‘No, this can’t be!’ My dad sounded so defeated.
We cried together. We called all our family right away to come and see Irelynn and be there for her last moments. I wanted to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her. If you’d told me four years ago on the day she was born that in four years she would die on that day, I would have thought it the cruellest scenario one could imagine.
As they prepared to take her off life support, my dad and I leaned over her and sang ‘Silent Night’. I had been playing carols to her because Christmas was right around the corner. No more than a minute after we finished singing, that same song came on the radio. It was 7.26 a.m.
I said, ‘Okay, it’s time, we’re ready.’
As much as I wanted to keep her with me, I didn’t want her to suffer any longer. I got on her bed and picked up Irelynn, cradling her in my arms. I stared at her baby face and kissed her as my heart broke into so many little pieces you could pass them through the eye of a needle. I put my hand on her chest so I could feel every last beat of her fragile angel heart. I kept telling her, ‘Happy birthday, beautiful girl. Remember, Irelynn, I love you more—and first!’
And then I felt that last heartbeat of my four-year-old princess. ‘God, help me.’
The doctor came over, listened to her heart and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mum, she’s gone now.’ He pronounced her at 7.45 a.m.
When I finally left the hospital I felt like I was abandoning her; I felt so empty, lost and heartbroken. I said to my father, ‘I just left my daughter, Dad. I should be bringing her home like other parents. She’s gone.’
My dad replied, ‘I know. I wish I could have taken her place. I would have taken every single bit of her pain. I wish I could take your pain away from you, too, and bring your daughter back.’
That was all that was said for the rest of the day. Then I slept for days.
Meeting Allison
About a month later, my dad called my sister in excitement. ‘Tiffany, I want you to ring this number. See if you can get through. There’s this psychic lady named Allison Du-something on the radio station in Arizona. If you get through, ask her about Irelynn. Tell her Papa misses her. Ask her if she misses me.’
I was asleep at the time, but that afternoon Dad told me how he’d tried so hard to get through to the radio station. So that night I went to work and looked up Allison’s website. I knew nothing about her or the show Medium. I went directly to the link for ‘conventions’ and when they were taking place. There was a seminar on the next night but it was sold out, and even though I signed up to be on the waiting list, not surprisingly I never got a call.
I really wanted to attend one of Allison’s seminars—and, of course, to talk to Irelynn. So I thought hard about it, and decided to book a ticket for her next event in Houston, Texas, then organised my plane ticket and accommodation.
On 17 February 2010 I boarded the plane for Houston, sat down, looked out my window and began to pray that Irelynn would come through. ‘Well, Irelynn,’ I said, ‘here we go on another plane ride. You love planes, huh?’
I arrived in Houston, and filled in time while waiting for the event to start. When there was about fifteen minutes to go, I prayed again. I put Irelynn’s soft toy ‘Mr B’ in my handbag, kissed my daughter’s photo and told her I loved her, and headed to the venue.
When I signed in, Mark, Allison’s manager, explained that those who purchased VIP tickets to sit in the front rows would have a chance to meet Allison personally. I remember walking up to Allison, asking her to sign my badge and saying, ‘I’m sorry but I really don’t know what to say.’ I admit that back then I hardly knew who she was or what she was about. I guess I was there for one reason, and one reason only—to talk to my baby again.
She kindly replied, ‘It’s okay, I’m not going to pick you apart.’
At the start of the seminar Allison explained to the crowd what she did and what to expect. She said that she would focus on murders first, and then it was going to be an open forum. I listened with amazement to other people’s readings but in the meantime, I kept saying to myself, ‘Irelynn, please come talk to Mummy. God, please let her talk to me.’
When Allison opened up the seminar and asked anyone in the audience who wanted a reading to raise their hands, I put up my hand along with just about everyone else. I worried that I may not get an opportunity to hear from Irelynn, with so many people having the same hope and intention that I had. As fate would have it, I did. Mark was on the other side of the room looking at the raised hands. I was still silently talking to Irelynn. He came over to me and said, ‘I’m not sure what it is about you, but when I was sitting over there in my chair, I was feeling this really strong energy coming from you. Would you like to join Allison on the stage?’
I was surprised but grateful as I walked up to the stage and sat next to Allison. She asked, ‘What is your name and the relation to the person you lost?’
‘Jennifer,’ I replied. ‘I lost my daughter.’
Allison started our session and put me at ease when she giggled and said, ‘She’s cute; she’s hiding behind people so I have to find her.’ She then asked how old my daughter was and explained to the crowd why she asked this question: ‘It’s sometimes hard to connect with a child at a really young age because they can be a little confused about what’s going on.’
I informed her that my daughter was four years old.
One of the first things Irelynn told Allison was, ‘Mummy cried a lot.’
And, yes, as I have shared with you, I did.
‘She’s making my lungs hurt,’ Allison said. ‘Did her chest hurt in the time surrounding her death?’
I thought back to the doctor working on Irelynn’s chest trying to resuscitate her when her heart stopped and the trauma it created, and confirmed what Allison was feeling. Irelynn was a unique little girl. Her speech when she was two was at a four-year-old’s level. She was such a great communicator.
‘Your little girl says she picked me for your reading,’ Allison said. ‘So you were meant to be here. I don’t know if it’s because I have three daughters of my own, but she picked me for you.’
With me knowing so little about Allison and her gift, that explained why I had been drawn there.
‘She says she really loves her birthday and birthday cake. She wants you to celebrate her birthday. She says it’s a happy day.’
At that point, I started crying really hard. Irelynn did love birthdays, no matter whose it was, and she always wanted to have a birthday cake for them, a pink one. So we’d let her make the cake for that person’s birthday and blow out the candles. Of course, I also crumbled because she passed away on her birthday.
Allison looked at me and said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
I could hear the crowd crying along with me, feeling for me. I was thinking to myself, ‘If all these people could have met my amazing little girl, they would definitely cherish every moment they have with their own kids and take nothing for granted. We had such a strong love for one another.’
I remembered reading in Allison’s second book, We Are Their Heaven, about the unconditional love she has for her husband and girls that is so hard to explain. Well, I knew exactly what she meant. That is how I felt about Irelynn; how my father felt about Irelynn and me.
Allison then went on to say, ‘She is telling me something about her hands.’
I explained that I touched her hands a lot when she was sick.
‘No, it’s something you have of her hands, like a handprint or impression. She wants you to touch that because she is touching you back.’
I knew what Irelynn was referring to. Downstairs in my house I have a framed picture of her handprints that she did when she was in the hospital for many months.
Allison continued, ‘She wants you to know that there’s going to be a cure . . . sometime in your lifetime. She’s telling me something about her face. She says her face is better now.’
At the time I was a little confused by what she
meant, and all I could relate it to was that Irelynn’s face became really pale when she got sick. But when I got home, I realised that she’d had nine teeth pulled out from the chemotherapy damaging them, and of course that would have made her face hurt.
Several times during the reading Allison seemed amused while talking to Irelynn and I could understand why: she was a really funny kid. She was also very kind-hearted and it was no surprise when Allison said, ‘She wants you to give her toys away. She likes them, but she wants other kids to play with them now. She has new ones.’ I sat there crying, absolutely speechless: I had her favourite soft toy with me. Allison added, ‘She says to tell you “Merry Christmas”. She loves the gifts you got her, but don’t worry, she was given a bunch there.’ I knew Irelynn was talking about the presents I bought her for Christmas, which I never got the chance to give her.
Allison described so many precious things about my daughter which no one except my family would know. But the last message that was given to me touched me more than I can explain: ‘She wants me to tell you that she loves you more.’
Ever since Irelynn was a newborn baby, I had told her, ‘Mummy loves you more, and I loved you first.’
As she got older, she would reply, ‘No-o-o-o, Mummy, I love you more, and first!’ It became a special exchange between us, and Irelynn always had this cute look on her face every time she said it.
Hearing those words, I completely broke down. Allison asked me if she could give me a hug . . . it was something I really needed at that moment.
When I went back to my seat, wiped my eyes and pulled myself together, I realised I’d been so ‘wowed’ that I’d forgotten to ask any questions. Crap! I was just so amazed by all the things Allison, and Irelynn, had to say. But it didn’t seem to matter, as I’d discovered the most important thing of all—Irelynn isn’t really gone because she is always with me when she wants to be.
I now work in the lab at the children’s hospital where my daughter received all of her treatment. I see all these cancer diagnoses and think, ‘These poor children—why them?’ I know about the pain all these kids go through every day when they get chemotherapy, bone marrow transplants and spinal taps, but, thanks to Irelynn’s message, I know there will be a cure one day soon.
Irelynn had more than 70 blood and platelet transfusions and tolerated it much better than any adult probably could. Every time she received chemotherapy, she was just so miserable and drained, with no energy. But she never stopped giving, caring or loving those around her . . . It’s something we can all learn from these incredible children.
As a parent, all you can do is treat them like any other child because you have such high hopes they will pull through this one day. But I admit that as a single mother and a full-time student, I did take things out on her that I shouldn’t have, and I regret it dearly.
I would always tell her, ‘Mummy is so sorry, sweet girl. I’m so stressed out sometimes and I never mean to take it out on you. Do you forgive me?’
Irelynn would reply, ‘It’s okay, Mummy, I’m here for you. I can help you. I love you.’
I have to say, though, that Irelynn wasn’t just generous towards me—despite what she battled, she always had a smile for anyone who looked her way. She was really well known at the children’s hospital for her beautiful eyes and for being a trooper. She would give her toy to any kid to play with, share anything she had and help other children whenever she could. I always believed that when she got older she would become a nurse or doctor or do something to help people, because that is what she loved to do.
It was such an honour to receive Allison’s phone call, asking me to write about my experience. I was having a tough day because it was my boyfriend’s grandmother’s funeral, and I was down in the dumps thinking about Irelynn and my dad, who had been crying a lot lately. I know I get carried away when I talk about her, but I wish everyone could have met her, and when she passed away, I told myself that I would make sure people knew about her. And this is it! This is my story about the love of my life, my Irelynn Neveah. She will always live in my heart, and hopefully in yours, too.
JENNIFER’S UPDATE
I wanted to include this update as it perfectly illustrates how a reading can keep on giving. Before I start a reading, I always preface it with, ‘There will be some information that may not make sense right now, but it will fall into place in time.’ This is what happened with Jennifer, and about a year after I brought Irelynn through, she sent me two emails.
In the first email, Jennifer recalled that during the reading I spoke about a character that was purple like Barney the Friendly Dinosaur. At the time she wasn’t sure what Irelynn meant, as her daughter had never watched Barney & Friends, but she later figured out that it was Austin from the show Backyardigans. ‘She loved watching it, and Austin is purple and her favourite,’ Jennifer explained. ‘Just wanted to share that with you!’
The other email was about Irelynn saying how much she loved Ronald McDonald House and what Jennifer was doing there, and that it was one of her favourite places. Even though Irelynn repeated this a few times, it didn’t seem particularly significant to Jennifer during the reading—but it does now. Jennifer told me that Irelynn’s name will be placed on the walkway there, and on the wall inside there will be a plaque saying, ‘All donations made in the honor of Irelynn.’
I can always rely on the fact that messages from the deceased truly mean something to them. It usually just takes us a little bit longer to figure out what they’re trying to tell us, and sometimes it has yet to unfold!
STUCK IN TIME
Scott shares his story of losing his son, Adam, but in a far different way because in Adam’s case it was sudden and at his own hands. I think we can all empathise with both Jennifer and Scott, and how painful it was for them to comprehend the reality of death. In both stories, neither parent had the power to stop their child from dying. Nobody did.
I meet lots of different people in my line of work. Lucky me, travelling the world and getting to know, then care about, so many people. While touring the great state of Texas, I recall laying eyes on Scott. As soon as I did I could see his enormous pain. This is because mediums feel levels of emotional intensity with every human being. Some people carry no pain because they have yet to be traumatised by life, and have the good fortune to experience a carefree adventure. They might make it through life with only the expected losses, such as the passing of grandparents and parents through old age. But not everyone has that luxury; some people experience great loss in ways that seem both unfair and unimaginable.
When I met Scott, his eyes told me he had seen things he could never really describe, even if he tried. Scott ‘felt’ to me as if he was so full of intense feelings that they were hard for him to sort out. He also had a very red colouring to his face, as if he was holding his breath or physically ready to implode. He was by himself and seemed unsure of what to expect from my event, although that’s not unusual. I knew he had to be read, or at least given the chance to be. But his eyes also told me that he wouldn’t want to visit his pain on others by sharing his story publicly.
Two hours came and went and 15 to 20 readings later the event was over. I thanked my audience, descended from the stage and exited to a private room where I could unwind until the crowd dispersed. Mark came in and I said, ‘You know that man I pointed out in the beginning who needed to be read? Is he still here?’
Mark thought he was, but said he’d go and check. Apparently, after the crowd cleared, Mark was walking back into the auditorium just as Scott was walking out, and Mark invited him to come and talk to me.
Scott sat down, we introduced ourselves, and I explained to Scott that his son knew his story was personal and wanted it to be private for his dad, so he had orchestrated this impromptu private reading. Just so you know, it’s rare that I do a reading after an event because I’m so beat and so done. But Scott’s son did a really good job in being both persistent and forceful with me, though in a good w
ay: he just wasn’t about to let me take my focus off his dad.
I began relaying messages to Scott from his son: ‘He says you’re not to blame. He says to tell you he loves you. You weren’t just his dad, you were his best friend. He says if he could go back and undo it, he would. He rides with you in the car and listens to the “oldies” songs with you.’
Even though I was so tired and the reading only went for about ten minutes, when the deceased say exactly what needs to be heard, the healing is deep and profound.
An hour or so later I saw Scott in the hotel restaurant, and his face didn’t look red anymore; his colour was normal. He looked kind of relieved and at peace. I smiled and shook my head in awe of Scott’s son, saying, ‘You did it, kid, you brought him back to the living. Good job!’
SCOTT’S STORY
My brother was killed in a car accident in 1986 when he was sixteen years old, so I was familiar with the grieving process. Even so, that experience did not prepare me for what I saw on my patio that early June evening.
My son Adam, at 21 years of age, was quite simply a good man with a big heart. He had always been a good boy growing up. After all the experiences we shared together over the years, he had also become my best friend. I knew he’d been having trouble with his girlfriend, and could see that it bothered him. We went to dinner on Thursday evening. Everything appeared normal and he assured me that he was fine. Still, I suggested we get together the next evening and hang out. That was less than 24 hours away. He agreed and started to get out of the car before he stopped and turned in the seat. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his lucky poker chip from a Las Vegas casino. He said he wanted me to have it, that he had more. Adam reached out his hand, we shook hands, hugged, then he looked me in the eye and said, ‘I love you, Dad.’ That was the last time I would hear his voice or see him alive.
Sometimes, 24 hours is just too long.
I came home from work the next evening and heard the sound of the sports channel on the TV. Knowing Adam was a sports fanatic, I was excited that he was home. I called his name, but didn’t get a reply. Walking towards the kitchen, I noticed some of Adam’s clothing on a chair by the bar table and some of his things on the table. In particular, I noticed a family picture of Adam, his sister, his mother and me. I just figured he was going to take those things to his place. I called his name again, but still no answer. Thinking he must be in his bedroom, I went there to look for him. The room was empty, but I saw that his favourite picture of us fishing together had been placed on the bed next to a handwritten note.
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