“Patience is the calm acceptance that things can happen in a different order than the one you have in mind.”
~ David G. Allen
I am not fond of being late. Maybe it’s the Virgo in me. So I was grateful to be running early the other morning. It gave me some extra time to enjoy the warm water of my shower before we headed out on a coffee date to meet a friend.
“Oh, this is glorious,” I said to Ben as I stood beneath the flow.
And then, unexpectedly, this.
An unbidden image of a human bowel came into my mind.
Sexy, huh?
What followed was worse. I was keeled over by a vicious pain in my lower abdomen. At the same time I was flooded with knowing. The teenage daughter of a client was in big trouble. A beautiful girl with an undiagnosed (or discussed) eating disorder and severe anxiety. (A sore point in the reading I’d had with the mother, who hadn’t wanted to hear what I’d needed to say.) I suspected a twisted or obstructed bowel. I could see that the girl had been trying to treat herself for a few days with laxatives and purgatives.
I couldn’t remember her name or her mother’s, although I could see their faces clearly. How could I track them down with no names?
‘Facebook!’ I yelled at I hobbled out of the shower, still hunched over and clutching my belly.
‘Woah!’ said my poor husband as I pushed past him. ‘You okay?’ His face was drawn with concern.
‘Psychic emergency!’
‘Of course,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Need some help?’
But I was already downstairs.
Sitting at my computer I remembered that the woman had been referred to me by another client. I found that client on facebook and scrolled through her friends until I found the woman in question. I messaged her, and she responded within a minute. Soon we were talking on the phone. I managed to convince her to go into her daughter’s room, and then get her up and take her straight to hospital.
Then, running hugely late by now, I threw on some clothes and we hurried to off to meet our friend. I was preoccupied and had no appetite, wondering if the mother had taken me seriously. Wondering if I should call again to check. I certainly wasn’t the best company.
I received a text message an hour later. The woman’s daughter, Melinda, had been rushed to surgery. Finally I could eat my breakfast, knowing that something was being done.
By the end of the day I learned that surgeons had removed a section of Melinda’s bowel that was obstructed by adhesions, and she had already been referred to a psychologist and from there to an eating disorders clinic. Situation under control.
That’s my life. I can plan, but I never really know from day to day what might arise, or how I may be called to be of service.
I’m so grateful for my husband Ben, and for good friends like the girlfriend we met for coffee, who accept the delays and changes that this crazy life of mine can sometimes impose.
There is nothing glamorous about being a psychic. It’s not like the tv shows. It’s not the way so many people portray it. It’s gritty and real and wonderful and distressing and frustrating and overwhelming and humbling all at once.
Please hold Melinda and her family in your thoughts and prayers. They need a little extra love and support just now.
Thank you <3 xoxo
