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“I was faintly aware of the insignificant click of the thermostat beside me. Floating somewhere between a dream-state and consciousness, I aimlessly searched for a release from the oppressive atmosphere of the dimly-lit hospital room. Nothing changed. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor, the whisper-soft shallow breathing, and the occasional faraway echoing sound from the empty corridor all gently lulled me away. 

Seeking a long-awaited respite from hours of unventilated warmth, I imagined a subtle movement of coolness. My tense muscles slightly relaxed. Vaguely, wrapped in this warm blanket of a situational lullaby, through drowsy eyes, I became aware of themstanding near the head of his bed. Perhaps I could feel them more than actually see them this time. I knew there was a male and a female presence about me. I attempted to shake away the hazy feeling and tried to focus. When did they enter?

Had I been sleeping when these people quietly slipped in and unceremoniously gathered by his bed? The drowsiness from an abundance of sleepless nights held me in its grip. 

The wall furnace next to me coughed and sputtered momentarily, then belched forth another installment of stifling, hot air. The force of the heat hit the side of my face causing me to bolt upright. I anxiously searched the room with wide eyes. Where were the visitors? They were there only an instant ago. Weren’t they?

I rose and hurriedly moved toward the door, pausing only to notice the time. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. As I reached the door, I pulled it slightly open, trying to keep the light from spilling into the room. I peered up and down the deserted hallway with squinting eyes against the harsh, bright light. No movement. Across the hall, a television competed with the snore of its inhabitant. I could hear a program with a canned laugh track that seemed to be mocking the incessant snoring in the room, or possibly laughing at the face of the person probing the halls for imagined middle-of-the-night visitors outside of his father’s hospital room. I closed the door.

As I turned and looked back inside the room, I wondered why I had reacted the way I did. I knew they were going to come. I knew sooner or later there would be a gathering to prepare him for his journey to the other side. But I also knew it wouldn’t be today, or perhaps I simply didn’t want it to be today. No. In fact, I knew it wouldn’t be any of the next few days. I already knew it would be a spring-like day with sunshine and birds singing in the courtyard. It was currently early January in Kansas, and it had been a typically cold, gray, winter day. Snow had even been forecast. So why was I sitting up and worrying? Since I knew he would still be with us in the morning, I could go find a place to sleep at his house—or even in the hospital waiting room—and come back rested. Yet, I felt compelled to stay. If he were to awaken and find himself alone in the room, he might become confused and bewildered.

I didn’t know why I was worried about the light from the hallway coming into the room. He might have welcomed the light. Returning to my post, I carefully pulled the chair closer to the bed, intent on doing so without making a startling, grating sound as I moved it. I shook my head at myself, still moving quietly and gently in an effort not to disturb my father who was lying lifelessly before me on the bed. Sitting on the edge of the chair, I reached for his unresponsive hand. It had been eighteen hours since he last stirred. 

The medical staff at the hospital had said he was in a comatose state. They said he might not be with us much longer. None of us knew what that meant; the staff didn’t even know what that meant. It was an educated guess on the part of the doctors attending to him. An educated guess. In all honesty, it was simply a presumption. They didn’t know as much as I knew about his time of departure. What they did know was that the cancer had progressed into his brain. It would only be a matter of time.

Time. My mind was suddenly flooded with thoughts of time. Without much hope for time in the future, my thoughts turned to time that had passed. Holding his hand with both of mine, I softly talked to him about time: about summer vacations of long ago, future vacations, and hopes of taking my own children to the same places that we had visited as a family…”
You can download the Thin Doors eBook here or get your copy here.


From the Author:

“Keep in mind as you read through this volume that you are reading about events in my life that helped define my experience as a medium (meaning an avenue of communication) for gathering messages from my spiritual guide, as well as from spiritual energies that have made the effort to return to our world in order to forewarn or give guidance or comfort to a loved one who is in need of receiving such a message. Many other chapters will be written about messages that I have received for friends, relatives, and total strangers. I have placed many of these stories throughout the pages ahead of you within the story of my time in the hospital with my father. Others have been placed at the end of the book, separate from the story of my father’s battle with cancer.”

Ron Donoho is currently available for speaking engagements, workshops, intuitive life coaching, & spiritual consulting. For more information, use the contact page here.

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