Looking forward to attending Christmas Spirit event here in Sherwood Park, AB on Nov 30th. For more details click here https://www.facebook.com/events/478947009352559/
My experience with spirit has given me a greater respect for the healing sessions that I am called upon to engage in with others. There are times that I am told the back story of a person that has passed and in that there is laughter through tears. There are also times when I am rocked to the core with what is seen and said and it can stop me short.
It was yesterday that I was asked what it is that I do. “I am a Medium,” was my reply. The volunteer coordinator said that she never expected to hear that at all. “Who does that and why or when did you decide to start this?” she asked. We all have this gift, each and everyone of us but there are some that are more aware. We use intuition in our daily lives and yet there are times when we know but we don’t know how we know. Visitations in dreams of our loved one that have passed are mediumistic with this lucidity. As a child I thought you could see what I could see. I was accused of being a daydreamer and quite good at it. It made me miserable though with the night time terror of being watched. Oh if only someone had told me that it was okay and that spirit was meant to comfort me and not create fear. Explaining to this woman that I honed this gift through life experiences and trauma that I was able to stand in this inner strength and knowing. Using my motto, “I want to heal people with healing messages” summed it up.
I have met many people and when we meet it is as strangers and when I leave the session it is as a friend where we hug. Truly I love the looks on people when they gain a “AHA” moment and you know impact has been made. If you are reading this and have received messages through me I thank you. I thank you for entrusting me in something so private and so loved as I delve in your personal space. So much gratitude that I extend.
The phone rings. It is the girlfriend. Not mine personally. This one is yours dad. The hospital bed is available here near where I live. It will be yours to live in for the next month. “When will you be down to visit?” she asks. “I am on my way now.” I state.
The bus takes me to the south side of town. Actually it was a number of buses to get to my destination. So long to wait for it to pick me up, to travel through the city, to get off and wait again. Truly impatient to get to your bedside. My throat is closing, my mind is racing, my heart…is breaking.
The building is the University Hospital. It is night when I come through the doors and state my business to the information desk. They tell me what floor you are on. Up the old elevator, out those doors and down the hallway to your room. It is semi dark in there, like an old time noir film. The nurse behind the curtain that surrounds your bed is with you. I wait until she is done. There is another person here. The girlfriend. She tells me not to take too long . That you require rest.
Isn’t that what you have been doing this past year? I don’t understand. I was told a year ago that you had suffered a stroke and there wasn’t anything I could do. But asked not to visit. I was a single woman with a toddler and no means to travel to the town where you were. So there it is.
The curtain opens. The nurse is gentle with me. She takes my hand and brings me to your side and tells me to talk to you. “He may hear you it’s just that he cannot respond.” she states. “The stroke was massive.” They both stare at me while I look down on you. Having a hard time to process all what is happening. Another nurse comes in and she shows me your feet, that they are turning in. I don’t see what they see. That you going into a fetal position. They are explaining that you will soon go. That your time is near and for me to prepare.
This I remember. I stand at the foot of your bed and try to memorize your feet. They look like mine. Not the dainty feet my mother has but the knobby toes that I would be teased about. My gaze takes me to your face. It is not the face of my animated father but someone else. You don’t appear to be there. You are sleeping. The machines are making you breathe. It is too much for one person to bare. If I ever felt more alone it is now with everyone staring at me. I leave and go home.
My visits to your bedside are frequent but kept to a minimum when the girlfriend is there. It is a feeling on her part, like you are not to be shared. I don’t get it. There is no one to fully support me on this end. Not the new boyfriend. He likes to party. How fully he was into it I did not comprehend. So naive to that way. His friend and him used my space to have their fun and I let them. All that noise if you will dimmed the hurt that was invading my soul.
The call came after 2:35 am. You had passed. My heart broke. You know that feeling. We all share that. The quiet dead in our body. The standing still in our mind. Nothing. I don’t recall anything after that. I do know that time takes care of all the details. There is work to be done. Where are you to be buried. How to get you to High Prairie, AB? The minute details with the funeral director here in Edmonton.
At this time days after I am beholden to strangers for a ride to your home town a few hours away. I take Colin with me. My boyfriend. The baby is kept by my aunt while we are gone for two nights. I am not me. Does this make sense to anyone? I am here but I am not. It is out of body. We arrive at a distant cousin home. Their last name is Cunningham. I am being introduced to people who I have no memory of but they do indeed remember me. I get a lot of, “I knew you when you were this small.” They kept remarking that I resembled my dad. It was so strange. I knew they cared but it felt so foreign. So thrust out in the spotlight.
Feb 28, 1986 It is cold this night. I am impatient to see you. It is the wake and I am seated next to your sister Margaret. She has taken her place next to me. She is my rock, my support. Where did she come from? This is all a blur. The small room is dark and very quiet with the roomful of people. I don’t know what to expect. All I want to do is to run up to your casket. My aunt takes my hand. We walk up to you. You are dressed in your army uniform. Wearing your medals. I say to my aunt, “I was promised those medals” Telling me not to worry that she will make sure that I will get them before he is buried. She does indeed keep her promise. I sit down and cry.
March 1, 1986 Oh it is cold. Biting cold. I stand by the hearse and wait. I stand alone, feet away from you by the back door of the dark green vehicle staring into the back window. Finally they open the door and presently bring you to your graveside. Standing next to you I want to once again hold you in my arms, to tell you how much you were loved by me. That winter day bites into my legs. I am handed a package. It is your medals.
There is the standard luncheon soon after and there are many people brought to my table. Long lost relatives I was kept away from by my mother. They tell me stories about you dad. Still I sit there and it is almost that I cannot hear them. There is white noise in my head. The close relatives we stayed with overnight decide to go to the local bar. There is a country jam and I cannot comprehend that we just buried you and you want to what? go to a bar?? Because we are beholden to these people for a ride back to the house, we go.
The locals in this town all seem to know one another. They know each other’s business for the good and the bad of that. I listen to the gossip, some funny stories some sad and disturbing. I have that respectful demeanor happening right now. So timid. So afraid. One after another many acts come on the stage and it is the last that breaks me. He is a gapped tooth man. The town drunk I am told. Straggly hair tucked into a baseball cap. He saunters onto the stage. It is as if the crowd hold their breathe. And then he sings, “Honey, honey, honey won’t you open that door, this is your sweet baby, don’t you love me anymore, honey won’t you open that door?” But he presents it in a humorous manner that everyone breaks our laughing. Even me. I let loose, laughing loudly. My aunt smiles at me. I cry and laugh. Even through tears I laugh. It is that release, that sweet release I needed.
Dad it is Feb 2, 2019, almost 33 years since you passed on Feb 23, 1986 at 2:37 am. I miss you like crazy. Like now as I write this. I may have you energetically but it is not the same. I want to feel your hugs. Your kisses. The tug of your fingers on my nose as you try to pull it off. Those funny things that daddies do that love their little girls.
P.S. The image of this watch that belonged to my father was worn by me for close to a year when it suddenly stopped on the anniversary of his death, date and time. I woke the next morning and put it on and then seen the time. It has been that way since then.
#333 #Dreams #Visit
My first introduction to Abraham was on a cold snowy morning as I was taking a walk. Dressed to combat the chill that instantly struck my face I had barely made it to the next block in my neighborhood when I turned my head to the left to check for any vehicles before proceeding across. In the middle of the back alley lanes I seen a body laying there where no one should have been laying. This was a busy street and had a feeling he couldn’t have been there long. Running, the cold winter sucking the air out of my lungs, it was that cold. I seen a plume of air escape from this man laying in between the two alleys and then almost nothing. Standing over him shouting at him, “Are you okay, are you okay?” His eyes open there was no sign of life, almost a glaze as he stared to the sky.
Frantically looking up and down the alley a small older lady walking her dog came upon us and then a man parking his truck behind the apartment building. He came running over as I yelled for help. Asking for a cell phone I told him to phone an ambulance. He asked if this was my friend on the ground. “No, I don’t know him. I live in the neighborhood and happened to see him.” Staring down at the man on the ground who clearly was not dressed for winter wearing tattered clothes, barely there shoes and a weathered face I prayed that help would come for him soon. There was no air coming out of his mouth and the gaze was fixed.
I was given the phone and asked for that ambulance and as we all waited surrounded the man I told the dispatcher our location, who he was, how he came to be there, was I related to him, all those details that have to be taken care of. As I lived down the street from the EMS I knew it would be minutes before they got there and it was so. Those moments were a blur as me, the older lady and the man stood silently by. The man was quickly loaded onto the stretcher and into the ambulance and thus gone. The three of us parted ways but not before thanking each other for being there.
My mind would go back to that morning many times and often I would wonder of the welfare of this man. It was to be another winter morning not long after that I was in my backyard when he came down the alleyway dragging his right foot and limping along. Recognizing him from that cold wintry morning I approached this tall figure and told him I was there when he brought to the hospital. He broke out in a smile and told me that he had suffered a stroke and that he had just been discharged. He had limited mobility in one arm and his foot but was able to move around. He was homeless. He was hungry. Telling him to wait I ran to my kitchen and made him a sandwich and put that and some fruit, water in a bag which I gave him. As he was collecting bottles I also gave him mine from the garage. Off he went with thanks and a smile.
His name was Abraham Waskahat. He had been living on the streets for some time after coming in from Kehewin, AB. I do believe he was native to Frog Lake, AB. I asked him if he could go back and he told he had nothing there. He had nothing anywhere. His brown face weathered and wrinkled he carried a small backpack that appeared empty.
I made a friend. It was as simple as that. And had helped him. That was momentous. Thanking God for that morning when I really didn’t want to go for a walk but made myself do it. Seeing him from time to time I would give him my collection of bottles and tell him to wait while I made him a lunch. In a way I made it my responsibility to take care of him in a respectful manner. It was one rainy day as I seen him wearing a small jacket barely covering his upper body pushing a Safeway cart with all his belongings and catch of the day. Man, he looked soaked. Value Village happened to be close by so I purchased a man’s spring coat with a hood. Driving down Whyte ave I found him down a alleyway. This huge smile came over his face when he seen me. Oh the memory of that makes me happy. We traded his soaked ripped jacket for the warm one I had. He told me it was like Christmas. I didn’t have bottles but I did have water for him to drink and gave him a few bottles.
All this was in the space of two years or three. I knew I would be leaving my home of 29 years and would soon sell it the next year. Change happens and it was my time. Between the details of the realtor and packing and finding my new space my mind went to Abraham. What was he doing, was he okay as he had suffered another mini stroke just recently. So concerned for this person’s well being. Again I was gifted my last visit with Abraham as I drove through the inner city and seen him pushing a walker. He looked good and taken care of. Parking my vehicle I got out to visit him. He told me that the band chief of Frog Lake had found him and gave him monies owed to him. With that he was able to rent a house with him and his two sons. He told me that he had suffered his third stroke, hence the walker but that the Lord must have had him stay on this earth to help his two boys. He was arranging for them to receive their treaty cards. Sharing my news with Abraham that I too would be moving at the end of that month of April 2016 and was happy that I got to see him one more time. With a handshake and a smile I told him to take care.
It was this early morning, 5:00 am to be exact when he crossed my mind. It has been two and half years since I have seen my friend and wonder here he is. I hope he is okay where ever he is.
I was newly married to a man that not only was loving and respectful but also took my son as his own when the accident happened and fully altered our lives. We had been friends for a few years before he professed his love to me. I was floored and never expected this at all. We dated for two years before he popped the question to me in April 1995 and then I was to hop on a plane along with my son and my fiance to meet his step-father and step-mother in Montreal, Q.C. in August and took our vows on September 16, 1995. I shall call him Gavin to protect his identity.
Gavin loved his busy life. A self made man he was always making opportunities for him and others. That man had a brilliant mind for business. He also made time for his friends and a usual night was spent with them dining at the finest restaurants here in our city. It was never a dull moment. Travel was always scheduled on a daily or weekly basis. His work/personal time made for interesting trips to the coast or a planned vacation to the states. Sometimes it was on a whim. I would get a call and asked to be ready and waiting in 15 minutes as we making a trip to the west coast. He would pull up on his bike coming in from work and off we would go. Either with a group of people or just us two. It was that fateful weekend when I was asked to go. It sounded like a good time and then an argument arose. At this pivoting moment I was to re-think my marriage to him. Truly.
August 28, 1997
Gavin was to arise early Thursday morning bike all packed for his week long trip. I, on the other hand was getting reading for work at the bank. My husband and I were not communicating. He did however ask before he walked out the front door if I wanted to go and I declined. He walked out the man I knew and loved. His essence. His personality.
I am at work the next morning and having my coffee before the doors open to the public. All that is on my mind is this man. I cannot function till all is right. But is it really? Will we hit another bump in the road. Can I outlast this? I pick up the phone and place a call to his cell. It goes right to voicemail as he is on the road. I think he will receive my msg and all will be well with us. I apologize..somewhat. I go back to work mode. Today is Friday.
I am at home after a long day serving the public. Bank work can be demanding as time frames must be embraced. Problems solved. I would wear different hats all day long. I also have not heard from my husband. I think that no news is good news. Still.. It is after supper late Friday when I receive a call from Howie who is one of Gavin’s best buddies. Joined at the hip. A good friend to me as well. Kind, considerate, humorous as he is to his wife Diana who compliments him. He had made the trip with Gavin to the coast. He tells me that Bill, another close family friend will be coming over to see me in person. I know something is not right as I see Bill walk into my home as I scream into the phone, “Tell me!! Is he dead?? Tell me now Howie!! I need to know!!”
Bill catches me as I fall.
Gavin and another rider had been on the Coquihalla and he was clipped making a lane change at the same time as another vehicle as he was on her blind side. She never seen him. With the speed and momentum his bike slid and he flew 90 feet in the air. They were far from help. They would have to wait. The ambulance that came to his aid was not life supported and they sat on the highway doing what needed to be done in the back to keep him alive as they waited for the full life support system to show. A surgeon who happened on the accident was vacationing from New York state assisted the paramedics and told them that time was of the essence for their patient and directed them to take Gavin quickly to the nearest hospital. The Royal Inland Hospital in Kamloops.
This is the story I hear from my friend long distance. Is he alive? That is the question. Everything is up in the air. He is currently in emergency. They are working on him. That is all the guys know at their end. That is all they can tell me. I need to know that he is alive. Did my husband know that I was sorry. I was full of sorrow. Was he going to die? Oh please God, help me. Oh God help me! Oh God.
It was back in November 2017 when I received a message on Twitter. A request to have Rhonda from Green Ink Radio interview me. Curiousity pique my interest and I did a little detective work and found that she was the real deal. What follows is a write up before the interview Gail Doy is a Kick Butt Medium
And lo and behold the question period. How smooth it all was. Another great adventure put in the books for me. Have a listen my friends! https://www.spreaker.com/user/greeninkradio/gail-joy
A mini vacation was desired and I had a few free days to make those plans to hit the hills. Rather it was the drive through our mountains to arrive on the west coast. A quick visit with a family member, a few photos taken, a few places visit, a few too many times getting lost. It was all fun.
It’s time to get back to my cozy home and so I head out on the highway toward my stop to rest for the night. A trucker’s paradise for those that travel and the coffee shops and fast food dot the side of the road. I duck into this small town and locate my motel. In minutes I am given my key after checking in and bring my weary body to my 2nd floor room. It is at the end of a long hallway. Tucked in next to the only other occupant, a man in this old but clean refuge. I question the fact that we are way at the end of this 60 unit but I do not bring it up to the manager. I unwind for the night and get ready for bed but sleep does not come. It is as if I am not alone. It feels creepy. The tv on to keep me company and the lights too as I try to gain some shut eye. I turn the tv off. That must be it. But still I toss and turn. Blessed relief I find my spot in line to dreamland.
2:30 am. I am suddenly awake. I listen to anything that could have possibly woken me up. No noises. Nothing at all except for the hum of trucks in the distance as they pass this sleepy town. Again I play that game of toss and turn. I know that tomorrow will be another long day of driving and I truly need this rest. I fall to sleep.
4:18 am. Startled awake and it feels darn right icky, creepy and what ever else you want to add. I feel as though something is staring at me. It is not nice. It does not feel good in this room. A male presence is definitely in here. This is where I add that walking into my room my minds eye seen an older man, a slave to the road, tall and grizzled.
I make a hasty plan. Wide awake and nothing, I repeat nothing is going to keep me here. It takes minutes but am washed, dressed, packed and carry two loads of luggage down that long hallway to my car. Desperately wanting out of there. Fast. It is dark when I leave but know that I am safe with the truckers following them down these mountain roads. Safe.
It was days later that I knew I had those same feelings growing up as a child in a 1930’s bungalow. Being stared at. It creeped me out. It was many days, many years that I dealt with this staring. How could one forget. Frightful nights and days of an eerie sensation undefined and not substantive. But this gal did until walking into it again. Hello Spirit.