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  I filled my room with stuffed animals and dolls, but mine served a defensive purpose. I lined them up on shelves, on the floor, everywhere, positioned to fill space and form a barrier between me and the unknown. Since I could feel many variations of energy around me and sometimes I saw apparitions, my stuffed animals filled the physical void where I knew the energy existed. The toys also helped calm my nerves. I had created in my mind an explanation for the energy I felt. I was no longer looking at empty space and feeling as though an unknown energy occupied it. My toys now filled the space. Children, like adults, learn to deal with complicated circumstances in a way that creates comfort for them.

  I spent my youth trying to convince myself that I was normal. I was a competitive roller skater for several years in the early eighties. Journey, REO Speed-wagon, and The Go-Go’s provided the background music for my childhood. The people at the rink were also quite memorable, with their big perms, leg warmers, and lights on their skate wheels. I sat for hours watching people skate around faster and faster, until they began to blur into circles of light. I watched them intently, as if I were looking for something inside each person to become visible.

  I enjoyed the all-or-nothing stakes of winning competitions. Figures, dance, freestyle skating—I did them all. I especially loved those rare occasions when the boys and girls were allowed to compete against one another. I enjoyed beating the boys the most.

  Skating also provided an escape from the conflict at home between my mom and stepdad. When I was twelve, my mom and the man that I had called dad for ten years dissolved their marriage. I saw him with his new family a year later. He didn’t see me and I never saw him again.

  My mom remarried a few years later, and I didn’t fit into the new arrangement. I was on my own just one month before my sixteenth birthday. I lived in an apartment with a high school friend named Domini. I remember kicking back with a beer and thinking how ludicrous it was that I had once told my sixth grade teacher that I aspired to go to Harvard. Ridiculous! I thought. At this rate I wouldn’t even be going to a community college!

  My teenage years were painful and lonely. People were all around me, but I felt as alone as anyone could be. I also felt as if I sometimes attracted people who had bad energy. I always worry about young people who stand out in crowds because they have an inner light that shines through. I heard this often as a young person and now I understand it. Dark entities are naturally attracted to light and will try to manipulate it. A dark entity can see a light entity from a mile away. Unfortunately, it’s typically harder for light entities to spot dark ones, but with experience they can learn to recognize and avoid them.

  Have you ever looked at a recent picture of someone close to you and compared it to one from the past? There is a light that flickers in a young person’s eyes that is often extinguished as he ages. The trick is to make sure your light remains strong and bright. It’s a reflection of your soul. Never let it be extinguished. I have met seventy-year-old men and women who have the essence of people in their early twenties. I am determined to always retain my mischievous inner youth.

  The night I met my husband he swears there was a light shining down on me. Joe says he couldn’t resist knowing what I was about. I thought he was just an irritating guy with a pickup line.

  Joe has helped to make me a better person. He has taught me many lessons that I wouldn’t have held still long enough to hear from anyone else. The most important thing he taught me is that there are people who are true to their word, people who will always be there. He has taught me to trust.

  Another lesson Joe taught me was math and that it wasn’t too late to apply it to my dream of going to college. Against all the odds I did graduate from college. I received a B.A. in political science with a minor in history from Arizona State University. Even though I had grown up around all kinds of people who were going nowhere fast, a part of me had always known that somehow, some way, I would earn a college degree. I guess I am just one of those lucky people for whom things always work out. I see myself as being constantly pushed back onto the right path by a force greater than me. I am thankful.

  While sitting in class at ASU, feeling sorry for myself, I met a girl in a wheelchair. She was blind and had a Seeing Eye dog, but I never heard her complain, not once! I got over feeling sorry for myself really quickly. Life is a series of learning important lessons. You have to pay attention in class. Thinking of her helps me remember there’s always someone who has it harder than I do.

  Overall, my twenties were rich and exciting. I made mistakes, met Joe, graduated from college, experienced motherhood, interned at the homicide bureau, produced a safety video, and prepared myself to start over again with a new story. I don’t know how I ended up with such a colorful, remarkable life, but I am thankful for all I have done and all that I have.

  Now that you know my background and what I do, I encourage you to use the rest of my book to think about your own experiences.

  Please remember that mediums serve people both living and dead. We bridge the gap. If you have ever questioned whether there is an afterlife, I hope this book will help you to see that indeed there is a whole world on the other side.

  Chapter 1

  My Way

  I stared out the window that overlooked my backyard. I looked up at the stars in the sky, then back down to my girls’ play set.

  “Dad, where are you?”

  I studied every part of my backyard.

  “I can see everyone else; why not you? I can’t see what you look like now! I need to see you.”

  I sobbed as though I could expel the heartache from my body through my tears. But no matter how hard I cried, the excruciating pain refused to leave.

  I collapsed onto my couch and observed the house that I had moved into less than four weeks ago. The house I had moved into to be closer to my dad. But my dad would never get to walk through my front door, because he had died suddenly less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Two days earlier I had spoken with my neighbor Alison, whom I had just met when we moved in. Her father had unexpectedly been diagnosed with an advanced brain disease, and his prognosis wasn’t good. He was a wonderful man and I had been privileged to meet him on one occasion.

  I had told her, “I know it’s hard to see any gifts in your dad’s condition but let me point out one. I counsel many people who are devastated because they never got to say good-bye. You have been given an opportunity to hold your dad, to sit with him, and when the time comes to say good-bye to him. Say and do whatever you need to now in order to be okay with his final moments. One thing that I cannot do as a medium is to hold those lost to me. I can somewhat touch them but not hold them. It’s not the same. See the gift.”

  Later Alison and I would recognize the significance of our new friendship.

  My father’s death came at the end of a fun weekend. On September 20, 2002, I traveled to California for my cousin Vanessa’s wedding. I was happy to be there with my husband, Joe; we needed a break. During the ceremony some unusual disturbances were taking place. I snickered and squeezed Joe’s hand.

  I knew that my dad’s sister, my aunt Olivia, who had passed six years earlier, was making her presence known. I’d never doubted she would be there; I’d only wondered how she’d make her presence known. After the wedding we followed my cousin Mark’s fiancée to the reception; she missed our exit and we ended up on a small road trip. It made us a little late, but when we arrived we were ready for a good time.

  The timing of our arrival would later seem very important. We walked into the ballroom and I heard a familiar song. That moment will stay in my mind forever. The mariachis were playing “My Way.” First of all, I’ve never heard that song played at a wedding, because it’s hardly about unity. Second, mariachis don’t typically play that song, because it’s in English. I whirled around and I looked at Joe and my cousin Mark.

  Oh my gosh! That’s so strange—that’s what I’m going to play someday at Dad’s funeral!
r />   “My Way” is a perfect song for my dad, not only because he was a free spirit but because he had an air of Rat Pack coolness about him. He had been a professional ballroom dancer for decades, and we used to listen to Frank Sinatra together. He wore a big diamond pinky ring, and when I was seventeen I began wearing my own as a way of connecting to my dad. Everything he did, he did with style.

  Two years earlier, I had made a prediction. One day after having lunch with my dad, I came home and told my husband that I had a strong feeling my dad was going to die at age sixty-seven from a massive heart attack. Since then I had been on a crusade to prevent it. I shared my prediction with a few friends and family members. My friend Stacey and I had already gone to the mall and picked up a Sinatra CD with “My Way” on it. I told her I’d need it for my dad’s funeral. I was simultaneously planning his funeral and trying to prevent it. My dad promised he’d go have his heart checked out, and he did, several times; the doctors said all was well.

  I snapped back to the reception, and as the song ended I felt sick to my stomach.

  “Shake it off. Dad is fine,” I said to myself as I prayed it true. I had sent him to every heart institute in our area. He exercised regularly and ate right. He listened to me. Intervention, right?

  It was Friday, and I had just talked to Dad the night before. I’d planned to call on Sunday when I got home. He was coming over for lunch the following Saturday. I missed my dad the whole time I was gone. I’d moved to central Phoenix from Gilbert, Arizona, so that we could spend more time together. I was eager to see him more often. I had been in Phoenix for only three weeks, and I was still unpacking.

  Sunday morning, we were hanging out with my cousin Mark and my friend Laurie, waiting until we had to catch our flight home in a few hours. The phone rang and Joe answered it. After listening briefly, he looked at me and said, “Allison, your dad died.”

  I felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of my body.

  “You mean my grandma? Dad couldn’t be gone!”

  The look on Joe’s face told me he was. My heart shattered instantly. I could not think straight.

  I was so angry with God: “You can’t take my dad! I live with ridicule and doubt from others and I still do what I’m asked to do. I have done everything you’ve asked of me without hesitation, but a condition was that you not take my father!”

  I was only thirty years old, with no father. My daughters would have no grandfather; two of them would be too young to remember him clearly. I counsel others on grief, and I could not give myself peace of mind. I was instantly empty. I had nothing left to give.

  As I flew home, I watched people go on with their lives. I wanted to say, “Stop! My father has died and everything must stop!”

  But it doesn’t work that way. I know that. I was being irrational, but I couldn’t help myself. As I grappled with my pain, I realized that I was Dad’s next of kin and I had a funeral to plan.

  Death is funny in that it brings out the best and the worst in people. It casts light on the truth and makes life blindingly clear. The reality was starting to set in. I went to pick up the personal items he’d been wearing, and I slipped his pinky ring onto my finger next to my own pinky ring, where it will always stay. I had no sense of time, of hunger, or of any of life’s normal routines. Everything had all smeared together into an ugly, distorted mess. I told my husband that I didn’t want to sleep because every night that I slept was one more day since Dad’s last breath. I didn’t want Dad to become a distant memory. I didn’t know how to function, and I was frustrated because I couldn’t feel him as I do others who have passed.

  At his funeral I saw my cousin Mike, my dad’s namesake, and we embraced. Mike handed me the most amazing picture. It was of my dad and Mike’s dad with their arms around each other at Mike’s wedding twenty years ago. They had the most brilliant smiles on their faces and were obviously having a great time. Mike’s dad had passed away ten years earlier. I was so grateful for the picture. I extended my hand to Mike and placed my dad’s gold watch in his hand. It had been his favorite; “Mike” was engraved on the back, and he wore it every day.

  “My dad would want you to have this,” I said.

  Mike smiled. “Allison, my dad engraved this watch for your dad. I recognize his work.”

  I believe that Mike and I were prompted by our dads, so that each of us would bring a token of their love and hand it off to the child who missed a father. The watch gave my cousin not only love from my dad but a sign from his dad. The picture gave me a sense of happiness I thought I’d never feel again, as well as the gift of a visual of how he looks on the other side. I couldn’t yet reach my dad, but he reached me.

  Then I suddenly felt angry. “I am standing at my father’s funeral!”

  I looked up at the stained-glass ceiling of the church, and once again I railed at God: “How could you take him like this? Why should I ever listen to you again?”

  I heard a soft female voice say, “You were given the gift of two years to say good-bye.”

  The voice was right. I had been given two years! Even though I wasn’t with my father at the moment of his passing, I had been saying good-bye every time I saw or spoke with him. I had been saying good-bye with my every word and action for two years, and I knew it. I had known my father’s days were numbered since the day I received his age and cause of passing.

  It had been a blessing and a curse at once. I reflected upon my last conversation with Dad. I had told him, “Hold on, Dad, I’ll help you when I get back. Don’t you leave me; I still need you. ”

  He didn’t answer me, so I told him I loved him and hung up. It’s interesting that I couldn’t separate the medium in me from the daughter. My words had clearly been acknowledging loss. I just wouldn’t see it, because this time I just had to be wrong.

  It dawned on me that if I’d had a choice I never would have let him go. So God decides when it’s time for our souls to move forward, when it’s time to leave this life. None of us would simply relinquish our loved ones, or ourselves for that matter: “Okay, God take ’em away! Good-bye!” No, I don’t see that happening.

  Initially, I was unable to make contact with my father because I was blocked by my own pain, but eventually he reached me. The week after he passed away, I received phone calls from two of my dad’s dance students. The calls were independent of each other and neither student knew that I am a medium. I know my father didn’t tell them. His response to learning about my ability had been “Well, don’t tell anyone!”

  They both shared with me that they had a dream in which they saw my father. They said he looked really good and happy. In both dreams they had conversations with him and he told them to call his daughter and tell her that he was okay. They were both hesitant to call me, being worried that I might think they were crazy. Kind of funny, isn’t it?

  When loved ones can’t seem to reach you, they’ll try until eventually they find a way. I find great solace in knowing that Dad was able to send energy to soothe me through others. We should all be grateful for those kinds of signs and messages; they’re priceless.

  I hired mariachis for Dad’s funeral, and of course I had them play “My Way.” In addition, Marines came for the flag ceremony and one of them played “Taps.” Dad had been so proud to have served his country. I planned the funeral he would have wanted and a wake he would have found amusing, with lots of pictures, stories, and good friends. I knew that Dad was going to be there at his funeral and wake; I wanted to give him a send-off that he could revel in. I did, and now I try to live without regret. The only thing that was strange was that I didn’t clearly see him the way I usually see the “guest of honor” at a memorial service.

  We do whatever we need to in order to process our pain, and I grieved in my own way. I felt that if I heard “Be strong!” one more time, I was going to scream. I didn’t want to be strong, and furthermore I didn’t want to worry about doing or saying the right thing. If you can’t fall apart after losing you
r father, then when can you? Death is all about falling apart. You have to fall apart so that you can rebuild yourself. My dad died, and I am not the same person anymore. I will never be that person again, but I have learned from his death. It has definitely added several new layers to who I am as a medium.

  I try to observe the strengths of those who have passed and incorporate them into myself. One of my father’s strengths was laughter. He had a good time and so did everyone around him. People loved him because he made them feel good about themselves. I now make an extra effort to be social, to stop and smell the roses with my friends. The biggest compliment you can pay to people you have loved and lost is to keep a part of them alive in yourself, memorializing their significance.

  Seven weeks after my dad’s passing, my friend Randy died of a heart attack at age forty-nine. As I sat grieving with his three teenagers and his beautiful wife, I realized that Randy’s kids were not only proud of their father, they were also aware that he’d had a terrific life. They were mourning, but every other statement was about something Randy had achieved or had taught them.

  Erica, Randy’s exceptional nineteen-year-old, said, “My dad will never walk me down the aisle at my wedding. He won’t be there to see his grandchildren.”

  What could I say? She was right. How unfair was that? I realized how lucky I was to have had my dad for thirty years. Some people have even less time, or none at all.

  But she wasn’t waiting for my answer; she went right into another great story from one of their many summers at the lake. Looking down, Randy is surely proud of his phenomenal kids.

  “My Way” was played at Randy’s memorial, too. I sobbed, processing what I hadn’t finished at my dad’s funeral. Once again, the song was perfectly fitting.

  Part of the reason I wrote this chapter is that so many people out there beat themselves up over the death of a loved one. They think that had they just taken their mom to a doctor, had they just known sooner that something was wrong, they could have prevented the passing of those they love.