For a moment I couldn’t remember my day. The sequence of events, how I got there, what was next–it all swirled together in a tumbling blur. And that’s the moment that everything changed.

I was at my daughter’s house, about an hour from where I live. I’d rushed over for her birthday dinner, I knew that. I’d worked–somewhere. I’d been with my dear friend Sande at some point, in hospice, for what I felt might be the last time in her long, beautiful and painful cancer journey that she had graciously let us share. I felt grief. Oddly, my dog was there at the end of a leash in my hand, and I’d dropped my overnight bag on the floor with a thud. There I stood grasping Lydia’s dining room table, trying not to panic, and trying to make my voice say that I didn’t want to alarm anyone but something was definitely not right.

I must have succeeded, because Lydia jolted to attention. My sweet girl. I saw the fear in her eyes while she used her calmest, most reassuring caregiver voice to guide me to the couch, sit me down and begin asking questions. Impatiently I told her to listen, that I knew she was my daughter Lydia. It was her birthday. I came to Milwaukee to celebrate her, but everything before that was mixed up. She paused, then steadily asked if it was ok if she called 911 to have someone come and help us figure this out. She got no argument because I was genuinely scared.

Suddenly there were paramedics–next to me on the couch and kneeling in front of me. Fussing over me, concerned. I don’t even know how many. More than two, less than five. I told them they were handsome, and it was them that made my blood pressure be ridiculously high when we didn’t know why. I had to make things lighter. I agreed to ride with them to the hospital if Lydia was with me. We left her husband Chris at home, pacing, telling his parents on the phone the birthday dinner was off, and to keep our little Charlotte overnight. He’d keep them posted.

I remember the neighbors gathered outside as we rode off, scared that the ambulance was at Lydia and Chris’s. The only thing I remember about the ride besides how surreal it all felt, was a pang of sadness for my girl, and jokingly looking up to tell her happy fucking birthday.

The hospital details are mostly irrelevant. I stayed in the emergency room for what seemed like forever before I was admitted–a surprise to me. They thought I’d had a stroke. A barrage of questions and tests told them I hadn’t. Relief. They kept asking who was the president. If they had known how much stress that caused me, they’d pick a different question. More tests, more people coming and going and pricking and examining and questioning, talking about me, to me. Times that I felt outside of myself–watching them proceed with searching for illness in ‘someone’ while I thought I was fine. I remember being grateful and I remember feeling love; feeling timeless and thinking that everyone was so damned incredibly kind. I was intensely curious about why I was there, and mostly certain that everything was different.

Two things stood out. One was a test I had, shuttled away to the bowels of the hospital in a dark little room with a woman I was sure was an angel. Her bright smile on her warm, brown face was disarming. As she administered a somewhat painful test (which she described as a ‘heart ultrasound’), she used her soft, comforting voice to tell me that she felt this whole health scare was a gift. A chance to step back from my crazy life and notice what was important. She talked on as if she was sharing a secret, or motherly advice. I was mesmerized and couldn’t help thinking she can’t possibly talk to everyone in this way. This was so real. Just as quickly we were done and someone appeared to take me back to my room. She blessed me and told me to remember what she said. I left her knowing I had encountered something special. And the transport guy sang all the way back to my room.

The second angel was Aggie. She appeared in my doorway one evening while Lydia and Charlotte were sitting on my bed, laughing about something. I was intrigued by her. She had a colorful, artsy appearance, a warm manner and struck me as someone I could hang out with. She introduced herself as the hospital chaplain, but also a counselor and Reiki Master. Huh. She said she was ‘on a list’ because I’d been in the ER, and I could either talk to her or she could check the box and go. My choice. However, one of the nurses, whom she trusted, had said we really should connect, so she’d been by several times and found me busy or gone or asleep. But she kept coming back.

Lydia told me it was fine because they were leaving anyway, and when I hesitated, she said, “Do this for yourself, mom. Don’t worry about us.”

So I did, and Aggie and I began our supposedly brief chat. Aggie came with the disclaimer that she could only stay 15 minutes because she was Jewish, and scheduled to attend a sacred meal with close friends that night. I said that was fine, I wasn’t sure what we’d talk about anyway. She pulled up a chair, settled in saying we could talk about whatever we wanted, but she wanted to get to one thing.

She shared that when she came upon us, she was struck by how much love was in the room. She could feel it, and that it was a gift some people never realized. She looked deep into my eyes like she really wanted me to understand that–but I knew. The next thing she said was unsettling though. Aggie reminded me of her diverse skill set, including being ‘intuitive.’ Her intuition was telling her that I was worn down–depleted almost–and what did I think about that? Huh. I shook my head no, but with a little more coaxing and a few pointed questions, what erupted from the depths of my soul was a story that even I was not fully aware was buried there. But it poured out in waves of tears and sobs of grief and frustration. I realized that I had been consumed by the journey with my friend, and devastated when the months of hope recently turned to harsh disappointment for us all. There was no more they could do. The small group of family and friends that someone named ‘the inner circle’ had moved together through ups and downs, growing closer to each other, and taking turns being with her–our shining light. And all the while she was guiding us, connecting us. She was so at peace with her destiny, but I didn’t realize how much I was not–until that very moment. I’d thought I had this.

I talked about my work, how I’d made changes that I knew would be better for others but ended up being not so good for me. Now I felt invisible and undervalued. I struggled to find my place.

Also I realized how terrifying was the idea that I was being wheeled down hospital halls as a patient, almost identical to the familiar hospital halls I’d walked for months as a caregiver; for Sande, several years earlier for my sister, and before that my mom and my dad. They even smelled the same. But I didn’t know how to be this person who was now needing to be cared for!

Aggie listened, gave me a box of kleenex and helped me be aware of a theme. That for Sande and friends, in my work, with family, with what was making me distraught in our world, I used up all my energy but didn’t leave enough for me. She also talked about how sometimes, a crisis or serious event was a gift, causing us to be open to growth and changes we needed to make in our lives, and the universe answers. She too felt that’s what happened here, and why I connected to people like her in this experience. The universe had aligned for me to make a change. Just then I Iooked at the clock and startled. Oh my God, an hour and a half had passed. She had to go she’d miss her dinner!

She cut me off, chuckling, chiding that she could take care of herself. She’d noticed the time earlier and made a decision that this was where she needed to be. Her friends would understand, she’d be with them again. It was ok–it wasn’t my worry.

She looked at me for a long moment and said “I’m going to give you a gift.” She scooted her chair closer and patted her thigh. When I looked confused she told me to put my foot up on her leg. I was spent, and did as I was told while she asked me if I was familiar with Reiki or energy work. I said I’d heard of it but never experienced it, and she said I was about to. I believe she noted that everything was energy, it was as simple as that. My energy had been depleted and it needed to be restored. She could help me do that.

In a minute I knew she was right. She put her hands on my foot and I swear this immediate heat and sort of electrical feeling that had to be energy flowed into my leg. It was remarkable. I could feel it flowing through my body as she got up and moved to place her hands on different locations. My other leg, my stomach, my heart, my head, saying few words but always in a comforting voice. It went on for an undefined time and then she stopped, sat down and asked me how I felt. I couldn’t believe it. When I took stock I felt so comforted, so relaxed, and I didn’t remember feeling so at peace–ever. All I could say was that the whole experience blew my mind. I had a lot to think about. I would be forever grateful. That was when she said she was so grateful to have met me. She said she received energy when she shared it with me. I could do this too. For myself, my little grand daughter, my daughter. We all have it in us, and we are connected to each other. She left on that note, reminding me to take care of myself.

I just sat there feeling light and profoundly happy, like in that moment I could do anything. Then I wondered how my life would be different from now on with this new knowing, and how could I explain and share the magic that had just happened? I smiled, and decided to savor it myself for a moment first.