a Book of LIFE

AuthorHouse

Contents

Acknowledgments................................................vDedication.....................................................ixPreface........................................................xvPrologue.......................................................xixChapter 1 In The Beginning.....................................1Chapter 2 A Whirlwind Of Passion...............................9Chapter 3 Transformative Moments...............................13Chapter 4 A Magical Journey....................................17Chapter 5 Finding My Heart.....................................23Chapter 6 At The Speed Of Time.................................29Quantum Leap...................................................37The School of Life.............................................43Epilogue Welcome to a Greater Reality ........................49An Angels' Song................................................57About the Author...............................................59

Chapter One

It was a cold February night in 1994. Brent, my long-term lover, lay dying in his bed. There was a high snow outside his window, where bitter wintry air was blowing up a tempest, as if to set the stage for what was to come. In the stillness of his room, it was warm and intimate. The only sounds were our voices.

I was too close to it all. I was his doctor as well as his lover. His faith and his trust in me had been his lifeline. I had no choice in that. Whether I felt burdened or not, I had long ago had vowed never to abandon him or betray his trust. So, when I made the diagnosis of AIDS for Brent's long apparent illness, I railed against the fates and cursed the God I refused to believe in.

I became an HIV specialist, treating and caring for Brent, along with many other friends. His pain became my pain, his suffering became my suffering, and his death became my rebirth. I had no choice and in the end, I had no power. I could not save him.

Brent had always enjoyed that special charisma that would draw all eyes towards him. Strangers always imagined they knew him from somewhere. With his charming smile, larger-than-life personality, and wonderful heart, he was indeed beloved. He was "good" his entire life. He gave money to the homeless. He loved animals. His only enemy, fate was most cruel. He asked me, "Why, for the love of God, did this happen to me? All my hope and belief in the future ... It was only an illusion." I had no answer to offer back.

And so, this extraordinary and special young man, facing his own mortality so prematurely in a world transformed by AIDS, told me about belief. He knew he was to die that night. Talking about the possibility of an afterlife, he said he believed the next life would be better than this one. And I asked "Why?" What made him sure? His answer was simply because he chose to. Since belief was his choice, he would believe in something that made him happy. And a greater reality than the life we knew, with bliss yet to come, gave him comfort and brought him strength. Between hysterical sobs, I begged him to give me a sign if at all possible, any sign that he was right, that there was more to life beyond death. He nodded his assent. Then he said, "Someday, you'll meet a man again, who will give you his heart. I want you to give him this ring as a gift from me, a remembrance from the happiest days of my life." He took the ring from his finger and placed it in my hand. And I said, "There will never be another."

As death robbed him of his life, I helplessly watched his body convulse through all its fits and starts. Then, when the death rattle heralded the inevitable conclusion of his struggle, he took his very last gulp of air.

And in my arms, he died. In the quiet of that room, I held him, caressed him and kissed him, for one final moment. I imagined I could feel his soul depart, as his body became cold and lifeless. I screamed to the heavens, a horrific, blood-curdling noise, of anguish and pain. And then, I cried my heart out, until my tear ducts ran dry.

The next morning, I was standing in the shower, when suddenly, the water that was hitting my back seemed to stop. I turned around and saw the showerhead spinning clockwise with the inner plastic piece spinning counter-clockwise. Interrupting my sorrow, I instinctively screamed out, "Brent, is that my sign!?" That might have been the very first time I experienced profound joy and sadness all at once. My heart leapt for joy as my mind knew only sorrow. I reached up to stop the spinning, which it did as soon as I grabbed the showerhead. Having calmed myself, my rational brain took over and determined it was a problem with water pressure, or something like that. I then tried to reproduce my miracle by playing with the showerhead for the next half-hour, with no success. I was unable to recreate that magical moment-the fleeting feeling that there was something more beyond death. Although such an event had not happened before, and has not since in the twenty years I lived there, or anywhere else for that matter, I still did not quite embrace the mini-miracle of the spinning showerhead until a decade later.

Now with anything that comes into our lives from a greater reality, there is a natural tendency of the mind to try to explain, in the context of what we understand, the things that we have glimpsed. Find a "natural," "scientific," "reasonable" explanation, says the mind! Otherwise, you must ignore such an occurrence or people will view you and your views with suspicion. Moreover, these experiences with greater reality are topics that must be avoided in normal social situations for fear of abject ridicule. For most of us, even beyond the fear of rejection and humiliation, we are simply ill-prepared to deal with the "big picture" issues of life-the meaning and purpose, and the mode of entry and exit from it.

Brent's passing was my second close encounter with death. Although as a doctor, I had seen death many times before, it was never this up-close and personal. With Brent, it smacked me in the face with a vague familiarity, for which I was unprepared. That familiarity was born of my first close, personal encounter with death. It was intense and life-altering and different. It was that of my grandmother, when I was fifteen years old. The intimacy and intensity, while no less profound, did not enter my home as that frontal assault of Brent's illness and death. Her illness blindsided me and her suffering affected me greatly. She had cancer of the gallbladder, which caused her great pain. I watched as this vibrant woman wasted away, turning yellow and emaciated as death approached. At our last supper with her and our family, I insisted that we discuss the truth that she already knew. Everyone else tried to hide it from her, offering her pabulum instead. And then she told the assembled that I indeed did speak for her. She wanted a connection of truth with her loved ones and her condition. That was the last time I saw her alive.

Part of the human condition for anyone with the mental capacities to look beyond themselves and this life is, at some point, to confront personal mortality. In so doing, questions of fate, God, life's purpose, good and evil, the inevitability of death, and what lies beyond will ensnare and entangle every intellect. My grandmother's cancer and subsequent death was that moment for me.

While...