Author: robinbarr

Back in the early 1980’s, a dear friend of mine had a similar experience with someone he loved who was ready to pass over.  My friend explained that he actually traveled with him up until a point he was unable to go further without passing over himself.

This personal experience was taken from accounts submitted to IANDS (International Association for Near-Death Studies) and is provided here anonymously.

This is a detailed account of a shared death experience, where a daughter assists her father in making his transition. It also recounts her (and her mother’s) multiple premonitions of his death and her increasing ability to hear his thoughts. She knew her father wanted her to help him go, but she wasn’t sure how to. Finally, she was able to go part way with him until he found his mother who was waiting for him. After this experience, she knows more about the power of love, and that our actions and thoughts matter more than we know.

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I helped my father cross over – from www.iands.org:

My father had been ill on and off for the past 12 years. He had had several bouts with cancer, aneurisms, and heart problems. He always came through each battle with the same strong, positive attitude he went into it with. My mother and I, through all the times we waited for Dad to come out of a surgery that was more likely to kill rather than save him, never had the slightest doubt that he would be fine.

This past February he had gotten to the point where all the aneurisms were over, he had a mechanical aortic valve and he had been free of cancer for over five years. He had started going out again and was in better spirits then we’d seen him in years. So when both my mother and I heard the same young, male voice call (we were in different places in the house and we heard it different days) we knew we were going to lose someone but not Dad. We tried to figure who and could only come up with my sister who had just won a bout with breast cancer, but that didn’t feel right. So we just waited to see who it was. About one week after our hearing this voice, my father started feeling bad. He lost a tremendous amount of weight in what seemed like days and had become very tired and agitated. We both pressed him to go to the doctor and be checked. He did and his doctor had both brain and full body CAT scans done along with various other tests. Everything was OK, but Dad just didn’t feel right. This was in June.

In August, while I was sitting in the car waiting for my mother, I felt an overwhelming feeling of loss. I asked, out loud, “Who are we losing?” but I had no feeling for a particular person. I just knew we were losing someone very close. When my father said to me, at 1:30 a.m. Tuesday morning, he thought he had a bowel blockage and needed to go to the hospital, I knew immediately who we were losing. On the way to the hospital he told me to take my time. I asked him if he was sure and he said there was still some time. I knew that he knew he wouldn’t come back this time.

In the emergency room, I stayed with him while they ran tests. He did have scar tissue blocking his intestine. They would admit him and schedule surgery. The ER doctor took me aside and told me that this would be very hard for Dad. I was amazed because this was not the first time they had to remove scar tissue from him and it had never been a major concern before.

But none of this was like any other time I had taken him to the hospital. I was grateful for this doctor, who I had never talked to before, for letting me know that my feelings were right. I literally stood next to my father that morning for four hours while they finished the tests and he waited for a room. He held my hand the whole time and had gotten so weak that he could only talk in a whisper. When it was time for them to move him, I told him I would go and get my son so my mother could be with him. He held my hand tightly and didn’t want me to go.

He had surgery at 8:00 pm Tuesday evening. He came through it fine. His doctor put him in the Cardiac Care Unit because of the valve in his heart, but this was normal. That evening my mother and I talked and we both knew Dad was going to die. It was strange to come out and say it to each other. Nothing the doctors said backed up the feelings, we just knew.

The following evening, as my mother and I stood over him in the CCU, he had a stroke. The CAT scans showed three baseball size soft tissue masses, one in the brain, one between the heart and lungs, and one in the abdomen. They also found several smaller masses up and down his spine. There was nothing that could be done. No cure that could handle all three masses. We had some serious decisions to make. We told Dad at the next visit and he understood. By now the bottom half of both lungs had collapsed, he was paralyzed on his right side and couldn’t speak. He could communicate by pointing at letters and his facial expressions. I had to ask him in the presence of a doctor if he wanted to keep the respirator on and if he understood that if it was turned off he would, in fact, die. He had no trouble making it clear to them that he wanted the artificial life-support off and he fully understood what was happening. We then moved him to a private room where my sisters, brother and I took shifts staying with him. We didn’t want him to be alone when he passed.

The four days he was in the private room were beautiful. Everyone who ever knew my father came to say goodbye and we, the family, allowed everyone a private moment with him. We were all amazed at how vividly aware he was and how well he communicated. It truly spoke of a life well lived and a man respected and loved by everyone.

By Saturday, the third day in the private room, he was tired, his paralysis was close to total, breathing labored, and he had a couple of bouts with violent fits of shaking. For some reason, I had a very strong mental connection with my Father that had intensified to the point of my actually speaking for him. I could hear his voice in my head. I knew what he wanted and what he felt. The connection was so strong by now that I had few feelings of my own.

I had relieved my sister Saturday morning. Dad had a restless night and I knew he would rest with me there. I kept hearing him ask me to help him go. I wasn’t sure how he wanted me to help. I knew he wanted to go but it felt like he was scared or lost. It seemed like he couldn’t go. My brother stayed with him that afternoon and I was to relieve him that evening. I told my mother I couldn’t go back that night. I knew I had to help him. I just wasn’t ready for whatever it was I was supposed to do. My mother understood how I felt, she said she had the same feelings her last visit, so she arranged for my sister and her husband to spend the night with him. Since this had all started I hadn’t slept much at all and Saturday night I actually slept for a few hours. I woke early Sunday morning and felt more relaxed than I had in days. But I knew I had to go and stay with Dad. I still had no idea how I could help him.

When I settled in at the hospital I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I heard him asking for help but I couldn’t help, and it broke my heart to see him suffer. He wanted to go, he was ready to go – but he couldn’t, and I couldn’t go for him. I’ve never felt a pain like that – I couldn’t look at him. I felt so self-conscience, the atmosphere in the room was so thick and oddly calm – peaceful almost – and waiting. As I sat reading in a chair at the foot of his bed, his breathing became heavy and sporadic, he was hyperventilating. I turned my head and looked him in the eyes (actually, the third eye, where you can see both eyes at the same time) and said, “I’ll breathe for you Dad.” I speeded my breathing up to his rate and slowly slowed it back down – he was with me and I was, literally, breathing for him. We were in perfect sync. As he calmed down he motioned, with his eyes, for me to close my eyes. I just knew that was what he wanted. I said, “you want me to close my eyes?” he motioned yes. I turned my head back and rested it against the back of the chair and closed my eyes. I felt, rather than saw my father in my consciousness. That is the only way to explain it. There was a figure, of sorts… like a vague outline, but I felt my father. I knew he wanted me to take him or help him. I said, verbally, “I can’t go all the way, but I’ll go as far as I can.” We then ‘moved’ through what was like a tunnel; the walls were like a bluish-gray smoke gently moving clockwise. I was behind my father, following him. We came to an area that I can only describe as a huge wall of purple and black swirling plasma. It rose up in front of us. We stood on a dark floor, the tunnel was behind us and we were blocked by this huge wall. The purple was the predominant color and the black was more like the outline of the purple swirls. We walked along the wall but found no way through, over, under, or around it. The feelings of this wall were confusion and chaos. It was swirling at a steady but chaotic pace and was quite intimidating but not frightening. More frustrating.

My father had only gotten this far – he couldn’t get past this wall. That’s what he wanted me to help him with. I said, “no wonder you can’t go – this is a mess!” Then I felt this sudden conscious awareness of what was happening and fear flooded me – a fear so shocking that I “flew” my eyes open and sat straight up in my chair! I looked over at my father and his eyes flew open, he looked at me as if I had hurt him more deeply than was humanly possible. I felt so ashamed, shocked and sorry, deeply – so very deeply sorry.

His breathing became faster and agitated. I said, “it wasn’t long enough, I opened my eyes too soon. I’m sorry…” He softened and I took control of the breathing again. (The whole time, the breathing was the predominant sound; it was like a gauge or a line and I used it but I’m not sure how.) He, again, motioned for me to close my eyes and we started over again. This time when we reached the purple/black wall there were specks of orange dotted through it. My father was looking for his mother. He was walking up and down the wall like a lost child calling, “Mama, Mama.” I started looking for her too; it made sense for her to come and help him – more sense than me doing it. I called “Granmommy Florence” (I was quite young when she died and only remember her one time; I tried to feel her but I couldn’t grasp it.) “Granmommy Florence.” It seemed that we called and looked for a long time. I started getting angry. I didn’t want my father stuck here and his body was almost dead. Why didn’t she come and get him?! Where was she?? I hollered “Granmommy Florence, come and get him! He’s suffered enough – don’t make him suffer anymore.” I felt so helpless that my demand was more of a plea.

Then, from somewhere inside of me, I heard “orange”. I remembered reading something about orange but I suddenly knew the only way through the purple was through the orange. I said to my father, “come on, we have to follow the orange.” He came with me like a lost child would go with someone they trusted to take them home. The innocence I felt from him made me feel very protective and real.

I wasn’t sure how to follow the orange, there were only specks here and there so I picked a speck and ‘moved’ toward it. As I did, I saw more orange, so I moved toward that, and I kept doing this until I, we, were on an orange path. The path rose up out of the purple/black swirls and as we moved along the path we came into a vast horizon of soft, warm pastel yellow and green whips that curved all around us like a canopy. The purple/black was below and behind us but the yellow/green whips were above and around us. Like we were rising up into a huge dome. It was so vast and warm, safe, calm and lightly peaceful.

It seemed as if we were on a moving belt going toward a flat, swirling, circular door. Like an inverted funnel but it, the opening, was flat and was in the middle of this vast space we had entered. The circular door was a soft white light mixed with light gray shadows where the light overlapped from the swirling motion.

There was a figure off to the left side of this door. To me it looked transparent, the color of liquid coffee held up to the light. It was the shape of a tall, thin person in a long, hooded robe. It seemed more transparent in what would be the chest area and I could not see a face or any detailed features. I know my father saw his mother. I felt his joy, his sudden childish freedom. The freedom to express the abundant love and joy that only innocent children seem to have. I was overwhelmed with a love and understanding that words cannot describe. A love of being rather than having, an understanding of everything in nothing. A warmth that cleansed the very fibers of my soul.

I watched as my father moved in front of me (up to now he had been following me) and moved like a child running toward this figure. I was still going forward but at a much slower pace. As I came closer to the door I felt as if I was shedding all pain, all worry. I was home, at last I was at the place I had been looking for so long. I had no reason to go back, nothing mattered now, I knew who I was and more importantly what I am and am to be.

Then, as my father reached the figure, a harsh, loud knock rang out, then another and another. I heard, what I thought was my father (I’m not so sure it was now) say, “Lynn, go answer the door.” I said, “No. I’m not leaving.” Again, the voice said, much sterner this time, “Lynn! go and answer the door!” Then, for some reason, I had the feeling that I was eavesdropping on a very private moment, and I felt uncomfortable. I said, “OK. But I’m coming right back.” Still seeing my father, the entire scene in my head, I got up out of the chair and opened the door of the hospital room. It was as if I was above myself looking through a funnel at the nurse in the hall. “I want to get his blood pressure… is it Ok?” she asked. The hospital staff had been really good about not disturbing him without our OK. I looked at her and tears started streaming down my face, “He’s going now,” I said. “I’m with him, he’s just found his mother, he’s going now!” The nurse stared at me for a moment then said “Are you alright? Is there someone I can call? Can you handle this?” “Are you kidding!!” I said “It’s beautiful, I’m with him. Of course, I can handle this.” Then she said “I knew you were psychic. I knew you were.” Then she started to tell me how her mother died and she wasn’t there but she knew when it happened. I didn’t want to be rude, but I said, “I have to go back… I want to be with him.” She squeezed my arm, and said if I needed anything she would be right outside the door.

I closed the door, went back to the chair, my father’s breathing was so slow and calm. I sat back and closed my eyes… I was back on the orange path but I was further back from the door than when I left. My father and the figure were just entering the light. My father said, “Bye, honey, and thank you.” As they entered the light, his breathing slowed; I knew the breathing would stop. I watched them move further into the light and heard the final breath of my father’s body. I just sat in the chair. I left the place we were, I was back here, and I waited for the silence. Hoping for another breath but knowing he was gone. After a few seconds, I looked at his body. He was definitely gone. I went to the door and told the nurse. She came in and confirmed that he was dead. She called the supervising nurse and she noted the time. The supervisor asked me if I was all right and I just looked at her and said, “I went with him. I watched him… I showed him where to go!” She said, “Do you know what a blessing that is?” and I couldn’t speak.

I called my mother and told her that I took him. She said she was so grateful, she tried to help him the day before and couldn’t. She would have someone come and get me. When my sister picked me up at the hospital, I tried to explain what had happened, but it was very hard to find any words, much less the right ones. Later she told me that I was “glowing” when she picked me up. The rest of the family had mixed reactions, they were actually angry at me.

It’s hard to describe how I felt. I remember telling a minister, who wanted me to recount the experience, that to let go of someone that deeply was the ultimate test of love. You cannot let go on that level if you are concerned with what it means to you. Only if you want what is right for that soul. That’s the love of being, not of having, the force that connects all life to all life. I guess you could say selfless or fear-less love. I know now that “hell” is the fear that holds us. “HELL” is being stuck between the physical world and the next world. We need to have felt and understood the “love – of – being,” that selfless, fear-less love, at some point in our existence to pass that wall. That’s the message of love. Not the feeling most of us call love. There has to be nothing in it for us. It doesn’t matter how we understood it or what we felt it for – just as long as we did.

A couple of hours after I got home from the hospital, I laid down, closed my eyes and was back at the purple/black wall. It’s funny but it wasn’t so intimidating this time. I looked behind it and found that it was a curtain. I slipped behind the curtain and went up the path and I saw my father much farther into the light. I wanted to go – but the curtain was suddenly in front of me and I was told “not yet.” I’m still trying to understand how and why I was able to go with my father. From what I have read and tried to research, this is not a very common thing, though I’m not the first person to have an experience like this.

There are a couple of things that I am very sure of now and they are that we are much more than flesh, bones, and blood. That our actions and even our thoughts here mean a great deal more than we can ever imagine. That “love” is much more and much more powerful than most of us has even an inkling about.

I also know that my father and any other soul (here or passed) who has known real love for another being is OK and will be OK through eternity. I now KNOW we can ALL go home.