SEEDS OF HOPE

My mother, my great encourager and supporter, listened patiently as I read her the last chapter of this book, and she did what every daughter prays for at such a moment. She cried and then looked at me with an expression of such admiration and pride. As my mother gave me this gift, she asked a question that would give me one more. She said, "Janis, it's just beautiful, but tell me something — for whom did you write this book and, more importantly, why?"

I felt a familiar tug in my heart, the one that lets me know there is more to learn and more to understand. I had to dig deeply for the answers, some of which surprised me. Let me explain.

Simply put, I am a physician. Specifically, a forensic pathologist: one who speaks for the dead. As a county coroner and medical examiner, I have spent years documenting and describing death scenes, examining bodies, and performing autopsies. I have carefully counted stab wounds, photographed gunshot wounds, and traced the pathways of injuries through the body.

The forensic pathologist must ask the question "What happened?" and clearly and scientifically explain the answer to the courts, to law enforcement, to physicians, and, most of all, to the family of the deceased person.

I grew up watching my physician father, an internist, take time to talk with and kindly listen to his patients. Perhaps that's why I began talking with and listening to the families of deceased persons who received my care. I made it a practice to call family members and explain the autopsy results on noncriminal cases, to send a letter, and, when needed, to meet in person.

These talks have not always been easy for me. After explaining the autopsy results, toxicology results, and conclusions that forensic pathology can provide, I inevitably come face to face with the family's raw grief, their tears and torn hearts, and the question that I can never answer — "Why?"

But the same thing that brought me the greatest unease also brought me the greatest gift. These families, the loved ones left behind, occasionally have shared their perspectives and thoughts and, sometimes, dreams, visions, and synchronicities that they experienced in and around the death of their loved ones. These reflections have made me wonder.

When I was growing up and didn't understand a problem or an issue, I would often talk with my father and be told to study harder. Applying this wisdom, I began to study the issues of death, loss, and mortality from every angle I could imagine. It's been written that if you look at something closely enough, you begin to see right through it. I have come to believe that the answers to life's most difficult questions are woven into its design, much as in an optical illusion.

First, you have to look, and when you look closely enough, something happens — a tiny shift in perspective occurs. Images once hidden become apparent, and you can't help but wonder what changed and why you didn't recognize them before.

I've come to realize that there is a mysterious dimension of forensic pathology that I almost missed entirely, and yet it also feels strangely familiar. Although I still document the "body of evidence," I have become fascinated with the essence of what has left. For a scientist and physician, however, the problem is that this area of study isn't precise. It can't be measured or photographed, and people's experiences around death can't be proven beyond a reasonable degree of medical certainty. Studying death has required me to take a leap — a huge leap professionally — from my mind to my heart. And in doing so, I've remembered that what is most meaningful often cannot be measured, and that everything that counts cannot be counted.

Individually, these experiences and shared stories were interesting, but collectively they had the ring of a larger truth. Almost unexpectedly, as I gathered and wrote down these stories, I realized that the answers I had been searching for had been there all along. They were woven into the fabric of my patients' lives and deaths and woven into my own. I just hadn't recognized it.

So, to answer my mother's first question, I realize now that I wrote this book for myself. You see, I believe that we teach that which we most need to learn. And I now know that we teach that which we most need to remember. That, perhaps, is the greatest revelation for me. The answers were there all along. I just had to remember them.

The answer to the second question — "Why?" — is still unfolding, but it is beginning to be replaced with wonder and inklings of greater things to come. The search has led me on an unexpected journey, and I have encountered some treasures along the way. I have grown much more aware of the Divine Presence in the universe than I ever imagined I would be. I remember more often to see magic unfolding in my life. I have begun to trust that I am never alone. I have come to believe that our loved ones are truly forever ours.

It has been said that what you do for another you ultimately do for yourself. These gathered experiences and recounted stories have been a blessing in my life. It is my fondest hope that their telling will be a blessing in yours.

THE FIRST HOUSE CALL

I grew up watching my father care for people, attempt to heal them, and comfort them. I grew up watching my mother lovingly care for Dad and for us.

My father is a doctor and my mother was a nurse. They met for the first time over the bed of a sick child on station 42, the pediatrics ward, at the University of Minnesota Hospitalsin Minneapolis. Dad tells me that he knew in aninstant that this pretty little Irishwoman would one day be his wife. Three years later, in the midst of his internal medicine internship and World War II, they married and he went off to war. They wrote to each other every day. My mother has kept those love letters close to her heart all these years, carefully wrapped and stored with other treasures in her cedar chest.

When my father returned from his tour of duty at a navy hospital in the Pacific, my mother stopped working as a private-duty nurse, and they began raising their family. I am the oldest of three children. I knew very early in my life that I would be a doctor (or a cowboy...