there. My son was obviously going through an imaginary friend stage. I hugged him tightly, but he kept on pointing behind me and saying the vanilla-cone lady was watching and she wanted me to fight. I thought he was talking nonsense, but as I hugged him I felt lighter. My son had told me to fight and that word echoed around my head. I felt a bolt of energy, like electricity, surge through me. Other people had beaten cancer – why couldn’t I? I had a family to care for, a child to raise and a life to live. From that moment on I began an all-out war which would last nearly three years and include a modified radical mastectomy, chemotherapy and even a bone-marrow transplant.
Through all this, friends and family flocked to our side. It’s amazing how people respond when others are in need and I learned much about the innate goodness of people and how essential sharing love is to the human experience. Slowly I began to feel hope, and this hope gave me strength. The possibility of miracles and the wonder of life became everyday ideas to me. I began to question my thought patterns more. I pondered why I thought it was more realistic to expect a negative outcome than a positive one. I made the decision to opt for the positive and this was one of the most important factors in my well-being.
I was weak from chemotherapy the night an angel lifted me in its arms. At that time not only did I require a wheelchair to go from place to place, but the rest of the time I was confined to bed. I had spent seven weeks in isolation in hospital while doctors tried to figure out how to treat my blood counts, which had dropped dangerously low and seemed insistent upon remaining there. One night – it must have been about 11 p.m. as the nurse had done her final rounds for the night – I lay there feeling weak, sick and tired. I tried to grasp onto some hope, but it slipped through my fingers. I felt as though I had reached the end of the road. A part of me hoped that when I went to sleep I wouldn’t wake up. Yes, I was a fighter, but every good fighter knows when they are beaten. I closed my eyes and tried to swallow, but there wasn’t even enough saliva in my throat to let me do that.
I closed my eyes harder and saw Riley’s smiling face. The pain of not being able to see him grow up was so intense I could feel vomit burning in my throat. And then, with the image of my son still in my mind, the scent of vanilla ice cream filled the air. I suddenly felt warmth and the pain that wracked my body disappeared. Then I felt a pair of arms lift me gently and suddenly I was floating a few inches from my bed. I saw many bright colours, a white star and an exquisite white light. I also saw an intensely beautiful violet light – a violet I had never seen before. I felt invisible hands stroking my forehead. I didn’t see or hear anything, but I sensed the presence of love and joy. It felt as though there was a party going on all around me. I wanted to get up and join in the fun. My heart opened wide with an intense surge of hope. It was an enchantingly beautiful experience. The only other time in my life that I can remember feeling a little like this was immediately after I had given birth to my son.
All too soon I heard the voice of an angel – it sounded like a woman’s but it could have been a man’s – saying, ‘You’re done.’ I felt myself being gently lowered back to the bed and then the lights and the sensation were gone. I looked around and pinched myself. This had not been a dream.
In the weeks that followed, angels visited me several times. I would know when they were about to arrive because the most heavenly scent of vanilla ice cream would fill the air. Even though I often felt weak and drained when they came to me, each time I felt again the energy of my life. It was like the buzz or hum of my being.
When I finally left hospital to go home the doctors were amazed at the speed of my recovery. Sadly, the angels didn’t visit me while I recovered at home, but nevertheless after another six months I was finally given the all-clear. In my heart I knew the angels leaving was their way of telling me that I was ready to fully recover on my own, that I was ready to care for myself and my family the way I always had.
Within a year I was once again the busy, energetic, healthy person I had been before the cancer, but even though I may have looked the same I didn’t feel the same. My life had a depth and a richness I had never known before.
I didn’t tell anyone, not even my husband, about my angelic experiences, but I did ask Riley about the vanilla-cone lady. He told me that she didn’t visit him anymore. I told him not to be sad because even though he couldn’t see her I was sure she was still watching over us.
I am now 47 years old. As I said, it’s been a long journey. My cancer was a terrifying experience, but I will always cherish the lessons I learned about myself – and life – as a result of it. And it will always be my privilege to feel both happy and sad whenever I smell vanilla ice cream – happy in that I know my guardian angel is watching over me and sad in that it took a life-threatening illness for me to recognize her loving presence.
Sandra truly believes that her guardian angel helped her overcome a devastating illness but, as David’s story shows, it isn’t just physical illness that can be healed by an angelic encounter. Angels are master healers of the heart.
‘Open your Eyes’
Ever since I can remember I wanted to be a doctor. I remember how I buzzed with excitement and adrenalin the first day I spent on the wards. But after my wife died – she was a doctor too – a part of me died. I turned up for work every morning, but it was as if I was going through the motions. I realized that although I loved my job, I loved my wife more.
We had met in the hospital canteen four years before. I had been so tired after a night shift that my breakfast tray had slipped out of my hands. Food had gone everywhere. What a mess. It was embarrassing, too, but Sarah – that was her name – just giggled. It really broke the tension. She helped me clean up and we got on instantly. After that I started to look out for her in the mornings and we’d have a quick chat and a giggle. I realized I was falling in love with her when she didn’t show up one morning and I felt out of sorts all day. The next time I saw her I asked her out and we were married 18 months later.
We’d only been married a year when she died. She was fine in the morning, but in the afternoon she kept complaining of headaches. I didn’t think much of it because when you’re a doctor headaches – along with bags under the eyes – are part of the job. She went to work as usual and then I got a phone call telling me she had died of a cerebral haemorrhage.
As a doctor I’d given people news like this on many occasions, but it’s a whole different ball game when it happens to you. For the next few days I was literally numb. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t think. I just busied myself with the funeral arrangements. I was told to take time off work, but that was the last thing I wanted. I needed to be distracted. So two weeks after the death of my wife I was back at work.
I guess it was about four months after Sarah died that denial was replaced by grief. I can’t say what the trigger was, because there wasn’t one. I was doing my rounds one morning and then it hit me like a bullet. My legs felt weak and I nearly passed out. Colleagues ushered me away to an office as I sobbed uncontrollably. My wife had been everything to me. I didn’t think I could live without her. I must have sobbed for hours that afternoon. I can’t remember much about it, but I was told that I was found curled up in a corner of the office singing to myself. I simply can’t remember it.
What I do remember is that the next two months of my life were harrowing ones. I was given a month’s leave and I spent almost all of it locked up in my flat. I don’t think I ate, but I drank far too much. Physically there was nothing wrong with me, but my heart was smashed to pieces.
Three years later I was still getting severe episodes of grief that came over me without warning but they weren’t as frequent as they had been at the beginning of my mourning. I learned to cope with them by shutting myself away and spending the rest of my life on automatic. I wouldn’t let anyone get close to me. I was rude and bitter to friends and family. I didn’t want to know. Eventually they gave up and stopped calling. The only thing that got me up in the morning was my job. To numb the pain I worked harder than ever.
One morning I was driving home after a 20-hour shift listening to the car radio when I felt my eyelids grow heavy. I was so familiar with the feeling of barely being able to keep my eyes open that it didn’t