A Family Member Needs This Message from the Universe

Full transcript of the My True Ghost Stories episode “A Family Member Needs This Message from the Universe.” Listen to this episode.

A soul ready to pass on asks, when will it happen? Welcome to episode 49 of My True Ghost Stories. Last week's story was about a neighbor of mine. A neighbor of mine on the brink of passing on whose soul had mixed feelings. Feelings of, should I stay or should I go?

Today I'm going to tell you the story of a similar situation. A story about someone living on this earth whose next likely step was to pass on. But this person did not know how and when this would happen. And mixed feelings and mixed messages were making the transition confusing. This story is about a family member of mine.

I'm going to be intentionally vague about who exactly it was. But I will say that it was a man who was very prominent in my extended family and in my children's lives. Uncle Paul, which is what I'm going to call this person for this story, had had a long life. Many children, many grandchildren, and he had at this point settled into a sort of final stretch of his time on this earth. And he was living comfortably, confused, but comfortable in a nursing home here in New York City.

And he had lived his whole life in the city so it made sense that he should spend his last days in a home with a view of the ocean in Coney Island. I had visited him a few times there, bringing one of my daughters with me each time, and the staff at that nursing home in Coney Island loved when I would visit because I was the most successful for some reason at getting Uncle Paul to eat. Can you come back tomorrow? They would ask me as I left and returned a tray, indeed, of food to them on my way out. Unfortunately, I did not have a lifestyle where I could come by every day to get Uncle Paul to eat, but I did go as often as I could.

And visiting him was a little sad. It was sad because he was confused. It was sad because he was not at home with his family anymore. And it was sad to me because this was his last chapter of this life. I'm sure there was lots to come on the other side once he crossed over.

But after he passed on from this life, we wouldn't see him anymore. And that's just sad, however you look at it. There was a regular rotation of visitors, as I said, he had many children and grandchildren. So he had frequent visitors, none that could get him to eat his lunch like I did, but his family was very attentive to him there. And from what his family told me, he would ask them all the same question.

At every visit, after greeting each other in a little small talk, he would always ask, how much longer? And by that, everyone knew that he meant how much longer until I die. When I went to visit him, he had not asked me that question, probably because we were too busy talking about how yummy his lunch was today. Maybe he didn't ask me about how much longer because he saved that delicate question for his own children. His children would tell me about how that would always come up, him asking how much longer until he died.

And they described this to me, it definitely seemed to me like he wanted to go. He was tired, he knew death was coming, but he did not know when or how it would happen. Apparently he never said anything about not wanting to go, just the question about when, as if someone could look it up on a schedule somewhere and tell him. He never said anything about wanting to stay. He just expressed interest, interest bordering on impatience with knowing when this indefinite stay here in the last chapter of his life would end.

His daughters and sons tried to answer this for him, this question about when he would die. And from what they told me, their answer was always, it's up to God. God will take you when it's time. Nobody knows except God. And this is what they all told him, and he continued to ask every time they visited.

How much longer he would ask, and then the answer, it's up to God. One chilly autumn morning I was home with my youngest, who had not started school yet. The older two were at school until three o'clock, so me and the little one had the whole day ahead of us. I had some vague plans. Maybe go to the gym where they had child care, possibly to the playground after that, or I was trying to line up a play date for her instead of the playground.

And I was in the middle of all that, calling, checking the weather. When I got a message from the universe, and the message from the universe in my head, popping in out of nowhere was, visit Uncle Paul today. I had been planning a visit maybe later that week, maybe without any of my kids, but this message was urgent. This visit had to happen today. Okay, I answered to the universe.

We will visit Uncle Paul today. I canceled my gym plans, stopped calling around for possible play dates for my daughter, and started packing up a bag for us for the drive to the nursing home in Coney Island. My daughter was two and a half at the time, so obviously packing was somewhat extensive, snacks, a change of clothes, probably some pull-ups, a few little toys, and also some food for me. I got out to the car, which was parked on my block, and fastened my daughter into her car seat. I felt gratitude knowing that the Coney Island nursing home had a parking lot, so we would be able to just park and walk into the place.

The ride was relatively quick, it was off peak hours late morning, and there was very little traffic. As I drove, I wondered why I was supposed to go visit Paul today, why the universe had demanded it. Was there a message I was supposed to deliver? Was Paul going to tell me something that I needed to know? Was it something between my daughter and Paul?

I didn't know, but I knew that I had gotten a very clear, insistent message to visit Uncle Paul today, and I was doing it. As I drove through Brooklyn, getting closer to Coney Island, I thought about how it was always sad going there to visit Uncle Paul, knowing it could be the last time. Even though we did not know when Paul's time to go was, we did know it could be any day. I wondered some more why I was being sent here today. My daughter remained occupied, and her car seat in the back.

I played some CDs for her. Not Kitty CDs, she was my third child, so I had given up Kitty music and had taken to playing, primarily 9-inch nails in the car. The child-friendly aspect was that I didn't play the songs that had cursing for the most part. And right as the 7th or 8th 9-inch nail song of this particular trip to Coney Island wrapped up, we pulled into the parking lot of the nursing home. The building was right on the beach, and even though it was a chilly autumn day, from the parking lot I could see that there were people walking on the sand, alone in pairs, and with dogs on leashes.

I would have taken a short walk with my daughter, but this visit seemed too urgent, and I felt we needed to get upstairs right away. We entered the building and headed for the main desk. I had the huge bag that comes with traveling with a 2.5-year-old, and my daughter was carrying a half-deflated balloon that she had found in the back seat of the car. We told the receptionist who we were there to see, we got some guest passes, and headed for the elevator. The elevator took us up to the third floor, and we set out to find Paul.

We found him in a communal area with many other residents. The TV was on, and aides in dark blue scrubs were walking around attending to different people. We walked up to Paul, he was in a wheelchair, sort of staring into space. Hi, Paul. I said, getting his attention, it's me, Jennifer, and my daughter said hi to him too.

He looked happy to see us. I asked the aides if we could move to a more private spot. That TV was loud. So they pointed us toward a smaller area down the hall, an area that had room for Paul's wheelchair, and seats for us. My daughter had by this time started running up and down the hallway, dragging her half-inflated balloon behind her.

I rolled Paul's wheelchair into a spot across from a little love seat. I sat down. My daughter showed him her balloon, and they had a brief discussion about it, before she took off down the hall. It was a short, contained hall, so it was easy to keep an eye on her, and also chat with Paul. I wondered what the message from the universe would be.

Would it be a sign? Something Paul says? Something an aides says? I stayed aware, ready to receive the reason why I was sent here today. And then it happened.

As I said earlier, I had heard from family members about how discussions with Paul these days always wound up with him asking about when he would die, asking how much longer. And they had told me that they always reassured him by telling him that only God knew, and that God would take him when it's time. Although he had never asked me this question whenever I visited, I was prepared to answer. I was prepared to stay consistent with the family's message and tell him that God will take him when it's time, and only God knows when that time is. I was prepared to tell him that it's up to God.

And as we sat there in that small area down the hall, there was a pause in the conversation. My daughter was now sitting on the floor near me playing with the balloon, so I was able to fully focus on Paul. He looked at me, his face forming a question. And after a few moments, he asked me, how much longer? And despite all the thinking I had done about this, despite all I had heard, despite my intentions to be consistent with the family's message on this subject of Paul's time left.

I did not say in response to his question how much longer. I did not say only God knows, God will take you when it's time, it's up to God. No. When Uncle Paul asked me how much longer, an answer came right out of my mouth with no forethought at all. And my answer to his question, how much longer was you tell me?

You tell me. Paul and I held eye contact for a bit after I said that. He nodded at me. And he said, okay. I did not know where that response of mine had come from.

I had not planned that at all to imply that it was up to Paul, not up to God when he would pass. I wondered, was that even my place to say that? I was not one of Paul's kids. They were saying this other thing to him about God being the one who decides when Paul passes away. I could tell though from the way those words, you tell me, had sprung from my lips with no thought whatsoever.

And I could tell from Paul's knowing reaction to this answer to his question of how much longer. I could tell that this was why I had been sent here today. In fact, I knew that that was why I had been sent here today. Paul had been waiting for someone to tell him that it was not up to God. It was up to him.

He didn't have to wait if he didn't want to. And he didn't want to. Just a few hours later, I had picked my older girls up from school and was about to make dinner when I got the call. It was one of Paul's daughters and she said that she was rushing over to the nursing home because they had called to say that it wouldn't be long now. Paul was passing away most likely tonight.

Upon hearing this, I had a mixture of joy. Joy that Paul was finally going to get to start his next phase and guilt, guilt that I shouldn't have told him it was his choice. But I mostly felt joy knowing that he needed that message from me or really from the universe in order to move on. That night I had a dream. Paul was rising up out of his bed at the nursing home, rising and floating up and out through the window.

In the morning, I received the message that he had died peacefully during the night. At the wake, later that week, I arrived. My three children and my big bag in tow. As I walked in, three of Paul's daughters came rushing towards me. We heard that you visited our dad on the day he died.

They seemed excited to hear about the details of my and my daughter's visit with Paul on that last day of his. Yes, it's quite a story, I said, and they were crowding around me. Let me put my stuff down and I'll tell you about it. I put my stuff down by the coat rack and I did a quick check to see where my kids were, and they were all safely engaged with relatives, and I headed over to Paul's daughters who were eagerly awaiting this story, the story of Paul's last family visit. And I just decided to override my irrational fear of being somehow blamed for his passing, for telling him it was okay to go.

I just went ahead and told them. I told them how when he asked that question that he had been asking everyone how much longer, I told his daughters that I had answered, you tell me when I told them that they gasped. And I was briefly afraid until they all started hugging me and saying that was exactly what he needed to hear and they all took turns saying it. We couldn't do it, we couldn't say it, we couldn't even think of it, but you did. We kept telling him it was up to God, but you told him it was up to him.

And I'm sure God was involved in Paul's passing, but I guess Paul had to meet God halfway. Two days later, standing outside the church after the funeral, one of Paul's daughters came up to me, tears in her eyes and she said, I can never thank you enough. You gave our father something that we couldn't permission to leave. As always, if you have enjoyed this episode of My True Ghost Stories, please take a second to review it, subscribe and share it with a friend to help this show grow. And if you would like to hear some other stories for me and you enjoy my storytelling style, you can subscribe to the Patreon where I tell a weekly story from my everyday life here in New York City.

And the link to the Patreon is in the show notes. And that's all for today. Thank you for listening to today's episode. And if you think your house is haunted, want energy cleared from your space or need a custom spiritual ritual, I'm here to help. Don't forget to join me here every Tuesday for a new episode. Until next time.