This is an excerpt from one of my autobiographical, copyrighted books,
Journey Of A Soul Series,
Part I, House of Wounded Hearts by Jussta
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Chapter 1
THE PROMISE
The shattering glass exploded as my face hit the windshield. The steering wheel cracked in more than a hundred different places and was pushed up into a half-pie shape from the impact of my right wrist and chest. The bucket seat of my new, two-week old, 1962 Corvair Monza ripped off it's metal tracks, and smashed my right knee into the radio buttons and into the dash.
I was conscious as I pulled my head back out of the shards of glass that once were the windshield. My right arm hung, a dead weight by my side, so I used my left hand to feel my face, ignoring the pain it caused to move my left arm, as I tried to wipe the hot, thick blood that coagulated, blinding my eyes.
"Oh, God! I've cut my eyes!"
Blood spurted and gushed, covering my eyes and face faster than I could wipe it away. It sounded as though I was in a huge echo chamber, as I heard myself call out to May. There was no answer. I couldn't wipe the blood away fast enough to see; but for a second, I saw the back of her head. She was face down between the bucket seats. Not moving. Not answering. I was so scared she was dead, I didn't think about the blood, or my right arm or my right leg that kept flopping over.
Fighting consciousness, I saw a blur of faces at my side of the car. They seemed to be trying to get in to my door. Through the blood, I could see their hands pulling on the door handle, motioning something to me. Something I couldn't comprehend. The doors were locked. That is what they were trying to tell me. They were trying to get me to understand to unlock the door. It took incredible effort; but over and over again, I aimed to lean against the door handle. I could no longer see through the blood. Or was I blind? I leaned once more; suddenly, I felt the door give. The door opened.
The people outside of the car jumped back as I tumbled from the car, landing on the top of my already bleeding, injured head. Landing upside down on the asphalt.
Faceless hands grappled with me, trying to lift me, to take me away from the car. Didn't they know they were hurting me? I screamed to stop the excruciating pain, as they once more tried by lifting me by my legs and arms. Someone, a big man, picked me up in his arms, carried me away from the car and laid me in the street. I whimpered. I screamed! I screamed as someone picked up what must have been my right arm and laid it on my chest. My right foot was flat on the ground, my knee bent, my leg flopping over to the right side. Eventually, I was able to somehow convey that someone hold my right leg so it wouldn't flop. Unseen, gentle hands held my leg in place, the pain, lessened, but still unbearable.
I yelled for May, "May! May! Get May! May's dead!"
A kind woman's face hovered over me, upside down; she was kneeling at my head, gently wiping blood from my eyes. Someone had placed a t-shirt over my bleeding head and was holding it tight. I could feel the glass being pushed in as it made a strange scraping sound on my skull. It didn't totally stop the blood, but it wasn't running like a river; now it was a slow stream. I tried to tell the person it made my head hurt. It wasn't worth the major effort. So much hurt.
But where was May? I panicked again. She was dead! They were afraid to tell me. Again, I screamed for May. The woman hushed me, assuring me that May was okay. Telling me May had hit the dash with her chin and had been knocked out. May was awake now. May was fine. May wasn't far from me, lying in the same street.
The kind woman's voice was so soothing. Hypnotic. I wanted to believe her. I stopped the yelling, tried to be still, trying to get my bearings, to identify all the awful pain.
I couldn't turn my head. Someone was holding a jacket over my chest. My upper left arm screamed with hot, searing pain as the person held the jacket tighter. I could smell the fear around me as the pain made me shake all over. Shivers shook my entire body. I sensed and heard many, many people gathered around the crash.
I was very still. Listening for May's voice. Listening to what the crowd was saying. They were talking about me.
"God, that poor girl!" She'll be disfigured for life!" a girls voice said.
"You think she'll live? There's blood everywhere; she lost a lot of blood!" A young man sounded horrified.
Curious. Disoriented. In deep shock, I forced myself to keep still. I was too still for a little too long, even though it could only have been a minute, for one young girl screamed, "My God! She's dead! That girl's dead!"
I screamed out in pain, screaming over and over and over again, to prove her wrong.
In between the screams and beneath the screams, I heard the chorus of their comments. One was afraid the car's gas tank would explode. Another was certain I could never survive the injuries. Still another asked where the ambulance was.
It was Easter Week, 1962. Students from all over came to Newport Beach to celebrate Easter Week. The ambulance couldn't get through the five thousand plus crowd around the accident at the corner of Newport Beach Boulevard and 15th Street on the Newport Peninsula. Normally, it wouldn't have been more than a three-minute trip for the ambulance racing at Code 3 from Hoag Memorial Hospital situated on the bluffs above Newport Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway, less than a mile away.
It was Good Friday. May, (a high school friend), and I had driven down to the beach for the weekend. We had left a boring party after meeting two surfers who wanted a ride with us up to Orange County Fairgrounds to dance the "Surfer's Stomp" to Dick Dale and the Deltones. We hadn't had any alcohol, thank God.
I had pulled over, minutes before the accident, in a parking space along the cement center divider. We had each counted our money to see if we had enough to get into the dance.
I had eased out of the parking space three-quarters up the block before the intersection at 15th Street. We weren't even traveling at twenty miles-per-hour when a huge, 1959 Oldsmobile, built like a tank, traveling at an estimated seventy miles-per-hour, racing through a stop sign, from the left side of the street.
I screamed at the blur, must have slammed on the brakes, bringing the front end of my Monza down and under his car, flipping the Olds' on its side. We smashed into the underside. I didn't know it at the time; but the boy driving was fifteen-and-a-half years old, and had already had his Driver's Permit revoked for driving without a licensed driver accompanying him and for drunk driving. He was drunk driving again...with no permit or license.
The surfers had crawled out of the back windows, gone to one of the houses that line Newport Boulevard and telephoned for an ambulance. Over forty people called for an ambulance that night. The ambulance took thirty-five minutes trying to get through the cars and people blocking its way.
As the attendants lifted me on the gurney, as the wheels glided into the back of the ambulance, I was positive they were taking me to the hospital in the back of a panel truck. Over and over, I asked the attendant why didn't they take me to the hospital in a real ambulance.
At last, I could see May. She was alive! We were laid side-by-side in the Emergency Room at Hoag Memorial Hospital. May had regained consciousness, but couldn't talk. Two of her teeth had been knocked out and her jaw broken when she hit the dash with her chin.
I gave all the information about our parents and where they could be reached to the nurse. As she exited the Emergency Room, I could see the guy who had caused the accident. He was laughing, aloud! I'll never forget that laugh and how hurt I was that someone could laugh surrounded by all this pain...my pain!
The Resident Orthopedic Surgeon on call, working the Emergency Room that night, reached my Mother at work by telephone and received permission to proceed with emergency surgery on my head lacerations.
Mother was on her way from Glendora, having been told they were quite certain I wouldn't live through the night. Normally a forty-five minute drive from Glendora to Newport Beach, it would take Mother over four hours in the thick, heavy fog. She couldn't see three feet in front of her headlights, but none of us had any way of knowing that.
The resident carefully studied me after May was removed to X-ray.
"Hello, Nadine. I'm Doctor Preston. Let's see what we've got here."
The nurse gingerly attempted to swab the blood away. The windshield had very nearly scalped me. My forehead was ripped down to the skull from a fraction of an inch above my eyebrows. A tiny flap of skin clung to my head, the only part keeping it attached.
Doctor Preston smiled a reassuring smile at me. He was a very big man. Six-foot-five-inches tall, broad-huge shoulders, a former linebacker. A craggy, handsome face, his big brown eyes still smiled at me under the gauze mask he pulled up to cover his mouth and nose.
The nurse wheeled up a tray of instruments. Huge hands, thick fingers of Doctor Preston picked up something he held down by his side.
His voice was soothing as he said, "Now, I'm going to inject Novocain. There will be a pricking, then some odd sensations."
His rubber-gloved hand picked up the skin flap with one hand; he brought up the needle and syringe with his right hand. He tried to bring it up in my blind spot without success. I saw it was huge!
My hands instantly broke out in a sweat as a massive hot flash raced down my body, beginning at the top of my head where he had made the injection. I saw black, fighting not to pass out. Then, it felt like my head was blowing up like a giant balloon!
"You okay?" He peered down at me over his mask, his eyes revealing concern.
"Yeah. Okay. I'll be okay."
Huge hands showed through the surgical rubber gloves; thick fingers picked up the large tweezers from the tray as he aimed them toward my head.
"Now, Nadine, we don't want to hurt you; but we've got to try and get most of the glass from the windshield out of your scalp and skull.
"Couldn't we just x-ray it?" I asked, flinching at the thought.
"Glass doesn't x-ray." He shook his head back and forth.
I laughed. My first laugh. A tiny laugh that caused pain, so I gasped.
"Ready?" He gazed intently into my eyes.
"Ready." I surrendered.
"I'm going to need your help, Nadine. You've got to tell me if you hear scraping or feel something. I can't see the glass; it's so embedded in your flesh and your skull with the blood."
Before I could answer, he announced. "There! Here's a big one!" He held up a long, thick glass shard that had been part of the windshield of my car only a couple of hours before. I went through a windshield that was not shatterproof. Shatterproof windshields wouldn't come until years later.
We worked together for what seemed an eternity. Some shards of glass he found on his own. Others would grind against my skull as he moved the tweezers about, I would tell him, "There! Back a little, yeah, there!"
Guided by the strange squeaking sound of the glass scraping against my skull as he moved the tweezers about, we repeated the search, over and over and over. Once in a while, he'd show me a large sliver clutched in the end of his tweezers, like a strange trophy. Much of the Novocain had worn off, which allowed me to help him more. I could feel more. Feel if it were to the right, left, back or front as he moved the tweezers, in and out.
At last, he announced, "Time to sew you up, Nadine. You've been just great. This won't take too long. There's still some glass in there, but it will work it's way out."
More Novocain was injected. The hot flash, seeing black and the huge balloon returned.
Slowly, exacting, patiently, he sutured. It was an odd feeling; I could feel the needle go through the skin, feel the suture thread pulling through and a little tug as he set the suture.
I kept telling the doctor that I could hear more glass grinding, really a lot, grinding. He shook his head and kept on suturing, "We can't, won't be able to get it all."
"The grinding will drive me crazy, doc." Burning tears filled my eyes. He dug under the portion of the large flap that wasn't yet sutured, found more shards of various sizes; the blood flow had brought more up near the surface.
I could feel him cut the sutures. I had convinced him. We started through the whole process once more of him poking, my telling him when he was on a piece of glass and him prodding around with the tweezers, until a piece could be firmly grasped and removed. The second session brought out almost as much glass as the first.
After suturing more blood vessels, he began again to suture my head. The closer he got to the front, the more grinding, that terrible grinding, and squeaking going on, sounded like it was in the middle of my brain.
Doctor Preston was adamant, "We must continue, Nadine. We've got to get you closed up. You've still got to go into surgery on your knee. The glass will work it's way out."
Two hundred and seventy-two stitches later. A drain installed above my right eyebrow to drain off blood and fluid that would collect, we were finished.
Doctor Preston and a nurse escorted my mother, Medora, into the Doctor's Lounge; they were seated on one of the leather couches.
"We need permission to amputate her right leg, " he said, grimly. Averting her eyes, "Her right knee cap has been shattered; there is massive nerve, muscle, tissue and artery damage. We're afraid of gangrene..."
"No! No! Not her leg! I won't let you amputate her leg!" Medora's interruption almost a scream.
"But, Medora. I told you, if we don't, she'll die!" Doctor Preston insisted.
Medora took several deep breaths before replying. She shook her head, her bifocal eyeglasses slipped down her nose a little, revealing her red, bloodshot, glaucomic, bulging eyes. Her pupils pin points from the glaucoma medicine eye drops she had to put in every four hours or she would certainly go blind.
"Well, then...she'll die. It's up to God! It's in God's hands..." She shook away the sight of her daughter without a right leg; she started crying, "She always wanted to be a dancer, Doctor." Her eyes implored him to understand her refusal. "She loves to dance! She wouldn't want to live without her leg."
Doctor Preston searched Medora's lined, pale face, looking for doubt. There was none. Her jaw was set. There was no chance she would change her mind.
Doctor Preston's huge frame crumpled under the realization before he pulled his large hulking frame to a standing position.
"Well...we'll do what we can, Medora. I'm so sorry; there isn't much chance. Not much chance at all."
He turned, walked his giant steps toward the door, turned back to see the Nurse's arm around Medora.
"Medora?" He asked. The two turned, looking over the couch at the man in the blood splattered surgical green smock, the mask hanging from strings around his neck, onto his big chest.
"Medora." He repeated, his voice low, beaten.
"I hope you've got a direct line to God, because nothing short of a miracle is going to pull your daughter through."
Medora and the Nurse rose as if on command, facing the doctor standing before the door.
"She'll never walk again...even if by some miracle she does pull through. Her shattered right wrist..." He looked sad, as his big chest lifted under the deep breath, "Her right wrist will most likely be a claw." He swallowed hard. Medora saw the tears in his eyes.
Medora once more set her jaw, pulled up her shoulders and swallowed hard.
"I know you'll do your best, Doctor Preston. I love my daughter. I don't want her to die...but, it's in God's hands."
"Nurse. Show Medora to the hospital Chapel." He hesitated. "You're Catholic, Medora. I saw it on the information form. I suggest you call a Priest to administer the last rites before we take her into surgery...we'll operate on her kneecap first."
Doctor Preston and the surgery team operated for five hours on my right kneecap. It was a long, tedious process; removing bone fragments from the tissue, suturing arteries, blood vessels, torn nerves, ligaments, tendons and torn cartilage. Doctor Preston studied the eighteen-year-old Nadine on the operating table.
"I'm going to experiment." He announced to really no one but himself.
Slowly, he sutured the muscles to the remaining top third of the shattered kneecap.
Five hours after wheeling me into surgery, he sutured the half-circle incision on the front of my right knee.
No time to stop. No time to rest. My blood pressure was dropping dangerously low. I had already been under anesthesia for five hours. Doctor Preston studied the x-rays of my right wrist. Shattered.
The x-ray light table holding several x-ray views of the shattered right wrist was wheeled over next to the operating table.
The doctor began manipulating the bones back into place, guided by the x-rays.
"We can't make an incision. She wouldn't live through it," he said, his voice muffled through the surgery mask.
For three hours, he manipulated the tiny fragments of bone as close in place as possible. More x-rays were taken. “Most of them looked pretty good,” he thought. “But the one...that large piece of bone won't move. It must be wedged between a nerve and a tendon. Or worse, embedded in the nerve. It will have to stay where it is, maybe later...if there is a later,” he thought, pulling his mask down for the first time in twelve straight hours of surgery.
"Let's apply the casts." Carts loaded with plaster and tape were wheeled forward. None of the surgical team spoke. The nurses eyed one another. The nurses had been working surgery long enough to know when someone was going to make it or not. This young girl wasn't!
"Doctor Preston says he doesn't want it draped with a sheet! Remove the mirror! Now!" The Nurse speaking to the Orderly didn't realize I was awake. I hadn't opened my eyes.
I did not comprehend what the Nurse had said. My eyes fluttered several times before I opened them. I couldn't move. Nothing moved but my eyes. Slowly, my eyes came into focus.
A Nurse was doing something with a bag full of liquid suspended from a stainless steel stand and hook. My eyes followed the tube down toward my arm.
The Nurse by the bed bent over me, smiling; but the sad eyes didn't match the smile.
"Well! We're awake!" I barely heard the words when the blackness swallowed me up once more.
When I opened my eyes again, Mom stood next to my bed, her knuckles white from gripping the chrome bed rail.
"Don't try to talk, honey. You've been in a bad car accident. You'll be all right. Everything will be all right." My mother tried to assure me.
I tried to move my lips. My tongue was glued in my mouth; it felt huge!
Hands from my left touched my lips with damp cotton as the blackness engulfed me once again.
Everything was so mixed up; I couldn't tell if I was dreaming. Had my older sister, Nevada, and my younger sister, Marilyn, come in? Had Nevada fainted? Had Marilyn thrown up? Was that me moaning? Was that me screaming in pain?
Nurses were moving white shadows, adjusting, checking, gently shoving thermometers into my mouth. The blood pressure cuff hurt when they squeezed the black bulb; the forced air whooshing sound like a great wind. Needles poking me. Needles bringing wonderful relief from agony, relief from all the pain, morphine-filled needles that dropped me back down into the darkness.
I had no idea what day it was. It was day. I could see the light coming through the beige, woven cotton curtains.
Perry, my first love, my ex-boyfriend, stood to one side. Don, my current boyfriend, stood on the other side. Each of their hands gripped the chrome bed rails as Mom's had. They were glaring at one another before they noticed my eyes were open.
They both spoke at once; their words jumbled together, "I love you, baby...honey...I love you! Hang on!"
I tried to hang on but the blackness wouldn't let me go. I slipped down, their words echoing in my brain...or was it a dream? What was Perry doing here? Didn't he know he'd hurt Don's feelings?
Only the Nurses and Doctor Preston surrounded me as I moved my head from side-to-side. My neck and back itched. Someone had poured gritty sand on my pillow and down my neck and back. The Nurse tried to still me, holding my chin. What was that huge white mound under the sheet?
Doctor Preston spoke first. "Hello, young lady! Doctor Preston. Remember, I sutured your head?"
I moved my lips in response, and the Nurse touched them with the damp cotton as a voice not my own, said, "Water."
"No, no. No, water. The Nurse can wet your lips, but no water, Nadine. We're going to give you a blood transfusion, to strengthen you for surgery. Okay? We have to find out where you're losing blood."
I watched the blood drip through the tube and needle inserted in my left arm. The transfusion had just begun.
"Nose...itches...eyeballs...itch...inside...ears...skin inside itches!" I struggled to tell them that my skin was crawling with billions of tiny bugs. Inside my nose and inside my ears and, oh, inside my eyeballs, all aflame, itching, driving me crazy!
Doctor Preston jumped to attention, ordered, "Stop! Stop the transfusion! She's having an allergic reaction!"
The transfusion stopped; but the awful itching didn't stop, for hours and hours and hours.
"Medora, we can't wait any longer! She's losing blood somewhere, and I think she ruptured her spleen when she hit the steering wheel! We must operate! I must tell you, though, Medora, it's not good. Nadine has less than a ten percent chance of surviving this fifth operation.” Doctor Preston's shoulders slumped. “I don't know how she has hung on this long.
"Doctor Preston, please, her father, Alex, is on his way! He's driving from North Dakota! He must see her before you operate! Please!"
Medora looked up at the huge bulk of a man who had not left her daughter's side. "Please, doctor, just a few more minutes."
Alex, my Father, had been visiting in North Dakota, and now, had been driving like a maniac from North Dakota since the moment he was told of the accident. Caught in a blizzard in the Utah mountains with windshield wipers that wouldn't work, he hung one arm out of the open left window, brushing the snow with an ungloved hand, as he raced down the winding, mountainous road. He arrived at the hospital at 11:30 p.m., on Holy Saturday night.
I looked up at Dad as he walked along the gurney as they were wheeling me toward the operating room. Tears filled his eyes, ran down his cheeks, as he said, "Hey! You know I love you, Nadine? I love you! You're tough! You're gonna make it! You hear me?"
He stooped down; his tear fell on my cheek as he kissed me.
Mom, Nevada, Marilyn, Perry and Don stood before the operating room doors, all eyes filled with tears, all trying to smile. All their, "I love you," words filled my thoughts as the gurney stopped below the circle of lights in the operating room.
"You see the lights, Nadine?" Doctor Preston's masked face hovered above me. "Look at the lights, Nadine. Tell me how many lights!"
I tried to focus, but I was so sleepy; couldn't he just let me sleep!
"Tell me how many lights!" He demanded.
"Nine. Nine lights." I mumbled, trying to pay attention.
"Good. That's right. Nine lights. You remember those lights, Nadine; you remember those lights, so when you wake up, you know you'll see those nine lights. Count backwards from 100." "100, 99, 72, 89, 94, 97..."
I couldn't move my lips anymore, but in my mind, I was still trying to count backwards.
Dr. Preston made a long, vertical incision from just below my rib cage to the bottom of my abdomen.
I was sinking down, down the wide black funnel. A cool breeze told me I was traveling fast. Down and down as the funnel narrowed. Down and down.
Suddenly, brilliant White Light! I started crying. I had no body...yet, I was crying. My Essence was sobbing, crying!
"No! No! Please! I can't go! Not yet! No!" I begged.
The most gentle, loving voice spoke through the light.
"I want you with me."
Panic filled me, "Oh, no! Please! There's something more I have to do!"
"Oh, but I want you with me." The gentle, loving voice tried to convince me.
"Please, I'll do anything! Mom would die!"
"I want you with me. Here."
"I'll do anything! Just tell me. Tell me, please! Anything!
"Very well," the voice still gentle, still full of love, replied.
I stopped crying. Panic turned to peace as I asked.
"Tell me. I'll do anything!"
"You will know when you have done what it is you are to do."
Incredible love, peace and joy filled my Essence. The White Light vanished as my Essence began moving up the black funnel. I was just about to reach the wider part of the funnel when, suddenly, I was hovering close to the ceiling of the operating room, looking down at my own body on the operating table.
Doctor Preston had ripped off his operating mask, which hung around his neck. His big hands grasped my shoulders. He was shaking me. His face was inches from my face. He was yelling my name, over and over. Nurses were running around, wheeling up equipment.
The scene faded. I was back in the black funnel, where it grew wider, the cool breeze carrying me rapidly toward the top.
I could hear my name being called as though across many mountains, very far away, very, very far away.
"Nadine...Nadine...Nadine...Nadine..."
It was getting closer, the sound of my name, closer and closer. Over and over, I heard, "Nadine...Nadine..."
Abruptly, I heard my name said in the same dimension. I opened my eyes to Doctor Preston's face in mine, shaking me, saying my name, "Nadine!"
I could see the nine lights above Doctor Preston's now smiling face; then once more, the blackness grabbed me and swallowed me up.
It was as if no time had passed, for when I opened my eyes again, Doctor Preston was sitting on my bed, holding my hand. He smiled, a shadow of a smile. He had been by my side for hours. He had only snatches of sleep since I had been brought into the Emergency Room, shortly before nine o'clock on Good Friday night.
The exploratory surgery on my abdomen failed to reveal a ruptured spleen as he had pre-diagnosed. There was massive bruising of my inner organs but no internal bleeding, at least, not in my abdomen.
I managed a half-smile, "Oh, doctor! I have to tell you about my dream...the dream in surgery!"
I told him, every detail so crystal clear. With every detail, tears welled in the big man's eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks as I finished. His lips quivered with emotion.
"Wasn't that a wonderful dream, doctor?"
He shook his head from side to side, took a deep breath, swallowed hard, “that was no dream, Nadine. We had lost you. You were clinically dead for two-and-a-half minutes. That was no dream.”
July 12, 2001 Oceanside, California
It has now been over 39 years since I made this promise to the White Light. This morning, I am having another abdominal surgery, and my surgeon is going to open me up in exactly the same place as the exploratory surgery 39 years ago. Last night, July 11, 2001, the anesthesiologist for my surgery, telephoned me at home. We were discussing allergies and previous surgeries and any complications. I asked the anesthesiologist if he saw in my chart that I died on the operating table in 1962. He said, no he had not. He was telephoning me from home and my chart was at the hospital. I told him the essence of my experience when I died on the operating table. He asked if I had written about it, and I told him I had. Then, I did something I very, very rarely do. I told him about the Divine Signs that I have been receiving from the White Light that always tell me this is part of what I am to do to fulfill the promise for additional life. I became like a motor mouth, and told him that my Divine Sign is April Fool or April 1. ( I did not begin to receive these Divine Signs until 1975 when I went through an incredible, unbelievable trauma and survived. I was being evicted from my apartment on Lido Isle (How I got there is a very long story - and that is why I have written five autobiographical books, the series is entitled, Journey Of A Soul.) But I digress. I am still on the telephone with the anesthesiologist, and I ramble on and on about these Divine Signs and my First Holy Communion certificate that was in my sister's garage 184 miles away, just teleports! It appears out of thin air. As I read my First Holy Communion certificate, my mouth dropped open when I read the date. The date was on the first day of April, 1951. April Fool's Day!
So how is this related to my Divine Signs? Also appearing before me - from 184 miles away in storage, buried in my sister's garage, is my First Holy Communion prayer book. And in that prayer book, is a bigger card than the size of the book. I open the prayer book in awe, and the card is a 4 year calendar. It covers 1962. I study the calendar and try to figure out what day Good Friday was when I had my accident, and the Holy Saturday when I died, and Easter Sunday - the most important, when the White Light gave me additional life in exchange for the promise.
But all the sudden, I knew. I knew it! This is 1975, being evicted from my apartment on Lido Isle. I had never made the connection. I had amnesia (about a lot of major things - but also about my experience of dying and making the promise to the White Light). My mouth dropped open, I don't think I took a breath for forever, it seemed! "My God!" I practically shouted aloud, "the promise, the promise to the White Light - how in the world could I ever forget something like that?"
And then a knowing came over me. A total knowing. If I had remembered the promise made to the White Light, then I would have gone around constantly thinking, is this what I must do?
Ever since, Divine Signs show me indisputably that whatever it is concerned with, this is part of what I am to do. I can never create the Divine Signs, they are always given to me by someone - not usually on April Fool's Day, and they are always very dramatic.
Back to being on the telephone with my anesthesiologist, telling him about my Divine Signs and April Fool's day, and how Easter Sunday, in 1962, when I was resurrected was April Fool's Day!
The anesthesiologist softly said, "You just got another one." I said, "Pardon?"
He said, "That's my birthday."
Once again, my mouth dropped open, as I demanded to know, "You're putting me on!"
"No! Honest! April First is my birthday!"
My friend, Greg, was sitting in my living room and he is one of the few people that know about my Divine Signs. I called out to Greg, "This is my anesthesiologist. His birthday is April First! Can you believe it? Can you believe it?"
So no, he was not putting me on - his birthday is April Fool's Day - and I have received my Divine Sign. I know that this surgery is part of what I am to do to fulfill this promise.
If I die before I wake, (I told him I will be dancing on the clouds during surgery) and he was adamant that I remember to come back. I told him what if this means I have totally fulfilled my promise and it is my time to join the White Light?
"Not on my watch!" He is adamant.
Whatever today brings - it is so amazing to actually SEE destiny and fate come together so consciously.
As for me, total peace and joy has come over me. I am ready for the next part of my Journey Of A Soul's adventure. In a few hours, just before they put me under, I will be visualizing dancing on the clouds - and who knows, maybe another encounter with the White Light...and if the White Lights wants me - I sure want to go home. Now, I'm ready - it's just a question if I have fulfilled The Promise.
Love, Light, & Blessings, Jussta
© Copyright Jussta 1989 Library of Congress Registration Number: Txu-412-960
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