My Christmas miracle came with a little song

It all started one Saturday afternoon in December of 2003, when I began thinking of the day my oldest son passed away after having what was supposed to be a miracle in itself, a bone marrow transplant.

He passed away in January 2003. I couldn't get the day out of my mind. I saw, in my mind, the preceding events; the decision to turn off the machines, because the doctors said there was nothing more they could do for him; of being in the room, with his whole family around him, a minister, his nurse, his wife (not being able to look at him for the tears in her eyes); his father at his head on one side, myself on the other, his brother and future sister-in-law beside me, his in-laws: mom, dad, sister Sara, and his ex-step-mother and her husband; everyone crying and watching for the end. The nurse finally turned off the noise and we just let him go. It was the hardest thing I had ever done in my life. This young man had barely lived his life, he had barely been married for three months when we found out he had leukemia. He had just had the last blood test for the testicular cancer he had overcome before that. He was only 27, and now he was gone.

All I kept seeing was the events leading up to, during this horrible time in all my family's lives, and after, the memorial, saying good-bye that final time. It wouldn't go away, no matter what I did to occupy myself. These things kept going through my head all day. Finally, about 8 p.m., after crying to myself for most of the afternoon, I couldn't take the pain in my heart anymore, and I took a tranquilizer the doctor had prescribed for me for a personal event that had happened before in my life. I told my fiancé, what was going on and I needed to go to bed. He tucked me in and said he would sit with me until I went to sleep. I laid there and cried and prayed for some kind of sign or something from my son or God, telling me my son was in heaven and that he was happy, something. I must have cried for what I thought was hours, but it was only for a short time, until the pill I had taken, took affect.

The next morning, I felt better, some of the heartache had eased. I went to work on Monday, but on Tuesday, I had gotten sick at work and had to go home early. I laid down, turned on the TV and slept for most of the afternoon away. I knew I had an appointment at 5:30, and somehow I woke up at 4:45 p.m. and remembered I needed to put a letter in the mail that day, and I couldn't find my stamps. I decided to go to the post office. When I got there, the inside office was closed, the shades were drawn over the windows, and there was no one in the outer office but myself. I decided to buy some stamps from the machine, and was deciding which ones to buy when I felt this presence go past me, but I really didn't see anyone.

The room was empty, I thought. The presence was singing the song my son's wife had picked to have sung at his memorial. He, and I say he, because he had a beautiful deep male voice, should have been singing Christmas carols, but he only sang the words from the beginning on the son, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Just those four words on his way out the door, which was only a few feet from where I was standing. It didn't register at first, then it hit me, and I turned and ran towards the door, went outside; there was no one there.

I didn't know what to think so I started laughing, saying to myself, OK God, thank you for that. Since that time, I still have dreams of my son and get upset when I remember him, which is everyday. When I see his pictures, I get upset and cry. I try to remember that time in my life and the sign I received from my son and God, and I feel better for awhile.

Carlla Whitescarver
Lodi