CHAPTER 1
When a Child Dies…
Ever wondered why you have those strange “waking dreams” just before you wake up in the morning? Those weird dreams that are too vivid, too graphic, too “real” to be just ordinary dreams? They are the dreams that take you back in time to places and events that could never have happened to you in this life; yet are still strangely familiar to you, like déjà vu.
Ever had dreams like these? If you have, your past-life memories are surfacing in your consciousness. Past-life memories are very difficult to reach. They are transplanted by photon-wave from your past body into the spinal tissue of your present body as neural signals during the fetal stage of your next life.
Once you are born, these neural-signals travel up the spinal cord to the brain where they are stored like any other long-term memory. They are then “covered over” by the billions of memories your brain stores over the years. Access these “deep-core” memories is not easy.
But there are three possible ways these past-life memories surface in our consciousness: (1) meditation can “still” the conscious mind from sensory stimuli and superficial, daily thoughts to open a connection to the buried, long-term storage areas of the brain holding the past-life memory neurons; (2) spontaneous moments of déjà vu brought on by some trigger such as a random encounter, emotionally traumatic event, a “Near Death Experience”; or (3) a brain injury, such as a concussion or tumor which involves the region of the brain storing these specific past-life neurons.
This is often how memories of past lives reawaken within the deep recesses of the brain and begin to play out for us like scenes from a motion picture just before we wake up. We see everything, feel everything, just as if we were there in real time—only these dreams occur right before we become fully awake.
My own “waking dreams” and visions began when I was just a child of six-years-old. Looking back, I have to say that I had a unique opportunity to reach these “deep core” memories, despite my young age. There were two reasons for my being able to reach those past-life memories.
I was born in 1950 with chronic, severe asthma. This was a time when medical experts still did not fully understand what asthma was, what caused it, or how to mitigate its symptoms. Back then, too many asthma attacks ended in death. Severe asthma attacks often required epinephrine injections directly into the heart to save the patient.
Most take breathing for granted. Not so for anyone with severe asthma. Anyone who has suffered severe asthma knows what it feels like—an elephant sitting on your chest every minute of every day and every minute of every night.
I was so ill as a youngster that breathing required a conscious act of will—24/7—from toddlerhood to preschool. My mom kept me in a sheet-covered crib with steamed air to help me breathe. I must say this make-shift “tent” filled with steamed-air didn’t really help.
Back then, medical professionals believed that asthma was due to a lack of oxygen into the lungs. This was a major medical error. Asthma is caused by the body’s inability to process the oxygen from the lungs into the blood stream. Asthma is not caused by a lack of oxygen supply but a blockage within the oxygen-blood exchange cycle.
Sadly, the tent-steam gimmick only made me almost suffocate. But mom tried. What did work for me, I discovered purely by accident. It was my own anecdotal discovery, and it may not work for anyone else. Carbonated colas and soda crackers. The cola must be caramel in color. Clear sodas did not work for me. But, if they help you, fantastic.
As I grew from toddler to preschooler; stuck in that crib all-day, every day; I developed my own ways of taking my mind off the unremitting struggle to breathe. To do so, I would let my mind go blank for as long as I could.
Notice I said “let” and not “force.” The use of force when attempting meditation or any other mental technique is counterproductive. The best way to relate to your deeper consciousness is to accept that it possesses a will of its own. Let it teach you.
Without knowing it at the time, this “mind-blanking” I put myself through to keep breathing during asthma attacks was a form of focused-meditation. This self-taught meditation must have opened a channel to my past-life memories despite my young age. But that probably wasn’t the only reason.
By the time I was five-years-old, the doctors treating me in Ohio gave trying to make me better. Their “solution” was that my parents should move me out to Phoenix, Arizona where the climate was warmer and less humid. The doctors warned that if I stayed in Ohio, the Midwest winters would eventually kill me.
The Ohio physicians treating me had no idea they were sending me from a freezer into a blast furnace. Which is worse? Ohio’s cold air freezing the bronchial tubes or the daily sandstorms that immerse the bronchial tubes in grains of dust so you cannot breathe at all?
Unaware of what faced us, my parents sold everything and moved me to Phoenix where we lived on Pinchot Avenue, next to Thomas Road. Our house was on the last street before the desert. We lived on the very edge of town. Past the back-yard fence, was nothing but desert and Camelback Mountain.
I was fine for a few weeks. I was making friends and having fun in first grade at Lafayette Elementary. But then, the sandstorms began to hit us almost daily. My health grew steadily worse. Then, I came down with double-pneumonia.
It was then that I had my “Near-Death Experience.” Basically, “I died” from a severe asthma attack brought on by bout of severe pneumonia. Unaware of how ill I was, my parents made me go to school. My parents didn’t want me to fail. I had just turned six.
Then, one day, I spent the time in class struggling to breathe. Fortunately, a concerned classmate and friend of my saw my face turning blue from loss of oxygen and told the teacher. Shocked, the teacher sent me home. I walked home only to pass out from oxygen starvation on my front porch.
My parents rushed me to the hospital. Grandpa drove with grandma in front. I was laid out on my mom’s lap in the backseat. It was a bizarre trip. My mom cried. My grandpa kept telling her to shut up, he couldn’t drive with her crying all the time.
I spent the time gazing out the car window. There was no energy for anything else. All my energy had been spent at school struggling to breathe. The thought occurred to me that there was no longer any need to struggle. I could just stop breathing and everything would just take care of itself. As my grandpa raced to the hospital, I just let my mind go and watched the street lights and telephone poles flash by.
Suddenly, I found myself staring at a female face. She was staring right back at me. She wasn’t a ghost; she had human features: a head and long hair. Her facial features were that of a mid-30s woman with a kind, compassionate smile.
But there was no color. The face, the hair, the head were all white. Not the “white” of the Caucasian race, but white as in an acrylic painting using Titanium white paint, then washing it out until it is almost transparent.
She was beautiful, in a Classically Greek kind of way. I instantly adored her. The way she effortlessly floated along-side our car was mesmerizing. It was immediately obvious to me that this woman was no ordinary human.
But neither was she an angel like what we are taught in Sunday School. She had no wings. She mentioned no religious dogma or myth. There was no mention of heaven or hell, Jesus or Yeshua, Christianity, Judaism or Islam. If anything, she was totally non-religious.
She introduced herself by name, but I cannot recall what it was. I tried to keep up be after the third syllable I gave up trying to remember it. I was too sick and her name was too long for me to remember. I do recall that it started with an “Aera” sound.
“You don’t have to breath anymore,” she offered with a compassionate smile.
“You can come with me. We are sorry you were given such an unhealthy body. We will make sure you have a heathier body next life,” she promised. “All you have to do is tell me you want to come with me.”
I didn’t know what to do. I was laying in my mother’s lap in the back seat, looking out the window at this pale-white face staring at me as it floated along, outside the car, as my grandfather raced me to the hospital.
“Mom, there’s an angel outside the car. She wants me to go with her.”
Chaos ensued. Mom stopped crying and began screaming hysterically. Grandfather yelled at her to shut up. Mom screams gradually were replaced by occasional, choked sobs.
By the time we arrived at the hospital emergency entrance, I was floating outside my body. It occurred to me that this must be what how the ghostly-appearing woman floated just outside our car.
Being outside my physical body had a noticeable effect. Though my body was dying, my mind was sharp—perhaps even sharper than it had been before I stopped breathing. I was suddenly able to be aware of things I wouldn’t have noticed before as an ordinary six-year-old.
I could see my parents in the waiting room standing alone. Grandpa was staring blankly at the ER double-doors. Grandma was staring at a wall. Mom was still sobbing. Each was alone in their thoughts. Their pain and despair was palpable.
The emergency room physician was a young man and was visibly taken aback by my condition. He was a young doctor, and I somehow “knew” he had come to work today expecting to catch up on his reading. When he came to work that morning, he had no clue he was going to have to fight for my life. I felt his uncertainly turning to panic.
“How long has he not been breathing?” He asked, as a nurse quickly took my body from my mother’s arms and rushed it to the trauma table.
“Right when we came in,” answered Grandpa. He was wrong, of course. I had stopped breathing before we arrived, but my mom was too upset to correct him.
My mind was no longer connected to my body lying on the trauma table. My consciousness was floating above the emergency room trauma-bed, looking down at the panicked young doctor trying to figure out why I was turning blue and not breathing; while my mom and grandparents stood helplessly, outside in the waiting area.
The young doctor fascinated me. He had a huge challenge on his hands. A medical diagnosis is like a puzzle and I was curious to find out whether he would figure it all out in time. His patient was blue and not breathing. Could he figure out what to do to get the patient breathing again before the patient died. I felt no emotion. My interest was entirely and objectively academic, floating just above the trauma lamps, watching the doctor stress out below me.
Then, without warning, a hole began growing in the ceiling above me. It was round, white in the center and its edges active like lightning. I thought, how odd, a hole in the ceiling. How are they going to save me with a hole in the ceiling?
From out of the center of the hole or portal, a procession of white orbs emerged. Ten to twelve in number, these orbs remained up by the ceiling. Then two more orbs emerged. They came down to where I was floating, just above the trauma lamps.
“We are sorry you have been given such an unhealthy body,” they thought to me.
I knew it was telepathy. Logically, I knew I couldn’t speak. My body was unconscious on the surgical table below us. There is no other possibility. Our communication was telepathic.
“You must decide now whether you wish to come with us,” they urged. “Time is short. If you come with us, we will see that you get a much healthier body next life. Do you want to go or stay?”
They didn’t spell it out for me and they didn’t need to. Though only 6-years-old, I knew somehow what was meant by “go” and “stay.” What also got my attention was their telling me I had to decide immediately. If I didn’t decide, they were going to take me away anyway. They did not explain why, but time was an issue for them (I didn’t know then the relationship between loss of breathing and brain function).
I didn’t really want to stay. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired all the time. Fighting to breathe all day gets old. Most asthma attacks are of the acute form. They hit you, but you get over it. The problem for me was that I had severe chronic asthma—the hell never ended. I wouldn’t wish one of my asthma attacks on my worst enemy. Once you’ve been through torture, you don’t want any else to suffer—not even an enemy.
But I chose to stay. As I was floating around, I got a chance to watch my family as they stood in the ER waiting room. They were suffering in silence; already grieving.
I felt sorry for them. I knew that if I should die, they would forever blame themselves. My dying so young would tear them apart as a family. I did not want that to be my last act in this life.
I am not a quitter. Asthma turned a sickly, little kid into a fearless and stubborn fighter. Life is precious. Every life is precious and not to be wasted or abused. Given the opportunity to stay, I took it.
Within seconds, the ER doctor plunged a hypo deep into my chest. To my utter amazement I didn’t feel it. Instantly, I’m lying on the surgical table, back into my body. It was incredible! I was breathing again! Exhausted, but alive!
I spent the next two weeks at home, away from school. The doctors said my body needed time to recuperate. They said that “dying” and coming back might change my body chemistry somehow and they weren’t sure how to handle it.
What the doctors did not know—what they could not know—was that it was not only my body that had been altered. As my body worked to heal itself, so too did my consciousness. In fact, my consciousness was affected at least as much as was my body—probably more so.
During those first few weeks after my NDE, there were significant changes in my behavior and sense of self. My consciousness was “off.” I felt out of phase within myself, as though my mind were in two places at once.
I experienced a significant sense of detachment from this life, yet a feeling of oneness with everything. I felt so distant to my surroundings, my family, yet so in tune with an over-arching plane of existence. I didn’t speak much. I kept to myself. Late at night, I would wake up, sneak outside just to look up at the night-time sky and stare up at the stars. It was very strange.
Concerned for my well-being, my parents took me back to the doctor. They were worried the NDE had changed my state-of-mind forever. They wanted the old me, back again. They feared the way I was acting, that I would never be the same again. The doctor told them not to worry.
In the end, they were both right. My consciousness remained changed—and has remained changed ever since. But it is all right. It was meant to be.
My Near-Death-Experience altered the rest of my life. Some have said I was fated to experience it. Regardless, this experience gave me an opportunity to gaze beyond the veil of this physical life into the mysterious realm of the “afterlife” and interact with those who exist there.
I am extremely grateful for the experience. I would call it a “miracle” except my “guides” would disapprove. They know the science of our existence. We do not.
In fact, we have not a clue. That is, I believe, one of the main reasons they want this book written. Our world is out-of-balance. Our gross-materialism; our environmental, political and social chaos is endangering this planet.
My “guides” have determined man’s religions are not the answer. Religion has, in fact, held humanity back, as shall be explained shortly.
My past-life dreams began shortly thereafter. Since then, these dreams and visions have both challenged and inspired my life. As you shall discover later in this book, these past-life dreams changed the course of my present life.
