. After confronting the hope and beginning my first steps into acceptance, I am lost on truly understanding why she left me and how I should best allow the situation to play out to foster the potential for getting back together. The pain is overwhelming and I want to be there to support her but she has kindly told me she needs to be alone. How do I cope? How do I fight? How do I let got? What have been your experiences in relationships when losing your parent?
  16. When a loved one passes on, we typically find comfort in the arms of family and friends, in support groups, through grief counseling, and in our place of worship. But what happens when our broken heart needs something deeper and more profound than those kind words and a sympathetic ear? What if we yearn for a greater sense of certainty—that our loved one really is free of pain, and actually at peace in that better place? Evidential Mediums—blessed with the ability to form a connection with those who have passed on, offer a solution that many are now turning to. During a session with an Evidential Medium, departed loved ones are given a channel by which to come back—in spirit. Through the medium, they share evidence that validates their presence, and give examples of how they are still present in our lives. They share personal messages that would otherwise never be heard. Most Evidential Mediums consider this work a divine calling—a sacred gift—to be able to offer relief to those who have lost someone dear: a parent, spouse, friend or even a child. The following transcript comes from an actual mediumship session. The image of a young boy appears out of the darkness behind my closed eyes; faint and delicate—like the residue of a dream. I speak into the phone that is held close to my ear and describe what is unfolding before me. “I see a boy wearing a baseball cap, running barefoot across a large, grassy lawn. He is happy and energetic, and I sense his love of baseball. Do you recognize this boy?” “Yes,” the voice on the phone replies. “I know who you are talking about.” The scene changes abruptly. “There is a white farmhouse,” I say, “with a large, covered porch, and steps that go right down into the grass.” “Yes, that’s right,” the voice says. “That was his house.” “There is a woman running out of the house,” I continue, “down the steps and across the lawn. She is screaming out in horror, but I can’t hear her voice. I feel her panic in my body though; something bad has happened.” Why is she running? I ask myself—feeling deeper for the answer. I see the boy again. He is no longer running, but standing in the grass, looking back at me. His hands are at his throat—then he lowers them slowly to his chest. A realization hits me—hard. I struggle to breathe—overcome by a feeling of sadness. “This boy died,” I say. There is a pause on the line, then, “Yes.” “He was young, only eight years old,” I say. “There was an accident.” “Yes, that’s correct.” I feel the emotions coming through the phone, but the grief is faded and distant—not what I expect. An inner knowing feeds me the answer. “But he didn’t die recently,” I say. “It has been a while.” “Yes,” the voice confirms. “A while.” I don’t ask for more. I know that it is my job to provide him with the evidence, not the other way around. I focus again on the boy, and ask him how he died. He doesn’t show me, exactly, but his hands return to his throat. I feel pressure in my own throat and down into my chest. I hear “water,” and then I know. “He drowned,” I say. “Yes.” “The woman running from the house—that was his mother,” I add. “She was trying to save him, but it was too late, right?” “Yes.” The confirmations coming through the phone make it clear that the evidence I’m receiving is valid. I am connecting with a young boy who loved baseball, and who had drowned accidentally at the age of eight. And his passing was not recent. But my session with the man on the phone is not complete. I have solid evidence, but I know that this boy is not appearing before me only to provide proof of his presence, or to rehash the final, tragic moments of his young life. No, he has come forth to share a message to his family, and that is where my focus goes. Now, instead of “looking,” I begin to ask—and “listen.” In my mind, I ask him to share a message, and I feel his energy lighten. He is no longer the boy that had drowned, but a light, energetic spirit that is now free of his physical body. He tells me that he loved his short life. He regrets that it was not longer, and that his passing has caused his mother and his family so much grief. He is very happy where he is now, and there was no pain in his passing. I share this word-for-word with the person on the phone, who listens quietly. I have no idea what he is thinking, but I sense that we are in the midst of very special connection. The boy then says something that catches me off-guard. Even though I have learned over the years to not edit or hold back the messages I receive, this one seems insensitive to me, and I feel uncomfortable sharing it. I want to believe that I just interpreted it wrong. But that is not possible—I heard it, clear as day. His message was: “Tell everyone that I know how to swim now.” I take a nervous breath, share the message—and wait. I learn that the man on the phone is the boy’s uncle. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, he again validates the evidence I have given him, including those final words. He tells me that was exactly the way his nephew was; he was always joking and playing around, and nothing could cause him to lose his infectious sense of humor. He was eight years old when he drowned many years before. His mother saw him in the pool that day and rushed out to save him, but she was too late. My “sitter” then tells me how grateful he is to receive such convincing evidence, things that I could not possibly have known, and how he now believes that his nephew is not only around, but still his same playful, joking self. As a complement to traditional grief support, experienced Evidential Mediums offer a service that is truly unique. The evidence and messages that come through make a mediumship session a wonderful place to find peace, healing, closure, and in some cases, long overdue forgiveness. A few weeks after the session above, I received an email from the young boy’s uncle. He told me that the previous weekend was the 20th anniversary of his nephew’s death, and the family had gathered in his memory. He shared with the family the details of our session. He told me how grateful they were to me for bringing Charlie through, and sharing his messages. The evidence had brought them greater peace, knowing that Charlie is still the same happy, fun-loving personality they all so fondly remember. rogerhardnock.com
  17. When a loved one passes on, we typically find comfort in the arms of family and friends, in support groups, through grief counseling, and in our place of worship. But what happens when our broken heart needs something deeper and more profound than those kind words and a sympathetic ear? What if we yearn for a greater sense of certainty—that our loved one really is free of pain, and actually at peace in that better place? Evidential Mediums—blessed with the ability to form a connection with those who have passed on, offer a solution that many are now turning to. During a session with an Evidential Medium, departed loved ones are given a channel by which to come back—in spirit. Through the medium, they share evidence that validates their presence, and give examples of how they are still present in our lives. They share personal messages that would otherwise never be heard. Most Evidential Mediums consider this work a divine calling—a sacred gift—to be able to offer relief to those who have lost someone dear: a parent, spouse, friend or even a child. The following transcript comes from an actual mediumship session. The image of a young boy appears out of the darkness behind my closed eyes; faint and delicate—like the residue of a dream. I speak into the phone that is held close to my ear and describe what is unfolding before me. “I see a boy wearing a baseball cap, running barefoot across a large, grassy lawn. He is happy and energetic, and I sense his love of baseball. Do you recognize this boy?” “Yes,” the voice on the phone replies. “I know who you are talking about.” The scene changes abruptly. “There is a white farmhouse,” I say, “with a large, covered porch, and steps that go right down into the grass.” “Yes, that’s right,” the voice says. “That was his house.” “There is a woman running out of the house,” I continue, “down the steps and across the lawn. She is screaming out in horror, but I can’t hear her voice. I feel her panic in my body though; something bad has happened.” Why is she running? I ask myself—feeling deeper for the answer. I see the boy again. He is no longer running, but standing in the grass, looking back at me. His hands are at his throat—then he lowers them slowly to his chest. A realization hits me—hard. I struggle to breathe—overcome by a feeling of sadness. “This boy died,” I say. There is a pause on the line, then, “Yes.” “He was young, only eight years old,” I say. “There was an accident.” “Yes, that’s correct.” I feel the emotions coming through the phone, but the grief is faded and distant—not what I expect. An inner knowing feeds me the answer. “But he didn’t die recently,” I say. “It has been a while.” “Yes,” the voice confirms. “A while.” I don’t ask for more. I know that it is my job to provide him with the evidence, not the other way around. I focus again on the boy, and ask him how he died. He doesn’t show me, exactly, but his hands return to his throat. I feel pressure in my own throat and down into my chest. I hear “water,” and then I know. “He drowned,” I say. “Yes.” “The woman running from the house—that was his mother,” I add. “She was trying to save him, but it was too late, right?” “Yes.” The confirmations coming through the phone make it clear that the evidence I’m receiving is valid. I am connecting with a young boy who loved baseball, and who had drowned accidentally at the age of eight. And his passing was not recent. But my session with the man on the phone is not complete. I have solid evidence, but I know that this boy is not appearing before me only to provide proof of his presence, or to rehash the final, tragic moments of his young life. No, he has come forth to share a message to his family, and that is where my focus goes. Now, instead of “looking,” I begin to ask—and “listen.” In my mind, I ask him to share a message, and I feel his energy lighten. He is no longer the boy that had drowned, but a light, energetic spirit that is now free of his physical body. He tells me that he loved his short life. He regrets that it was not longer, and that his passing has caused his mother and his family so much grief. He is very happy where he is now, and there was no pain in his passing. I share this word-for-word with the person on the phone, who listens quietly. I have no idea what he is thinking, but I sense that we are in the midst of very special connection. The boy then says something that catches me off-guard. Even though I have learned over the years to not edit or hold back the messages I receive, this one seems insensitive to me, and I feel uncomfortable sharing it. I want to believe that I just interpreted it wrong. But that is not possible—I heard it, clear as day. His message was: “Tell everyone that I know how to swim now.” I take a nervous breath, share the message—and wait. I learn that the man on the phone is the boy’s uncle. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, he again validates the evidence I have given him, including those final words. He tells me that was exactly the way his nephew was; he was always joking and playing around, and nothing could cause him to lose his infectious sense of humor. He was eight years old when he drowned many years before. His mother saw him in the pool that day and rushed out to save him, but she was too late. My “sitter” then tells me how grateful he is to receive such convincing evidence, things that I could not possibly have known, and how he now believes that his nephew is not only around, but still his same playful, joking self. As a complement to traditional grief support, experienced Evidential Mediums offer a service that is truly unique. The evidence and messages that come through make a mediumship session a wonderful place to find peace, healing, closure, and in some cases, long overdue forgiveness. A few weeks after the session above, I received an email from the young boy’s uncle. He told me that the previous weekend was the 20th anniversary of his nephew’s death, and the family had gathered in his memory. He shared with the family the details of our session. He told me how grateful they were to me for bringing Charlie through, and sharing his messages. The evidence had brought them greater peace, knowing that Charlie is still the same happy, fun-loving personality they all so fondly remember. rogerhardnock.com
  18. When a loved one passes on, we typically find comfort in the arms of family and friends, in support groups, through grief counseling, and in our place of worship. But what happens when our broken heart needs something deeper and more profound than those kind words and a sympathetic ear? What if we yearn for a greater sense of certainty—that our loved one really is free of pain, and actually at peace in that better place? Evidential Mediums—blessed with the ability to form a connection with those who have passed on, offer a solution that many are now turning to. During a session with an Evidential Medium, departed loved ones are given a channel by which to come back—in spirit. Through the medium, they share evidence that validates their presence, and give examples of how they are still present in our lives. They share personal messages that would otherwise never be heard. Most Evidential Mediums consider this work a divine calling—a sacred gift—to be able to offer relief to those who have lost someone dear: a parent, spouse, friend or even a child. The following transcript comes from an actual mediumship session. The image of a young boy appears out of the darkness behind my closed eyes; faint and delicate—like the residue of a dream. I speak into the phone that is held close to my ear and describe what is unfolding before me. “I see a boy wearing a baseball cap, running barefoot across a large, grassy lawn. He is happy and energetic, and I sense his love of baseball. Do you recognize this boy?” “Yes,” the voice on the phone replies. “I know who you are talking about.” The scene changes abruptly. “There is a white farmhouse,” I say, “with a large, covered porch, and steps that go right down into the grass.” “Yes, that’s right,” the voice says. “That was his house.” “There is a woman running out of the house,” I continue, “down the steps and across the lawn. She is screaming out in horror, but I can’t hear her voice. I feel her panic in my body though; something bad has happened.” Why is she running? I ask myself—feeling deeper for the answer. I see the boy again. He is no longer running, but standing in the grass, looking back at me. His hands are at his throat—then he lowers them slowly to his chest. A realization hits me—hard. I struggle to breathe—overcome by a feeling of sadness. “This boy died,” I say. There is a pause on the line, then, “Yes.” “He was young, only eight years old,” I say. “There was an accident.” “Yes, that’s correct.” I feel the emotions coming through the phone, but the grief is faded and distant—not what I expect. An inner knowing feeds me the answer. “But he didn’t die recently,” I say. “It has been a while.” “Yes,” the voice confirms. “A while.” I don’t ask for more. I know that it is my job to provide him with the evidence, not the other way around. I focus again on the boy, and ask him how he died. He doesn’t show me, exactly, but his hands return to his throat. I feel pressure in my own throat and down into my chest. I hear “water,” and then I know. “He drowned,” I say. “Yes.” “The woman running from the house—that was his mother,” I add. “She was trying to save him, but it was too late, right?” “Yes.” The confirmations coming through the phone make it clear that the evidence I’m receiving is valid. I am connecting with a young boy who loved baseball, and who had drowned accidentally at the age of eight. And his passing was not recent. But my session with the man on the phone is not complete. I have solid evidence, but I know that this boy is not appearing before me only to provide proof of his presence, or to rehash the final, tragic moments of his young life. No, he has come forth to share a message to his family, and that is where my focus goes. Now, instead of “looking,” I begin to ask—and “listen.” In my mind, I ask him to share a message, and I feel his energy lighten. He is no longer the boy that had drowned, but a light, energetic spirit that is now free of his physical body. He tells me that he loved his short life. He regrets that it was not longer, and that his passing has caused his mother and his family so much grief. He is very happy where he is now, and there was no pain in his passing. I share this word-for-word with the person on the phone, who listens quietly. I have no idea what he is thinking, but I sense that we are in the midst of very special connection. The boy then says something that catches me off-guard. Even though I have learned over the years to not edit or hold back the messages I receive, this one seems insensitive to me, and I feel uncomfortable sharing it. I want to believe that I just interpreted it wrong. But that is not possible—I heard it, clear as day. His message was: “Tell everyone that I know how to swim now.” I take a nervous breath, share the message—and wait. I learn that the man on the phone is the boy’s uncle. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, he again validates the evidence I have given him, including those final words. He tells me that was exactly the way his nephew was; he was always joking and playing around, and nothing could cause him to lose his infectious sense of humor. He was eight years old when he drowned many years before. His mother saw him in the pool that day and rushed out to save him, but she was too late. My “sitter” then tells me how grateful he is to receive such convincing evidence, things that I could not possibly have known, and how he now believes that his nephew is not only around, but still his same playful, joking self. As a complement to traditional grief support, experienced Evidential Mediums offer a service that is truly unique. The evidence and messages that come through make a mediumship session a wonderful place to find peace, healing, closure, and in some cases, long overdue forgiveness. A few weeks after the session above, I received an email from the young boy’s uncle. He told me that the previous weekend was the 20th anniversary of his nephew’s death, and the family had gathered in his memory. He shared with the family the details of our session. He told me how grateful they were to me for bringing Charlie through, and sharing his messages. The evidence had brought them greater peace, knowing that Charlie is still the same happy, fun-loving personality they all so fondly remember. rogerhardnock.com
  19. When a loved one passes on, we typically find comfort in the arms of family and friends, in support groups, through grief counseling, and in our place of worship. But what happens when our broken heart needs something deeper and more profound than those kind words and a sympathetic ear? What if we yearn for a greater sense of certainty—that our loved one really is free of pain, and actually at peace in that better place? Evidential Mediums—blessed with the ability to form a connection with those who have passed on, offer a solution that many are now turning to. During a session with an Evidential Medium, departed loved ones are given a channel by which to come back—in spirit. Through the medium, they share evidence that validates their presence, and give examples of how they are still present in our lives. They share personal messages that would otherwise never be heard. Most Evidential Mediums consider this work a divine calling—a sacred gift—to be able to offer relief to those who have lost someone dear: a parent, spouse, friend or even a child. The following transcript comes from an actual mediumship session. The image of a young boy appears out of the darkness behind my closed eyes; faint and delicate—like the residue of a dream. I speak into the phone that is held close to my ear and describe what is unfolding before me. “I see a boy wearing a baseball cap, running barefoot across a large, grassy lawn. He is happy and energetic, and I sense his love of baseball. Do you recognize this boy?” “Yes,” the voice on the phone replies. “I know who you are talking about.” The scene changes abruptly. “There is a white farmhouse,” I say, “with a large, covered porch, and steps that go right down into the grass.” “Yes, that’s right,” the voice says. “That was his house.” “There is a woman running out of the house,” I continue, “down the steps and across the lawn. She is screaming out in horror, but I can’t hear her voice. I feel her panic in my body though; something bad has happened.” Why is she running? I ask myself—feeling deeper for the answer. I see the boy again. He is no longer running, but standing in the grass, looking back at me. His hands are at his throat—then he lowers them slowly to his chest. A realization hits me—hard. I struggle to breathe—overcome by a feeling of sadness. “This boy died,” I say. There is a pause on the line, then, “Yes.” “He was young, only eight years old,” I say. “There was an accident.” “Yes, that’s correct.” I feel the emotions coming through the phone, but the grief is faded and distant—not what I expect. An inner knowing feeds me the answer. “But he didn’t die recently,” I say. “It has been a while.” “Yes,” the voice confirms. “A while.” I don’t ask for more. I know that it is my job to provide him with the evidence, not the other way around. I focus again on the boy, and ask him how he died. He doesn’t show me, exactly, but his hands return to his throat. I feel pressure in my own throat and down into my chest. I hear “water,” and then I know. “He drowned,” I say. “Yes.” “The woman running from the house—that was his mother,” I add. “She was trying to save him, but it was too late, right?” “Yes.” The confirmations coming through the phone make it clear that the evidence I’m receiving is valid. I am connecting with a young boy who loved baseball, and who had drowned accidentally at the age of eight. And his passing was not recent. But my session with the man on the phone is not complete. I have solid evidence, but I know that this boy is not appearing before me only to provide proof of his presence, or to rehash the final, tragic moments of his young life. No, he has come forth to share a message to his family, and that is where my focus goes. Now, instead of “looking,” I begin to ask—and “listen.” In my mind, I ask him to share a message, and I feel his energy lighten. He is no longer the boy that had drowned, but a light, energetic spirit that is now free of his physical body. He tells me that he loved his short life. He regrets that it was not longer, and that his passing has caused his mother and his family so much grief. He is very happy where he is now, and there was no pain in his passing. I share this word-for-word with the person on the phone, who listens quietly. I have no idea what he is thinking, but I sense that we are in the midst of very special connection. The boy then says something that catches me off-guard. Even though I have learned over the years to not edit or hold back the messages I receive, this one seems insensitive to me, and I feel uncomfortable sharing it. I want to believe that I just interpreted it wrong. But that is not possible—I heard it, clear as day. His message was: “Tell everyone that I know how to swim now.” I take a nervous breath, share the message—and wait. I learn that the man on the phone is the boy’s uncle. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, he again validates the evidence I have given him, including those final words. He tells me that was exactly the way his nephew was; he was always joking and playing around, and nothing could cause him to lose his infectious sense of humor. He was eight years old when he drowned many years before. His mother saw him in the pool that day and rushed out to save him, but she was too late. My “sitter” then tells me how grateful he is to receive such convincing evidence, things that I could not possibly have known, and how he now believes that his nephew is not only around, but still his same playful, joking self. As a complement to traditional grief support, experienced Evidential Mediums offer a service that is truly unique. The evidence and messages that come through make a mediumship session a wonderful place to find peace, healing, closure, and in some cases, long overdue forgiveness. A few weeks after the session above, I received an email from the young boy’s uncle. He told me that the previous weekend was the 20th anniversary of his nephew’s death, and the family had gathered in his memory. He shared with the family the details of our session. He told me how grateful they were to me for bringing Charlie through, and sharing his messages. The evidence had brought them greater peace, knowing that Charlie is still the same happy, fun-loving personality they all so fondly remember. rogerhardnock.com
  20. When a loved one passes on, we typically find comfort in the arms of family and friends, in support groups, through grief counseling, and in our place of worship. But what happens when our broken heart needs something deeper and more profound than those kind words and a sympathetic ear? What if we yearn for a greater sense of certainty—that our loved one really is free of pain, and actually at peace in that better place? Evidential Mediums—blessed with the ability to form a connection with those who have passed on, offer a solution that many are now turning to. During a session with an Evidential Medium, departed loved ones are given a channel by which to come back—in spirit. Through the medium, they share evidence that validates their presence, and give examples of how they are still present in our lives. They share personal messages that would otherwise never be heard. Most Evidential Mediums consider this work a divine calling—a sacred gift—to be able to offer relief to those who have lost someone dear: a parent, spouse, friend or even a child. The following transcript comes from an actual mediumship session. The image of a young boy appears out of the darkness behind my closed eyes; faint and delicate—like the residue of a dream. I speak into the phone that is held close to my ear and describe what is unfolding before me. “I see a boy wearing a baseball cap, running barefoot across a large, grassy lawn. He is happy and energetic, and I sense his love of baseball. Do you recognize this boy?” “Yes,” the voice on the phone replies. “I know who you are talking about.” The scene changes abruptly. “There is a white farmhouse,” I say, “with a large, covered porch, and steps that go right down into the grass.” “Yes, that’s right,” the voice says. “That was his house.” “There is a woman running out of the house,” I continue, “down the steps and across the lawn. She is screaming out in horror, but I can’t hear her voice. I feel her panic in my body though; something bad has happened.” Why is she running? I ask myself—feeling deeper for the answer. I see the boy again. He is no longer running, but standing in the grass, looking back at me. His hands are at his throat—then he lowers them slowly to his chest. A realization hits me—hard. I struggle to breathe—overcome by a feeling of sadness. “This boy died,” I say. There is a pause on the line, then, “Yes.” “He was young, only eight years old,” I say. “There was an accident.” “Yes, that’s correct.” I feel the emotions coming through the phone, but the grief is faded and distant—not what I expect. An inner knowing feeds me the answer. “But he didn’t die recently,” I say. “It has been a while.” “Yes,” the voice confirms. “A while.” I don’t ask for more. I know that it is my job to provide him with the evidence, not the other way around. I focus again on the boy, and ask him how he died. He doesn’t show me, exactly, but his hands return to his throat. I feel pressure in my own throat and down into my chest. I hear “water,” and then I know. “He drowned,” I say. “Yes.” “The woman running from the house—that was his mother,” I add. “She was trying to save him, but it was too late, right?” “Yes.” The confirmations coming through the phone make it clear that the evidence I’m receiving is valid. I am connecting with a young boy who loved baseball, and who had drowned accidentally at the age of eight. And his passing was not recent. But my session with the man on the phone is not complete. I have solid evidence, but I know that this boy is not appearing before me only to provide proof of his presence, or to rehash the final, tragic moments of his young life. No, he has come forth to share a message to his family, and that is where my focus goes. Now, instead of “looking,” I begin to ask—and “listen.” In my mind, I ask him to share a message, and I feel his energy lighten. He is no longer the boy that had drowned, but a light, energetic spirit that is now free of his physical body. He tells me that he loved his short life. He regrets that it was not longer, and that his passing has caused his mother and his family so much grief. He is very happy where he is now, and there was no pain in his passing. I share this word-for-word with the person on the phone, who listens quietly. I have no idea what he is thinking, but I sense that we are in the midst of very special connection. The boy then says something that catches me off-guard. Even though I have learned over the years to not edit or hold back the messages I receive, this one seems insensitive to me, and I feel uncomfortable sharing it. I want to believe that I just interpreted it wrong. But that is not possible—I heard it, clear as day. His message was: “Tell everyone that I know how to swim now.” I take a nervous breath, share the message—and wait. I learn that the man on the phone is the boy’s uncle. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, he again validates the evidence I have given him, including those final words. He tells me that was exactly the way his nephew was; he was always joking and playing around, and nothing could cause him to lose his infectious sense of humor. He was eight years old when he drowned many years before. His mother saw him in the pool that day and rushed out to save him, but she was too late. My “sitter” then tells me how grateful he is to receive such convincing evidence, things that I could not possibly have known, and how he now believes that his nephew is not only around, but still his same playful, joking self. As a complement to traditional grief support, experienced Evidential Mediums offer a service that is truly unique. The evidence and messages that come through make a mediumship session a wonderful place to find peace, healing, closure, and in some cases, long overdue forgiveness. A few weeks after the session above, I received an email from the young boy’s uncle. He told me that the previous weekend was the 20th anniversary of his nephew’s death, and the family had gathered in his memory. He shared with the family the details of our session. He told me how grateful they were to me for bringing Charlie through, and sharing his messages. The evidence had brought them greater peace, knowing that Charlie is still the same happy, fun-loving personality they all so fondly remember. Roger rogerhardnock.com
  21. I'm Emily, a 17 year old girl that had lost her dad at the age of 7. I remember all his love, all the good memories or fishing, of holidays, of my parents. When he died I was only 7 and my little brother 4, he doesn't remember our dad, but I do vividly. My dad died of a heart attack and had suffered brain damage. I said my good byes but never had closer, he didn't remember us, he didn't remember his own daughter. Since the age of 7 I've been bullied, in and out of therapy and suffer from depression, anxiety, trust issues and abandonment issues. I can't seem to cope with my dads death, I've never been able to get out of the mind set that I want to die, that I hate myself and I hate the world. Good took my dad from me, I understood that he must have his reasons, but my life, my mentality is going down the drain and I don't know how much longer I can hold on for. So I'm reaching out to maybe make sense of how I'm feeling before it's to late.
  22. My husband Jack died three weeks ago. He went for an outpatient diagnostic procedure that had complications and he was admitted to the hospital. He had been in the hospital since late October except for the three days he was home with a chest tube and home health, but things got worse and he went back inpatient. We had been married twelve years. He was my hero and had too many wonderful qualities to list here. He had already survived gastro-esophageal cancer and I met him three years post diagnosis. We navigated the decreasing frequency of the tests, celebrating the good news of each one until he finally reached the huge milestone of being declared cured. I knew going into the relationship that grief would be in my future as the price of this love, but I accepted that as a fair price for such a special love and I have no regrets about that choice. Two years after our marriage I was diagnosed with a brain tumor and I became disabled with memory and cognitive issues afterward. It was benign, so we didn't have that other challenge. Jack was patient, encouraging, understanding, supportive, and loving. He had been a professional disability rehabilitation counselor, so he had a lot of insight about my needs and challenges. He supported me as I regained many of my abilities. Even his last long hospitalization gave me the opportunity to get used to living in the house alone, but with his love and support from his hospital bed. Things looked hopeful at the beginning of his illness, but his lung would not re-inflate. What I didn't know was that he felt he was dying and he worked on goodbyes with his brother and sister and his grown children and my two adult sons. He did not do any of that work with me or with our best friend, so I think he was saving the hardest for last. Had I known he was doing this final work I would have made different choices and brought our living will and durable power of attorney for healthcare decisions we had our attorney draw up when I was diagnosed with the brain tumor. As it happened, I was in his room and saw the monitor changes in the overbed monitor and summoned help immediately. I had been an emergency and flight nurse so I knew too well what I was seeing. His daughter was with us and I got her out of the room. He survived that to be transferred to ICU, though he never regained consciousness nor showed any signs of recovery. After two days I brought in the paperwork and got Hospice involved. His surgeon was very angry over my decision and yelled "This man walked into my office a week ago, I'm not ready to give up." All the other physicians were supportive of my decision. As a nurse, I think the surgeon just wanted to delay his death so that it would not occur in the thirty day reporting window that would damage his statistics. Jack left this world just hours after things were disconnected. My first request was that the in-room monitor be turned off and that was done right away. The staff were very supportive. I had gotten to know one of the social workers and one of the chaplains, and they were there for me afterward. As a nurse, I have seen people be very particular about their dying and not be willing to leave in the presence of certain loved ones. I took a long walk with our best friend at one point if that was what Jack needed, but as it happened he left his body when me, his daughter, and our best friend were with him. I had a brief glimpse of his joy when he left his body and then it was over. His family has continued to be loving and supportive toward me, and I have a circle of people close to me who have gathered nearer. Now our two dogs (Ike the aged Puggle, and Molly the young mini Hippo) sleep with me in the bed and we are a small pack. He was my love, my closest friend, and my hero. I am devastated by this loss. My life will continue as a tribute to the many lasting gifts Jack taught me and how he helped me grow into a better person with his love.
  23. This is written for my most wonderful shaded silver Persian cat, Flutter, who passed away at 10:45 pm, New Year's Eve, December 31, 2007. I remember wanting a chinchilla Persian from the time I was 4....but it would not be until some 25 years later that you walked into my life. And even then, it was a lucky accident because I wasn't even searching for a cat like you. I wanted a brown tabby Maine Coon, Norwegian forest, or another that looked like the 12 year-old cat who had just passed. I found you at a cat show, playing with your brother and sister. You were all 6 months old and so energetic--and I stood there mesmerized. Before I knew it, I had made arrangements for your purchase and adoption. I was to bring you home the next day. I was initially unhappy--because you were. When I brought you home on Sunday, you hid under the radiator. You wouldn't come out at all. On Wednesday, when I brought you to the vet for your first visit, there was progress of sorts as you actually came out of hiding at 6 pm and ate! You even played until I went to bed. And so it was like this for the next few weeks when you would hide behind the sofa for much of the day, only to emerge at dinner....I joked that I should have named you Casper the friendly ghost because you only ever appeared when it was dark outside. You began to snuggle with me at night....so much that I wound up with a nasty rash for weeks that made me wonder if I didn't have a cat allergy. I was even beginning to think that I might have to bring you back to the breeder who was understanding enough to say yes. But I also began to love you so much that I knew I just couldn't do that--not when we had started to bond. And just like that Disney hit that appeared at this very time, we were beauty and the beast....you, of course, were the beauty with your big green eyeliner eyes, pink nose, fluffy white fur--and I, the beast. "Tale as old as time True as it can be Barely even friends Then somebody bends Unexpectedly Just a little change Small, to say the least Both a little scared Neither one prepared Beauty and the Beast" You became attached to me. You seemed to know my daily schedule. You'd sleep under the dining table as I worked, grading essays online. Then at 4, when I was done, you would join me at the sofa, sitting in my lap for a few minutes before taking your place by my side. You, unlike my other cats, enjoyed "people" food too: you would clamour for yogurt, ice cream, pizza, steak, and lamb. And you would be there until it was time for bed: and you always knew when I was going, even when I went very early. You didn't like the dark; if I put my head under the blankets you would meow until I petted you just like you would wait for me by the door when I returned at night. You always seemed to know hen I was sick: you'd sleep by me, and look as though you were taking my temperature when you put your paw on my forehead. You also knew when I was going away even though I'd try to hide it. I can still remember that day when you walked me down the hall when I was leaving to see a friend. And when I returned, you were overjoyed, following me everywhere. Years went by....in early 2006, you began to have problems, even though you had always been healthy. It started with your unwillingness to eat. I remember how you bit into your food and yowled such that I immediately knew you must have had problems with your teeth, but the idiot vet insisted that all your issues were intestinal and/or psychological! That summer, you had a feeding tube inserted. It wasn't until I brought you to a veterinary dentist that I realized I was right all along when she discovered that you had a mass in your right jaw....but that it would have be seen by a radiologist. That was one of the worst and best days of my life. I still remember how mom and I were told by the radiologist that it was cancer and that it was probably inoperable. We were almost ready to put you to sleep....until the surgeon told us that it could be done. So you were there for the operation and two additional days. And then nearly, a week later it seemed like a miracle when you started eating by yourself--and playing too! Not only that, but the pathologist discovered that you did not have cancer after all, but some sort of fibrosis. In September 2007, we moved to CT....a decision which I still wonder about even as I'd always wanted to return to the East Coast. By then you were functioning quite well without your feeding tube and you looked well. But things began to change in October, You began to lose your appetite again. Although you seemed to do well after a visit to the vet in November, you deteriorated rapidly, requiring hospitalization. In December, you were back on a feeding tube. We kept waiting for you to improve, just like last time--even though you were missing the litterbox which you had never done before. Perhaps the fortune in a cookie was not inaccurate after all--"You may try to change the fates but sometimes you can't." I remember that last weekend in December. You were suddenly more active on Friday, walking about the house. We were excited. Maybe you were improving? Saturday and Sunday passed uneventfully....you spent much of those 2 days sitting on the bed, looking very tired. Then came Monday, December 31st. I was working that day, grading essays at the computer. When I finished at 4 and walked to your room, you jumped onto my lap as always, resting there for about 10 minutes. Not much changed....Then around 10:30 when mom was with you, you threw up violently. I went to the computer to find an emergency vet. By the time we got there, you were pronounced dead. I remember how I terrible I felt when you were zipped into a black bag. My poor baby who didn't like the dark....who didn't like to be alone. I had an autopsy done even though I knew it was useless....I wanted to know what killed him. It turned out to be lung and liver cancer. God only knows the agony I felt for months, at least until I had to teach the new term which started in March; I cried night after night, feeling so guilty...I felt as if I had killed you, moving to CT. Maybe if we remained in IL, you would still be alive? Our entire family loved you dearly too. You had left a definitive pawprint on their hearts such that neither wanted anything more than another shaded silver Persian; I wanted one that would be related to you. And so we did: in August, we purchased two kittens descended from your dad. I love them dearly and can sometimes trace out the resemblance between the three of you. But as charming as they are, I know they can never efface or replace you--ever so affectionate, ever so loving. You will forever be my beauty. [deleted pics because my entire photobucket was on display!]
  24. Hello everyone, I lost our beautiful mum on the 4th of Oct 2016. It all started suddenly with fever, 103.6 degrees, nausea, diarrhoea after that she did not pass Urine for a day or bowel movement. She was totally fine except type two diabetes and hypotension. We were in India at that time and unfortunately there was a dengue and chucungunya epidemic. We went to family doctor he didn't order bloods and by symptom he told us it sss chucungunya which my aunt recently had.!she had a real bad joint pain also which is a symptom. On the fourth day she started getting worse and had a severe abdominal pain and was short of breath. She did t want to go to the doctor or in emergency. She was so bad that she could not move we finally called the ambulance who took her to hospital. The local doctor ordered tests on day four and everything was OK according to him and he now said it was a viral and the only issue was low platelet count. She had stopped eating and drinking water by day 4 -!; 5. When we reached hospital they said her platelet count was dangerously low 95,000 they ran tests and said her creatinine and potassium were sky high which meant her kidneys had failed they were only working10%. They said this was due to some infection but it'd take time to figure out until then she was put on anibiotics inserted a catheter to mesusrd Urine output and was given meds and food through pipes in her neck. The only was to purify her blood was through dialysis. On second day X ray came and they said she had air leaking out of her Intestine. Even when we reached hospital they did tell us she was really really sick, her kidneys were bad transplant was not an option as she was I poor health. They did emergency surgery to fix air in the intestine and discovered she had a bowel perforation (peritonitis) The surgeon told us her chance of survival with surgery was 10% and without surgery she'd not make it either it was 0%. They removed infected part of large I testing, found 1 litre of pus which they removed and put a temporary STOMA in her tummy. My poor mum was unconscious she didn't know what was going on at all! So we consented. Surgery went fine and st night she was stable but they put her on non invasive ventilator to help her lungs and heart and so she could sleep. In the morning, we were told her blood pressure had dropped to a dangerously low point. They gave her all meds to pump it up but nothing working she was in SEPTIC SHOCK now, around 5 pm it was almost ok she was maintaining around 90 but after that it suddenly Dropped further. They called us from ICU and said the last resort was a blood transfusion and if that didn't elevate her BP she would not make it. They tried this but it had no effect on her blood, eventually after a three day struggle at hospital and a living nightmare she passed away, I could not take the sight of her monitor and her vitals dropping anymore I went out, I told her how much I loved her but I don't think she heard me, I just didn't have the courage to stay with her until her last breath she was on ventilator and her vitals kept dropping until her pulse showed 0.. I let my father and her brother stay as only two people were allowed, it haunts me to think that perhaps she was looking for me and my brother and we were not present when she was counting her last breaths. this was the worst day of my life, I would do anything to bring her back but I think I failed as a daughter whom she always trusted blindly, I told her she would get better but she did not. I should have been more proactive but my mum was very weak, she was also overweight 97kgs that's why it was so hard to take her down from a fifth floor apartment in a shitty lift. Her result for chucungunya done at hospital came back positive. She kept saying she was fine, none of us realised the fatality of the situation p I don't know what killed her, doctor said she must have had diverticulitis or Crohns which got worse but no one had any specific cause. Her cerfticicate said MOD PERFORATION PERITONITIS ANF SEPTIC SHOCK. Do not ignore severe abdominal pain she fell sick on the 26th with fever only, got wide on the 29-30th Sep and passed on the 4th Oct. I will never forgive myself I should not have listened to the family doctor I should have made him order bloods sooner rather than listening to his viral and chucungunya logic, I hope it never happens to anybody's loved one. I missed the chance to give her life, I hate myself I will never forgive myself me and my brother lost the most loving and beautiful mum withi a span of eight days ... I wish.. I didn't say goodbye I didn't tell her I love her I am lost without her life has lost its meaning what Devil attacked her. We celebrated her birthday just a week ago and mine too :(it was too late I am not sure if she would have had better treatment in U.K. Or Usa not sure if the doctors in India treated her properly ..
  25. On Saturday Dec. 3rd, my 15 year old dachshund-cocker spaniel (Brandie) fell into our pool and drowned. I told my dad everyday and even that morning that he had to stay outside with her so this wouldn't happen. She was losing her eyesight and couldn't swim in her old age; besides that the water was freezing. I wasn't home at the time, and I know my dad is absolutely distraught. I feel guilty because Brandie knew it was my job to protect her and I wasn't there. Before my mom died of cancer in 2010, she told me to take good care of Brandie and I feel like I have let them both down. I knew I had to make that dreadful decision soon to part ways with Brandie, and I even asked my dog in silence that morning when I would know it was time to let her go. Perhaps she made that decision on her own. I still can't shake the guilt of not being there when this happened. I got her on my 8th birthday and she's the only dog I ever had.