Small Miracles

Losing a child, particularly to suicide, is gut wrenching. It lends an entirely new perspective on the term, “a broken heart,” because every morning when I wake up and realize that ‘yes, Erik is still dead; it wasn’t all some horrible dream,’ I feel like a dagger has been plunged to the hilt into my heart. Since his death, it’s like I’ve lost a limb and must limp through life a broken woman. Some days I wonder how I can bear plodding through the decades I have left on Earth when every day that my son isn’t with me is like a bitter eternity. Some days, I long for death, but the love I have for my husband, my other children, my friends and the rest of my family plays tug-of-war with my soul. I must stay. I must love. I must endure.

Of course I have many good days, but when I slip into a particularly dark place, Erik comes to comfort me. The other day he did just that. Here is just one story of the many miracles with which he graces our lives:

Erik shot himself in the head in his bedroom. Finding him moments later was the most horrible experience I’ve ever had. For days, I couldn’t even go upstairs, much less return to that room. Then, I went through a phase when I wanted to be there all the time. I wanted to smell his dirty clothes. I cursed the fact that the sheets on his bed were changed minutes before his death, robbing me of the chance to soak in his scent, his essence. I tended to the makeshift altar on his desk by lighting the candles and rearranging the flowers that were slowly turning brown. I combed every surface, every wall to find the dent made by the wretched bullet that stole him from me forever.

Now, I avoid the room again. Seeing the rough wood planks from which the carpet was removed, seeing the yellow bags the crime scene cleanup crew filled with his clothes, seeing his empty bed…it’s just too hard. We keep pictures of him around the house, but every reminder of his death is locked away in his room: the photo album from the funeral home, the keepsake box filled with sympathy letters, leftover programs for his memorial service, copies of our eulogies, they’re all in his room as unspeakable reminders of a life cut short. Erik’s room is a no man’s land behind a locked door that no one dares open. To open that door is to open painful wounds again.

The other day, I felt particularly sad. As I sat on the couch sobbing softly, the housekeeper who comes once a week and has know Erik since he was 16 months old approached me quietly. She said, “Elisa, look what I found on the utility room floor.” She placed a little card in my hand. It was a card meant to be distributed to everyone at Erik’s visitation and memorial service providing information on how to leave an audio message, thoughts, prayers, remembrances, condolences.

How could this be? These cards have been locked away in the leather keepsake box in his room upstairs. The door to his room has been closed for months. How did that card go from that box, from that room, all the way downstairs to settle on the white tile floor in the middle of another room?

As I touched that card, Erik’s image appeared in my mind. However, this was no ordinary image. It was vivid. It was strong. It was tangible. And the smile on his face spoke volumes. It said, “Mom, I’m fine. I’m here. I’m as alive as I’ve ever been.”

I’ve learned so much from the books I’ve read on how souls can manipulate energy to move material objects, even books explaining the physics behind the phenomenon. In a previous entry, I recounted how Erik said he was working on developing that skill so he can contact us in more tangible ways. That miracle proved to me that his practice paid off.

A day destined to be sad had become happy. Thank you, Erik, my darling boy.

Erik Being Silly

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Elisa Medhus


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  • Your son is still with you Elisa. Even among the living, there are more than one ways of telling someone how much you care for them. After death, there are still signs for those who care to look and you, clearly, don’t miss a single one.

    Peace and god be with each of you.

  • He will always be with you. Always.

  • Tracy Lamont

    Oh Elisa,
    Now you have me crying. Just remembering those early, dark days, where you sadly are now, is unbearable for me. I’ve realized lately that I’ve made more progress than I realized. And you will too. I promise. The sun will come out again. It will never shine as brightly as before, but it will warm you and your precious family.
    Here’s a poem I wrote in those early, dark days. God bless you, Tracy xx
    My Adam

    I walked away that morning,
    Without a backward glance.
    I didn’t know that moment
    Was going to be our last.
    The last time I would hold you,
    Or see your lovely face.
    The last time I would kiss you
    And feel your strong embrace.
    So solid and so real,
    So vibrant and alive,
    A happy face with twinkling eyes,
    My fine young man, my child.
    My first-born son, my Adam,
    The apple of my eye.
    So cruelly taken from me,
    We never said goodbye.
    The shattered remnant of my heart
    Is strangely beating, still,
    With holes so black and fathomless
    No light could ever fill.
    I don’t know how I face each day
    Without my darling boy.
    Gone is all the happiness,
    The love of life, the joy.
    The years stretch on before me
    So bleak and dark and long,
    I pray you walk beside me, son
    And help to keep me strong.
    And when my life is over,
    Come to me on that day,
    And smile at me and hold me tight
    And carry me away.
    The wind that whispers through the trees,
    The brightest star at night,
    A rainbow on a dismal day,
    A shaft of golden light.
    All these are signs you send to me,
    Your message from above,
    That even death can’t break the bonds,
    Of Son and Mother Love…

    Love you, Adam. God bless, mom x x x
    Late 2007

    • Oh, my. Death seems to have made quite a poet out of you. This is amazing. Have you tried to publish it?

  • Paul Conklin

    Dear Tracy and Elisa,

    Yes, that is a beautiful poem Tracy. I think that we are kindred spirits. There are poets in the house. Here is a poem that I wrote about my son after he died.

    Father And Son

    For this is the end, when eyes roll into the back of your head, and I see the whites, the whites of your eyes.
    Panic seizes me as I call for aid
    in a last futile attempt to stop the inevitable.

    Final spasmodic breaths punctuate the air
    as we can scarce believe it has come.
    We kiss you on the forehead uttering a plaintive
    “I love you,” as you exhale for the last time.

    Into the corridor we run, fleeing from death,
    running towards the elevator that pours us
    onto the ground floor, weeping all the while,
    tears clouding our vision.

    Death is raw, a reality that scrapes to the bone.
    It cares not when it strikes or how.
    Death is cruel, mercilessly cleaving the heart.
    It cares not when its owner returns to the dust.

    At one time my pump beat strongly,
    but now there is an emptiness in my chest cavity.
    If you were to place your hand upon my sternum,
    you would hear nothing, nothing but the echoes of silence.

    In the silence I discovered that two had died.
    One was here and the other one gone,
    but no one could find the missing heart,
    for it was lost in the stupefying haze of a life lost too soon.

    Who can know the connection that exists,
    that exists between a father and a son?
    Like tandem stars that dance together in unison,
    so there is the unbreakable bond of a father and a son.

    Should one star pull away into the inky blackness,
    the one left behind would weep gaseous rays forever.
    Though it may shine brighter than a trillion suns,
    in its heart, in its heart, you would find a gaping black hole.

    Oh, who can know the connection that exists,
    that exits between a father and son?
    For the day that you died, my heart ascended,
    ascended to a place on high.

    Through the ether my heart arose.
    It flew away to destinations unknown.
    That is why in the place of my heart,
    in the place of my heart, there is deafening silence.

    But in its place, there in the darkness,
    you will find a silver cord, a tether that links us together.
    For death cannot destroy the love,
    the love, that joins together a father and a son.

    Love,
    Paul

  • Suzie

    Dear Elisa,
    I’ve just found your site and have been reading through your posts from the beginning. You have touched my heart so, and I am so sorry that you lost your beautiful boy.
    My son John passed away suddenly on 10 January this year at the age of 8. I am so heartbroken and have been constantly searching and reading about what it’s like on the other side and how to make contact with my darling. Some days my searching keeps me going and others I’m just so so sad that I find it difficult to do even the most menial task around the house. The aching is just so great.
    I want to thank you so much for sharing as you are. I believe John has sent me here to help me learn and heal.
    Love Suzanne

    • Sweet Suzie, I’m so glad you’ve joined our little family here. We all learn so much from each other in this nice, safe and loving space. I’m so sorry about your loss. If you’d like to share more, please do. If you need to contact me at all, my email is emedhus@gmail.com. Meanwhile, would you like me to see if Erik can connected with John and bring him forward to you? If so, what city was he in when he passed? Have you read any books about the soul’s survival of death, the afterlife, etc.? Don’t worry. We take good care of each other here.

  • Suzie

    Thank you so much for your welcome Elisa. I’ve continued to read heaps more posts and continue to be both moved and blown away by how this is just what I needed to receive. There are no coincidences though, are there? And the more we realise and accept that, the more messages we can receive. It’s all helping to raise our vibration I suppose.
    I’ve done quite a bit of reading in these last months. Here’s some of the books: Many Lives Many Masters by Dr Brien Weiss, Voices in My Ear by Doris Stokes, The Journey Home by Erica Reppel (this is an amazing little book – Erica channels a guide/s Abraham and gives some very profound messages on life and death and the afterlife), Life After Life by Raymond Moody, The Day I Died by Tammy Cohen (about NDE), and a number of others by Gorden Smith, Alison DuBois, John Holland and James van Pragh.
    I would love it if you could mention my John to Erik. He passed in Bribane, Australia.
    I am desperately seeking that connection. I am reading lots to learn more and trying to meditate. I’ve also visited a couple of spiritualist churches. I feel desperate like I need to be doing something, only the grief takes over often and I feel frozen in my tracks. I almost feel like I’m on the verge of something incredible and amazing and exciting (thinking out loud here) but I’m not exactly sure what it is or what I should be doing next. At the same time, I sometimes feel dashed down again when I feel that all this (connecting with John on the other side) is well and good, but he’s not here anymore! – a grieving mother talking, I know. Sorry for the babble!
    Thanks for your love Elisa
    Love Suzie

    • God how well I understand, Suzie. One thing is connecting with them through little hints of their continued existence, channeled conversations, etc. but the absence of the physical is almost unbearable. After all, we’ve been with them physically 9 months before they were born. Th stories, the pranks, the signs, they all help, but I know that I won’t be satisfied until I see him standing before me, clear and solid as ever. And you’re right, it’s so hard for them to reach us through our cloak of grief. They have to lower their frequency so much. The desperation, I know. They paralysis, I know. Sometimes I sit in my chair in a near catatonic state, yet inside, I am screaming, crying, clawing for hope. It’s a strange dichotomy.

      I will talk to Erik every night in hopes that he will bring your John to you. If you have a picture that I can visualize while I ask Erik, that’d be helpful too. You can email it to me, if you like. I will also ask him to introduce her to Kara, who recently passed away at the age of 8 as well. Lastly, I will pray for you, send you virtual hugs and hope to take some of your pain away. All of the books you’ve read are very good. The one that helped me most, early on, was “Home with God” by Neale Donald Walsch.

  • Paul Conklin

    Dear Suzie,

    I am so sorry to hear about the loss of your son John. When you lose a child it is like you have lost a part of yourself. There is nothing more painful then losing a child because we do our utmost to protect our children. I just recently lost my adult son about three months ago and the pain was devastating.

    I can tell you that your son is alive and well. I understand that children are cared for by a parent or grandparent that has already passed or a celestial guardian if there are no family members present. Do not worry my friend. Your child is well cared for.

    I know that feeling of desperation. You want to connect with your child so bad that you can barely stand it. I have wanted my own son to come to me. He jokingly said when he was here that he would come back and haunt those persons that had treated him so cruelly. He has already appeared in my dreams about a dozen times.

    I recommend an easy read for you. Elisa has this book also. It is entitled “Hello From Heaven.” This book chronicles hundreds of after death communications from the other side of the veil. When you die your consciousness lives on. Our bodies are simply a vehicle that houses the consciousness. The body dies, but the consciousness lives on.

    Suzie I will pray tonight that my love and the love of the Father within me surround your heart and soul. You are going through unbearable pain at the moment, but your pain shall subside. You will never forget your beloved one, but your pain will lessen as time goes on. And when you have recovered sufficiently you can help others who have suffered similarly. Connecting with others that are grieving will become a healing balm to your heart. You are not alone, my dear friend. As one suffers, so do we all. Your grief is our grief. Your pain is our pain. So borrow our strength and find your grief subsiding if just for a little while. Then when you feel your power waning return again to be filled up so that you can endure another day. I know that it does not seem likely, but one day this too shall pass. Your grief shall turn into joy and the sun will shine again. You are loved. You are deeply loved. You will survive. You will be whole again one day.

    Love,
    Paul

    • What would we do without you, Paul??

  • Michelle Stein

    Oh Elisa,

    I could have written the first paragraph. When my beautiful, smart, loving daughter Olivia died at 24 some of my first words were, “how am I going to live the next 40 years without her in my life?” The day after she died she came to me full-force. It was my daughter but ancient, powerful. We talked for 10-15 minutes telepathically and she assured me that she was better than ever, she even made me laugh. It was a gift and I know my goal oriented daughter demanded to speak with me before she would go further as she knew how devastated I would be by her death (I can see her shaking her guide by the shirtcollar for help getting through to me). There have been many, many people that have heard from her and many miraculous occurrences but I’ve not really heard from her, like that, since that day. While I know that she is great, I’m NOT. It’s the hugs that are the hardest–to know that I will never again hold my darling girl that breaks my heart in two. It’s been 15 months and my grief seems to be getting deeper. Like you I know that I must stay for all the others that I love. I feel that this is a soul challenge and if I don’t do something good with this horrible event I will have failed. I am so grateful to have found your blog and to have read your story and those of other parents. Your Erik is a beautiful young man. Hopefully, someday, I will be able to communicate with my daughter the way you do with Erik.
    Love & Light to you for all you do,
    Michelle

    • {{{{{HUGS}}}}} Michelle!

  • Chris Worthy

    Dear Elisa,
    Thank you for this website, these posts…..the more I read, the more I have hope that I might talk to my baby…..my six year old son Noah who passed away suddenly in his sleep in March 2011. This year has been so difficult…..I have a room…just like Erik’s upstairs, it hides away all the memories of my sweet son. It remains the same as it was the day we found him, the horrible morning that has changed me forever. You see, we don’t know what caused his death…and it tears me apart to think that I missed something that could have saved him. I miss him so terribly. He has come to me twice in dreams since his death, but it isn’t nearly enough. I want to feel his hugs, his kisses, hear his sweet words….
    Your site has given me some hope that I may actually hear or feel him again……so I keep reading your posts, taking in each word and hoping, praying that Noah is in a good place, a wonderful place, and that he isn’t by himself and sad, missing his Mommy, Daddy and brother. I am trying to heal, but my heart aches so much. I have read so many books, and they help for a little while, then I find myself back in this dark place, needing my baby more than ever.
    I will keep reading….thank you for this.
    Hugs,
    Noah’s Mommy……Chris

  • Email me, Sweetie, so I can give you my numbers. emedhus@gmail.com. Maybe we can find out more during the conference call.

  • Around the time I lost a friend I was reading about how spirits can manipulate objects. When dear sweet Michael passed I left a plastic beaded rosary on his pillow next to his head. I told him to give it back one day. I always hope he would find that ability himself. Now that I think about it he may have and i just did not notice yet. He used to leave us quarters and pennies and as time has passed, I was just thinking this reading another page of your perhaps he still is I am just ignoring it. I find change all the time. I need to start smiling more when I do.

  • Susan

    I so identify with this post, Elisa. It’s been almost seven weeks since my 16-year-old son passed away unexpectedly in an accident during what experts suspect was a complex sleepwalking event. Grief counselors warn that the sadness will come in waves, and they’re right. I’ve been doing my best to navigate the waves. Honestly, it’s exhausting.

    Most times, I’ll be swimming along—running errands, cooking, working, walking the dog—the wave will hit, and I’ll go under, claw back up to the surface, sputter a bit, and find my way back into the stroke, tissues sodden and sunglasses disguising my tears. Other times, the wave will hit, I’ll slip under, and I’ll get snagged in a grief spiral, a vortex that tugs me further and further down, even as I struggle with all my strength for the surface. The sorrow here is so achingly intense, so overwhelming. It crushes everything. It’s the worst at night, laying in bed and waiting for sleep, when there’s nothing but darkness and questions and sadness. I used to thank the universe, say my gratitude prayers, every night before I fell asleep. Now I just can’t. Another painful loss.

    Two days after my son died, my 14-year-old daughter and I went through with the scheduled move to our new house nearby. It’s made things doubly difficult. In boxes marked “den,” I find my son’s favorite Wii games and DS cartridges. In boxes marked “books,” there are the volumes of world history and biographies of scientists and founding fathers that so intrigued him. In boxes marked “office,” there are his earnest letters to Santa and the Tooth Fairy I’d saved, and the DVDs of Seinfeld season three he’d bought at a thrift store and given me this past Mother’s Day because he knew how much I love the show. They’d been stacked on the corner of my desk, a reminder of my sweet boy’s thoughtfulness, so that’s how the movers packed them, with the office stuff.

    His room is still in boxes. I know I must unpack it. I know I must unpack it before his sister comes back from summer camp in two and a half weeks. Each time I pass by the open door to his room, I look in, hoping, so hoping to find him there. But there’s only empty furniture and boxes and the mountain of cards, letters, and mementos his heartbroken friends and teachers offered in celebration of this beautiful kid. I desperately want my daughter to return to a real home, a normal home, where memories aren’t boxed up because they’re too painful to unpack.

    I yearn for connection with my son, but like so many here, I fear my profound grief is getting in the way. I’m reading everything I can get my hands on about the afterlife, considering visiting a spiritualist church, and trying to locate a reputable medium. I have an aching need to know that my son is okay—relinquishing him to the other side is the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. Please, please tell me the sorrow subsides…

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