And what deaths am I talking about? Let us see… It is very likely I died beheaded on November 23rd, 1210, in Termes. And I have good reasons to think that in the same month in 1942, I died as a Czech nurse in France, and in the end of 19th century, as Coreanne, in Norway. However, it is not death itself what affects me. All these deaths have something in common: besides dying, occurred the separation from someone I love more than anyone else. In my public writings, I use to call him H. In my Cathar life he was my firstborn; in my life during the Second World War, my German boyfriend; and in the life in Cardiff, my Norwegian sailor. No less no more.
And then November 2018 arrives, and I find myself bringing one of my fiction novels to an end, which in reality is the second part of a book I started writing at thirteen years old. And although I am incapable of looking very far in the future, and therefore I am incapable of knowing what is going to happen in my stories, I suddenly realize that if I finish the second novel as it has occurred to me, with nearly no planning, there is only one possibility for the third one: there is going to be a painful separation, involuntary on the part of the female protagonist (as in my life in Cardiff), and the man is going to be like Jan in Norway for some time: completely alone, after his daughter’s death, and after his woman’s death, learning to deal with his own grief. And for some reason, I always knew as Coreanne (or better said, as my current self remembering Coreanne’s life) that everything was fine, that it all had to happen that way, despite the fact I keep regretting that sad separation these days, despite the fact H is essentially the reason I remember past lives. Nostalgia never fades away, no matter what I do.
Today I focus on Coreanne because right after my father’s illness and his stay in the hospital, quite tough images came to me about my death in that life. Curiously the past life recall was totally detained during all that time, even when I used to meditate frequently to keep my mental calm. Obviously, I had more important things in the present that required my full attention. As soon as things got back to normal, I meditated and these new images turned up. I always had quite a lot of details of my death as Coreanne: I knew I had emigrated with Jan to Norway and we didn’t spend together there long time, as I contracted a respiratory illness and died. It was the first death I remembered and I describe it in my book Pandora’s Box, so today I will go straight to this last regression. I had the strong suspicion that disease was tuberculosis, as I knew breathing was hard for me and even in my first memory I said: “I feel as if there is energy condensed in my chest”, but I didn’t have exact details about this point. After this regression, no doubts remained:
“I meditated and shortly images of Jan came (I don’t know why but in my head it is written as Jaan). He is over forty years old, living in Norway, he is wearing dark pants and a shirt like these made of wool or linen of a cream color, long-sleeved, with no laces of any kind, and over it a vest or jacket. Long hair but not too long, doesn’t reach his shoulders. I don’t see him a long time anyway. I am prostrated on the bed, this time in a first-person view (if I remember correctly, I had never seen this scene in first-person view, or perhaps I did but it was very short). I am very ill, I see the wrinkled white sheets, the pillows, the cot is wooden, there is a small window at my right. I don’t see what there is in front of me very clearly, excepting in a moment in which I identify a stool at the foot of the bed, to the right. I know that is where Jan sits when he comes to see me. On my left I know there is one of his sisters, a young girl with blonde hair that is trying to give me a broth, but I can barely swallow. I can’t stop coughing, I can barely breathe, I feel weaker and weaker. I don’t know if they give me a mirror at some point, but I know I am drawn, with large bags under my eyes, pale, my hair dishevelled. And I feel a great frustration because despite I want to go on living and not abandon Jan, my body doesn’t respond to me.
When Jan comes to see me he stays on the right, and I see him in silence most of the time. I think he doesn’t want to show his grief so that he doesn’t dishearten me, but sometimes he wipes his tears away passing his fingers under his small glasses. He holds my right hand tight, holding our thumbs (that famous gesture now I know where it comes from). I barely can talk, but sometimes I also hold his hand tight. I don’t want to leave him alone, but he says he is not alone, he has his family. It saddens me Eli died and none of us is left. I wonder why we didn’t get married in the end. He says that is not relevant now, “God knows how much I love you, God knows how much you love me”. A moment comes when I breathe with my mouth open, but no air reaches my lungs. I also think I have a severe pain in my throat, which prevents me from eating and makes even talking and breathing painful. I am not sure, but I might have even seen the buboes typical of tuberculosis under my armpits, and of course I also spit blood when I cough. Sometimes a doctor comes to see me, but he barely can do something. At some point I think they have placed a large cauldron with hot water and the room fills with steam.
The most important thing in this regression is I can’t stop crying because I don’t want to go, I don’t want to die, but little by little I realize I am not going to recover and the separation is inevitable.”
(Regression 2-10-2018).
The cauldron caught my attention, it seemed to me quite strange and I searched if it could be related to the treatment of tuberculosis by that time (late 19th century). I suppose this is not a complete validation but I found references to a Spanish physician who said this:
A monograph of Manuel Martín Salazar on tuberculosis
(Cadiz, 1887) - Extract
«But for Martín Salazar the great discovery is that of the sterilization of the tuberculous sputum by means of boiling water or heated water vapor, for some minutes, “with these two simple and economic means for disinfecting, you have enough hygiene to purify nearly all the things suspected of tuberculous contamination”. In this sense, he appeals to the experiments of Frerichs, who did inoculations in animals with tuberculous sputum, “boiled or disinfected with the boiling water”, and could never produce experimental tuberculosis. From all this emerges, according to the Sevillian physician, a recommendation that must be transcribed with detail, as it poses a precept of hygienic and practical nature:
“So, what matters the most, is disinfecting the sputum in the precise moment they are expectorated. Hereto, it is advisable to suggest tuberculosis sufferers they must not spit out on the ground, nor on the clothes, where sputum easily transforms into harmful powder for the health of the others; on the contrary, they must throw their expectoration into glasses or spittoons that contain either sawdust to burn it later on, or antiseptic dissolutions, in which enters a certain amount of glycerin or any other hygroscopic substance that can prevent the dangers of a rapid evaporation. These glasses will be emptied once or twice a day, and then they will be carefully washed and disinfected with the boiling water. As much it will be advisable to do with the vessels that receive diarrheal stools”.
He adds dresses and bedclothes of consumptives must not be used until they have been washed and disinfected properly in a steam chamber, if this is not possible it will suffice to boil them in water adding any saline solution. Utensils and furniture can be disinfected with boiling water or a strong stream of water vapor. Martín Salazar also reiterates that Jaccoud recommends for the sanitation of the ambience of consumptives, pulverizations of phenic acid or sodium benzoate in the air of the rooms of the sick. But in the face of these practical recommendations, we found a skeptical comment by Martín Salazar: “A long time will pass before these simple practices of disinfection embody the customs, while the ideas contrary to the contagion prevail”.»
rua.ua.es/dspace/bitstream/10045/65751/1/CultCuid_47_06.pdf
Years after I started remembering past lives, I keep seeing how erred is the concept of “soul healing”. There is nothing to heal. We are human beings, we have emotions. We all are connected, and those bonds are eternal. I will never, ever, going to stop missing H, because he is a part of me, as much as I am a part of him. Sometimes he has led me part of his own memories, he has shown me his dark side. There is no need to do this on the other side, as it is impossible to hide anything there. As time goes by, I feel closer to him. My feelings are less important, and I understand his feeling of impotence, because every time he has me, I go as well. Because every time he wants to help me, something gets between us. His grief is my grief. Maybe he hasn’t incarnated this time and he is guiding me from the afterlife, but, as always, we keep being a team, and the two of us are going through this, learning, always together.
Years ago, shortly after creating my old forum, I posted a song by Marillion that reflects very well my feelings towards H. With the passing of time I have realized some things and strong emotions have soothed. But when November comes I keep remembering the day I left. And I keep feeling the hole in my soul, which I know nobody can fill but him. Those holes don’t need to be healed. Those holes are the consequence of having really loved someone. When I was young I was afraid of suffering, I was afraid my soul would fill with more and more holes. But then I realized that living with fear is like not living at all. If you don’t have holes in your soul, it is because you haven’t fully lived, it is because you have never really loved someone. And we are not here to avoid holes in our souls, but to carry them with pride… for all eternity.
If you were a baby I would take you and run
I could hide you in the folds of my heart
There's a truth in the madness that I can't get beyond
And a fever that won't leave me alone
I don't want my heart
Don't want my head
Don't want my friends
Don't want my bed
I can't live with myself
I can't live with myself
Can't take no help
I try to want to
But I can't get beyond you
I will stare from the window
At the shapes in the rain
As the space between us drives me insane
I can't live with myself
I can't live with myself
Can't take no help
Don't want no one else
If I was a child
I would refuse to leave
I would sit down on the street
Kick my legs and scream
I'm not much of a man
But I know how I am
I know this won't fade away
I will pretend and be strong
But I wonder where I belong
And the feeling comes in waves
A hole in my body, aching
Like a heart dying
Or a soul crying
Exhausted and insecure
Took all you have and I still want more
So I reach out to hold you
But all I do is hurt you
Hurt you
I can't live with myself
I can't live with myself
Can't take no help
I try to want to
But I can't get beyond you
I can't get beyond you
If I was a child I would take you and run
And I say I don't know... But I know
And I say I'll go
You just spent the whole day
Driving away