Vision of Our Lady and Crucifixion on 23 November 2016

I have heard it said that every surgical procedure is different and unique, much like every snowflake, even if no one can discern the differences.  Certainly, the procedure on 7 June was as different from that of 23 November as Day from Night... and indeed, the results have been rather sadly different as well.

When I went into the hospital at 5.00 a.m. on 7 June, I had no idea what to expect.  In fact,  although I have very detailed and vivid memories of the two hours I waited in a factory-style lineup before being wheeled into the operating theatre, I have no real memory of that journey nor of the room where they performed the procedure.

Coming out of recovery was horrible.  The pain was outrageous and radiated from my spine rather than the area of the incision.  My daughter claims that I was very vocal and I do recall telling them I had to pee and if they didn't make that possible in a civilised fashion, I would simply let the river flow freely on the bed.  Be that as it may, the experience was not a spiritual one at any point.  I was sent to a rehabilitation facility for a week because I was unable to stand or walk at all.  Although I begged for a chair, they kept me in a bed where I was unable to move without assistance, which I did not receive.  I therefore was immobilised for three days basically and developed a blood clot in my leg.  Once I went home, my lungs filled with fluids and I contracted pneumonia.  I later was told this was caused by too much saline solution in the hospital and was quite a common side effect.

Trivial to some but significant for me was the fact that the large gauge needle placed into my left hand basically deadened the nerves in two of my fingers.  As I type now, those fingers still have not recovered full motion and are numb.  As a left-handed person, I begged them to put the needle in the other hand but they refused, saying they had to use the opposite side of the body from the side designated for the procedure.

Second procedure on 23 November.  Again, went into hospital at 5.00 a.m. but this time made such a fuss about the size of the needle that the nurse used a smaller one... no damage afterwards and I am grateful to her for listening to me.

I remember, not only the journey to the operating theatre through a narrow corridor filled with tanks and supplies, but being in the operating theatre as well and hearing the radio which was tuned to a local music station.  I asked my surgeon how he and his team could tolerate all the adverts and said I personally would rather listen to Mozart or Handel.  I was told I would not remember any of it in any case and it probably would not damage my psyche in any way to listen to 'The Hawk'.

This time, I was not able to be moved out of recovery for more than two hours because my blood pressure dropped to a dangerously low point and would not go higher.  I was given massive transfusions during both procedures but this time, something else that was negative occurred that no one on the team would discuss with me afterwards.

During this period, I had a number of fragmented dreams and experiences, revisiting places I had been before, including Tarquinia as well as the rocks below the Wall in La Jolla where I would sit as a young girl at dawn writing poetry or entries in my journey.  Fragments as well about my Cats, both past and present and some bits of music that definitely did not come from the radio.

Very different from this was the intense vision I experienced there, in the twilight zone between life and death, consciousness and unconsiousness.

I was in a grotto or cave rather like the one at Lourdes as portrayed in statues.  I was barefoot and could feel cool stone beneath my feet.  It was comforting for some reason, that smooth, cool organic surface that connected me to time and space, even though it was not 'real'... but it felt real to me and at that point, I was unaware that I lay in the operating theatre or some other chamber in the hospital while my vital signs failed to respond to treatment.

Our Lady stood in this niche.  There was some source of brilliant light behind her, framing her, even though the back of the niche was solid rock.  The rocks were covered with vines and flowers of fabulous colours, a riot of flowers in fact.  They grew in profusion together there, despite the fact that there were of different types.   She was dressed in a robe of shimmering blue, rather like duppioni silk.  I could see the light dancing on the fabric, almost as though she were clothed in running water. She had a sash of dazzling white about her waist and a white shawl over her head, but it was loose and I could see her hair, which was long and beautiful.  It was brown but again, like the fabric of the clothing, appeared to possess a life of its own, almost as though it were made of the living roots of a tree.  So much texture, so much depth to everything, and so many variations of colour and interplay of shadow and light.

She lifted her arm and pointed to the left.  i then saw Christ on the Cross.  He was bleeding from his wounds and from the gash in his side.  The blood ran freely and was a vivid crimson.  So much blood that it ran down his body and splashed on the floor of the cavern, then towards my own feet in a thin stream.  I looked at his Mother and she was weeping.  Somehow her tears felt more painful to me than all of the bleeding and I asked both of them, 'What is the point of all the pain and suffering in this world?'

The voice I heard was neither male nor female.  I therefore cannot say whether it emanated from Our Lord or from the Blessed Virgin but I was told that Pain is the most powerful Teacher in existence and that it connects us to all of Life itself, to all living things and gives us the ability to experience compassion and have empathy.  Without suffering, we would be cold and lifeless, without sympathy for the weakness of others.

'It is a Gift'.  I thought then of the old Norse/Germanic Rune that has 'Gift' as its name and is the form of an X which in fact is the same as the Cross.  In that tradition, it is the symbol of Sacrifice.  Thus Gift and Sacrifice are one and the same, but what I was being told was not about Christ's Gift of his Life to save the World of His Life but rather the Gift of being able to follow His example in order to learn through suffering and pain.

I rebelled againt this epiphany and tried to say that the many years of being disabled were more than enough for me, that I neither wanted nor needed to continue down the path of thorns, but Our Lord looked at me and I had to meet his eyes and I fell into a pool as it were, deep and dark, like the Well of Mimir and I remembered then that Odhinn plucked out his own eye and placed it into the Well of Memory in order to gain Wisdom.  And Christ nodded from the Cross in agreement.

I looked down then and saw that the tears of Our Lady had become a narrow stream, moving rapidly towards the blood that had fallen from the wounds of our Savious.  While I watched, the two streams met and joined and what I wanted most at that moment was to be part of the ebb and flow of that stream, the living river.  I was afraid to move but stood there, rooted to the floor of the cavern praying for Grace and finally, the stream met my feet and I felt as though I were experiencing a second baptism.

When I finally was allowed to see other people, I felt slightly disconnected.  It was so unlike the other surgery.  Although I was weak physically and in pain, I felt empowered and strong.  I felt that I could perform whatever tasks and exercises the physical therapists demanded.  I was not in good shape physically at that particular moment but although totally exhausted,  there was a core of strength and energy within my being that had not been there before.

I make no claims here as to the veracity of the experience but it was extremely vivid, extremely powerful and the effects still echo within my being.  There are times when I am half-asleep even now and a wave of dizziness hits me and suddenly I am almost there again.,.. not quite THERE but I can see Our Lady and Christ in the same detail.  There is a difference: now it is only my memory and not their actual presence.

I did have visions before, but nothing like this one.  I used to practice creative visualisation while drumming... performing all the exercises of walking down a path, opening a door and entering another realm.  Those were on a different level from this.  On rare occasions, I did meet some one.  There was a man with long straight black hair who said he was my Guardian.  I met him more than once on these journeys of the mind, but although the experience was vivid in its way, nothing like this.