“I really want to get in touch with my husband,” Cathy said. “Just to know he is OK. He passed away three months ago.” Even though she was the relative of a good friend, I replied, “Without doing a Reading, I can tell you he is OK.” (I have often wondered what someone would do if a Medium said, “I Read your dead husband and he is really not OK. He’s got terrible insomnia and he feels really guilty for cheating on you.”) I continued: “I only Read those who have passed on as part of assisting clients to breakthrough or move forward in their lives in peace and clarity.”
Cathy adjusted her voice. “Oh, yes, it is hard for me to move on without knowing he loved me.” (Read: “Whatever, lady, I just want to talk with my dead husband.”) A cartoon appeared in my head: “I’m Seeing your dead husband, Wilbur, now, and it appears he never loved you and is clearly relieved to be on the other side.” Even as I rolled my eyes at the thought of it, my good friend’s smile appeared in my head, and I agreed to do the
Caveat: I’m not your typical 900 number psychic or healer. I’m a business professional who thinks of herself as facilitating leadership development and the accelerated transformation of systems – whether through consulting or
The funny part came when I was driving to my office to do a phone Reading for Cathy. Being on the edge of DePaul University Campus, parking around my office is a bear. Usually I ask those efficient parking angels to make up the difference between the reality of no spots that I witness as I drive around, and the miraculous departure of someone’s minivan from a spot somewhere in front of my office door, at just the right moment. Feeling a bit disgruntled about having agreed to do this
I was desperate, as the time for the
Sure enough Officer Quite Unfriendly showed up at my window. I opened it to allow in the bellow of disapproval and he sarcastically said – and I kid you not, this is a quote: “What? Did somebody die and someone called you to go and take care of it?” I was so shocked by his inquiry, I stopped to think. “Yes, actually,” I said calmly, “someone did die. And someone else called me to take care of it.” He hesitated and said: “You can’t park here!” I replied: “Officer, I’m not parked here. As you can see, I have my flashers on. I only stopped in this space because I knew you were going to give me a ticket and I had to call my assistant to tell the client whose husband died that I would be late taking care of it.” He angrily grunted. “Let me see your driver’s license!” I gave him that and my insurance card. He came back after assuring I was not an escaping criminal and almost yelled: “You can’t drive like this!” Even as he said it, I heard a voice-over say: “Your gift has not been given to you so you can Read dead people!” I smiled inside and said to him soberly: “You’re right, Officer. I can’t drive like this.” And what a surprise, he handed back my driver’s license without a ticket. I suppose when you get the point, no more reminder is necessary!
As soon as he turned around to leave, the person in the metered parking spot in front of me drove out and I gently moved forward. My parking spot was secured for the next two hours. That’s how I learned that Allison Dubois and I would not be sharing a profession, despite my proclivity for dead-man-talking.
Epilogue: toward the end of Cathy’s