Since an early age, I’ve been an intuitive empath, or someone who senses the emotions, thoughts and energies of other people. Because of this, I often sense forthcoming events that others can’t explain.
I believe some people are more inclined to be empaths than others. While I don’t think it can be learned, empathy can be nurtured and honed.
I once read that those who were raised in chaotic households tend to be intuitive empaths, because they learn early to read the energy of a room and act accordingly. As an only child of European immigrants who were often frantically trying to make ends meet, I’m one of those individuals.
While nobody called them that, both my parents and grandparents had arranged marriages. Some such marriages grow into love; theirs turned towards resentment.
Growing up, we all lived in my grandparents’ suburban New York home. While I was never deprived of love, I witnessed its absence between the couples of my childhood. Sometimes I could sense feelings of resentment and anger; the adults in my home often spoke ill of one another.
Many times, I remember descending the creaky wooden stairs from my bedroom to the kitchen to find doors slamming and voices raised—although it wasn’t always easy to hear what was being said.
A profound mystical experience
My parents often told me that I was a master listener, a skill which served me well. Intuitive empaths need to pay attention.
I had many mystical experiences. One happened before my father’s passing in 1991 at the age of 70, younger than I am now. Months before he died, I sensed that he’d soon be moving on to another realm.
At the time, I was living in Florida with my husband and three young children. My parents had moved to a new home, also in the New York suburbs. We visited a few times a year, but that year, I felt pulled to visit at the beginning of my children’s winter break in mid-December. The day before our flight, my mother phoned to say that my father had just been admitted to the hospital, and that he wasn’t doing well.
He had congestive heart failure, was struggling to breathe, and was on oxygen. I told her I’d already planned a surprise visit for the following day, but instead switched to an earlier flight.
Upon arrival, we drove straight from the airport to the hospital. As we entered, my father was sitting up in bed in a coughing fit. His face was red, and he clutched a tissue in his hand. The episode exhausted him, and his head suddenly flopped on the pillow as he caught sight of us entering the room.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“We came to visit you, Dad,” I replied.
“This is so hard; look at those beautiful kids,” he said, smiling with the little bit of energy he had left. He adored his only grandchildren, and would have done anything for them.
“I don’t know if I can survive this,” he added, struggling for air.
Rolling his head back and forth on his pillow, he said, “Take me one way or another. I cannot live like this.” I sensed that my father wanted me to get him clergy, but I was in denial of what I intuitively knew was happening. I was losing my father.
“You’re a survivor, Dad. Please give yourself some time. You’re in the right place for now,” I said.
A few minutes later, my father asked me to walk him to the bathroom with his IV pole in tow. Inside, he caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink.
“Oh my gosh, I look like I did when I came out of the [Dachau concentration] camps. I’m so emaciated. I can’t live like this,” he repeated.
I gently hugged his frail body, and stepped outside the bathroom.
“Will you be OK?” I asked.
“Yes, I’ll call you when I’m done.”
A few minutes later, I helped him walk back to bed. Along the way, he stopped to cup my daughter’s face in his hand. “What a beauty,” he said, kissing my then-six-year-old on the forehead. I tucked him in, rubbed his head and kissed his hand, and said, “I love you, Dad.”
We walked out into the hall so that he could rest. Within moments, I heard on the hospital intercom: “Code in room 949.” That was my father’s room! His heart had stopped just moments after we left the room. I knew that sometimes people don’t want to die with their loved ones in the room, so they wait until everyone steps out.
Grateful for my intuition
I believe that we have a choice to be born and a choice to die. My father waited to see us before letting go.
I’d read about this and couldn’t believe it was now happening in my own family. Soon, medical personnel surrounded his bed.
A doctor emerged, looked me deep in the eyes, and said, “I’m so sorry. We’re just cleaning him up and you can go inside in a few minutes.” I stood, frozen in the hallway, as tears poured down my cheeks. My husband pulled me to his chest.
My father was far too young to die, but I was grateful to have followed my intuition to visit him when I did. Knowing that I was the last person to touch him and talk to him before he transitioned is a blessing I hold near to my heart.
Being an intuitive empath can serve us well during our lives because it keeps us heart-centred, thoughtful, and kind, which makes it easier for us to form close personal connections. However, we must protect our sensitivity by imagining a shield of white or pink light around us to guard against negative energies that can be hard on the body, mind and spirit.
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image: miroslavkaclik
