Did you know that Death is a polygamist? It’s true; I just found out last night.
I was helping someone cross over as I have done now for nearly 2 decades (I’m a planer, it’s what I do–see A Planer’s Date With Death). The woman had stomach cancer and was in a great deal of pain, but last night she reached out and I went to her. When I floated in she was sleepy, and not too happy about being awakened. I knew someone else was hovering nearby, but I couldn’t quite see who, so I put it out of my mind and reached down and took the woman’s hand. We floated out of the room and into the transitional plane.
The transitional plane is the crossover point between here and the astral plane. It’s sort of a way station. It’s a place where anything you want can become real; where any emotion you bring with you becomes exaggerated; where people, places, and events can be recreated; and where endings can always be happy if you want them to be.
The woman, who before had lain crumpled on a hospital bed, wasted, old, and emaciated, now stood next to me a healthy and smiling younger woman. Her hair was light brown, softly curled, and her eyes shown with love, happiness, and remembrance as she looked at the rambling, gray, frame house in front of us.
With her to my left, the presence who had stayed just out of sight before now stepped forward on my right. He was an ordinary looking guy, tall, stocky, with a buzz cut of graying blond hair, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. While a very small part of me felt uncomfortable around him, for the most part, neither the woman nor I seemed inordinately upset by his presence.
The 3 of us looked at a large memorial garden that had been planted in the front yard. White stones laid in a heart shaped outlined the garden, and a calliope of colored flowers were planted throughout. In the center was a simple white, stone marker. As the woman read the stone marker, she became upset that the “wrong” name had been used on it. I hugged her and told her it was alright, and soon she agreed. (The family had used her full birthname rather than the name she was most often called.)
As the embrace ended, I found myself taking part in a wedding. (Many times, when a person transitions, they relive those moments of great happiness or sadness before finally moving on. In her case, she chose to relive some of her happiest memories.) A large barn like structure was filled with people sitting on folding chairs, and sunlight spilled through openings up near the ceiling. The woman sat next to someone I took to be her husband, and they beamed up at the wedding couple–me and Death.
I looked down to see that I was wearing a traditional white wedding dress, while Death wore the traditional black tux. I stared at Death a moment, and my stomach flip-flopped. An inner voice gave a warning, but the look on the woman’s face overrode it, and I continued to play the part of the bride.
While the ceremony played out, Death whispered to me that if we did this I would truly be married to him. Again that voice of warning tried to speak up, to tell me that what he said was true, but again I ignored it. Death also whispered that he had many brides and brides-to-be, some he had already taken on honeymoons and some he was still waiting for. I felt myself shudder, but the dream-like minister finished speaking, and we were surrounded by the woman and her family all smiling and happy on our behalf.
The scene shifted around us again, and now we were in a smaller, more suburban garage, where stood 3 bicycles. The woman with stomach cancer sat on one, a shine in her eyes and a huge smile on her face. She waved to me and to Death and rode out into the sunlight, moving slowly down the driveway. Death pulled on a helmet, and smiled at me. “Will you come with us?”
I looked at the third bike, then at Death, and shook my head.
“Are you sure?”
There was an allure, I’ll admit it, but again I shook my head.
With a devilish smile and a wink, he rode toward the woman, and they turned right onto the sunny suburban street. As I watched them ride away, I thought about what I had done. Somehow, I knew that by marrying him I had agreed to leave with him, and not just in a vague sometime kind of way, but soon. But I wasn’t frightened or upset. I’ve been helping so many others make the transition that by now I’m very comfortable with the thought of moving across on my own. In fact, there are days where the idea absolutely intrigues me–much like an explorer seeking the next great adventure.
Instead, what intrigued me now, was the realization that Death was a polygamist. How many wives did he already have? And how many fiancees just waiting for him to come and sweep them off their feet? But most of all, I had to laugh, because I truly felt sorry for someone with that many wives and wives-to-be. After all, my husband says that he couldn’t handle anyone else because just dealing with my mood swings makes him absolutely crazy, so I don’t know how Death can be happy being such a polygamist. That poor, poor “man”.