As a devout Catholic, I never needed any proof that there is in fact a heaven. I have always believed without a shred of doubt that eternal life awaits us all. Visions of heaven that accompany near death experiences are usually only told by those who live to tell about them. For instance, the latest book I read was "Heaven is For Real," about a four year old boy named Colton who visited heaven while undergoing an emergency surgery, saw Jesus, met his unborn sister, his long-deceased grandfather, and confirmed biblical scripture that he had never been taught.
Survivors and those who hear their stories draw strength from experiencing the beauty of heaven and, as a result, no longer fear death. Now I too have my own set of stories that accompanied my dad’s departure from earth. Although I never needed heaven to be confirmed to me, my dad's experience has shown me that yes, Heaven is for real, and as a result, that I should also no longer fear death. I leave open the possibility that I have let myself read into these experiences a bit more than I should. Most of these experiences I have not shared before now. To me, they will remain stories with a hint of mystery, but with a ton of impact.
Shortly after Dad's recovery from his initial 5+ hour long surgery on March 1st, he was wheeled to his room where we anxiously awaited his arrival. Although still coming out of sedation, Dad was alert, was able to answer questions from nurses, looked me in the eye, said he felt little pain, and said he was thirsty. When the first opportunity came for Dad to ask a question, his question took us all by surprise. He asked with the most sincere and almost sad voice, "where's the little boy?" as though he expected him to enter the room behind him. My mom responded, "what little boy, Cruzie? (his grandson)." "No..." my dad said, "...the little boy that was with me downstairs."
Despite the fact that he was still just coming out of surgery, there was a curiosity that just had to be explored, so I inquired further:
Me: "How old was the boy?"
Dad: "About five."
Me: "What did the boy look like? Was he White, Black, Latino?"
Dad: "Latino."
Mom: "Was he cute like Cruzie?"
Dad: "He was cute, but not as cute as Cruzie."
The nurses were very busy but Mom then asked the nurse that wheeled him in whether there was a boy downstairs, and they responded that no child would be allowed with him, especially in the surgery room.
Was this perhaps a guardian angel guiding dad through surgery? We, unfortunately, will never know. But I know my dad had an experience during his surgery and in that moment, he cared more about the whereabouts of that boy than his own well-being or even chatting with us in the room.
I must admit that Dad had moments where it was clear he was not completely lucid. But I am still taken aback that Dad had some other-worldly experiences that seemed to always occur shortly after some of his most lucid moments. I truly believe that dad was, for a time, living between two worlds.
On Friday, April 1st, my father had one of his best days at the hospital, maybe his best. During physical therapy, he took the most steps he had taken since undergoing an emergency additional 5+ hour surgery. From his hospital bed he was making jokes, engaging in conversation, watching TV, and he did not fight me come feeding time, a small miracle. Immediately after coherently responding to the nurse his name, birthday, and that he felt no pain, he turned to me and asked in Spanish: "Do you see those steps?"
Me: "What steps?"
Dad: "Let's go! (trying to get up from the bed and walk towards the steps)”
Me: "No dad, what are you talking about?!"
Dad: "Those steps over there! (with a voice that suggested I must be blind)"
I walked towards the hospital wall where he was pointing: "There are no steps here Dad."
Dad: "You don't see those steps?"
Me: "Where do they go?"
Dad: "Al cielo (Heaven)"
Me: "No dad, it’s a hospital wall." (As I run my hand across the wall, even knocking on it to prove the point)
Dad: "Ramon, when you get a chance, dame unas toallas, una chiquita y una grande para las escaleras y traigame espuma (give me some towels, one little and one big for the steps and bring me some foam). Don't forget, ok?!"
Dad just looked back towards the hospital wall where he saw these steps and repeated, "don't forget." Was he hallucinating? Shortly thereafter, again the nurses came in, asked him questions. He was asked if he liked baseball (the season had just begun). He said yes, he liked the royals (which still makes me smile that he admitted this). He was asked if he liked music? I joked, "he can sing too!" My dad always thought that singers could (and do) make millions just repeating variations of the phrase: "ohhh baby!" So, upon my request, he sang his "ohhh baby!" song for the nurse.
That night, despite the great day he had, my Tia was very concerned about this vision, but I interjected that my dad had his best day at the hospital and was lucid and his old self again. I was happy. Overnight, my dad began a sharp decline; his last.
My Tia pointed out a similarity between what dad said at the hospital and the often omitted verse from the famous song “La Bamba” describing that the way to heaven has two sets of steps, a big one and a small one. Below are the key lyrics:
Para subir al cielo
Para subir al cielo se necesita
Una escalera grande
Hay una escalera grande y otra chiquita
Ay, arriba y arriba [listen from 0:43 below]
On a few occasions, my dad would have visions of his mother, who my dad loved tremendously and who passed away in 2003. With a smile on his face, he would look towards the ceiling and state: "Ay que trabajadora es mama!" (Oh, such a hard worker is mama!"). My mom asked, "What is she doing?" He responded, "preparing things."
Again, it was during some of Dad's more lucid moments that he would raise his hands up and say, "let's go!" I'd respond: "Where dad?" He'd respond "Home" and one time he responded "Heaven." Shortly thereafter Dad said: “Has it come yet?”
Mom: “Has who come yet?”
Dad: "The Holy Spirit."
Tia: "Don't talk like that, you still have a lot left to live for and still have many years left!
Dad: "Nope." (Shaking his head)
On Tuesday, April 5th, I had one of those few dreams in my life that seemed not to be a dream at all. I was staying at my parent’s home to look after mom and be close to family. In this dream, I was in my car overlooking a hillside at dusk. I could see the guard rails in the distance as though I were on a dead end street.
However, on the right side of the street, I could see that there was a young girl with long black hair and a light complexion. She was dressed in an angelic all-white dress. As I looked at her face I noticed she was looking right at me, and she did not blink. She had a big smile on her face that I could not help but focus in on. For some reason, I first wanted to see if it was one of those evil smiles you see from villains in movies. Quickly, I could dismiss that thought as I confirmed that this was, without a doubt, the most genuine and calming smile that I could ever only dream about.
As I wondered what she was doing, I thought maybe she wanted to cross the street. I waived for her to cross, and even honked my horn so she could acknowledge my waiving. She did not flinch. So, I gave up and just accepted that she just wanted to stand there, look at me, smile at me, and give me a sense that everything was going to be alright.
As I woke up around 6am, I thought about this dream I had just had. I called the hospital to check on my father’s status, where I was relieved just to know he was still alive, even though the news was grim. I cried as I first told this story that day at work, because I felt that the reassurance did not indicate that everything was going to be great again. This dream seemed to give me a sense that things were going to fall apart, but that despite the depth of the pain, and the sorrowful path ahead of me, she was there for me, and in that sense, everything was going to be alright. I held on to that dream in the next few days as my dad continued to spiral downward until Dad ultimately passed. I have held on to it since.
Finally, for the last 14 years, Dad drove a 1992 van that had 6 doors (but only two worked), that you could hear from two blocks away as the engine roared. Every month it seemed it was needing some work. It smelled of leaking gas, had the check engine light perpetually lit, and had no working heater/AC/radio/wipers/interior lights/windows/locks. Dad’s often stated quote was: “I’m not sure who’s going to go first, the van, or me.” As it turned out, as I was driving the van two days before Dad’s surgery, the van finally stalled and there was no turning it back on. Dad said that after the surgery he would buy a little truck. Sadly, that day would never come. However, two days after my father’s death, on Friday the 9th, I had a dream that brought me to both tears and laughter. Simply put, Dad was driving his van through the clouds on his way to heaven with a great big smile on his face.
Thank you for sharing this heartfelt story. I am honored to know you.
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