From: jjohnson@convex.com (Jennifer L. Johnson)
Subject: Dead relatives communicating from beyond
Originator: jjohnson@muse.convex.com
Date: Tue, 15 Dec 1992 01:44:46 GMT
Organization: Engineering, CONVEX Computer Corp., Richardson, Tx., USA
X-Disclaimer: This message was written by a user at CONVEX Computer
              Corp. The opinions expressed are those of the user and
              not necessarily those of CONVEX.



On Friday, Dec. 18, 1987, at around 2:45AM central time, I woke up feeling
awful.  I was drenched in sweat, extremely nauseated, dizzy, and
feeling plain rotten.  The only time I'd ever experienced similar symptoms
was when I'd drunk *way* too much before passing out in bed and was about to
pay the fiddler.  Only I hadn't had anything at all to drink that night.

It soon became clear that I was about to do some serious puking, so I staggered
into the bathroom, knelt before the throne, emptied my stomach, and then got
the dry heaves so bad I passed out on the bathroom floor. 

When I woke up, still on the floor, I felt *much* better.  I remember thinking
I must've picked up a tad of food poisoning, though I hadn't eaten anything
out of the ordinary.  I crawled back to bed and slept soundly for the rest
of the night.  

I got up the next morning feeling good as new.  I hit the malls, did
a bunch of Christmas shopping, and was out of the house all day.  Friday
evening, while I was eating dinner at my half-brother and sister-in-law's
house, I mentioned the awful experience I'd had early that morning and we
speculated as to the cause of my sudden illness.

When I got home from my half-brother's house, there was a message on my
answering machine, but I couldn't play it back because the machine had screwed
up (again).  My machine had lately been screwing up regularly, and my attitude
was "Whoever it was will call back."  But this time there was _something_
unsettling about not being able to retrieve the message, so I put the tape
into my microcassette recorder and played back the message that way.

The message was from my sister in Virginia, telling me that my brother TJ had
committed suicide early that morning.  When I called her back, I found out
that TJ had died of an overdose of alcohol and chloral-hydrate, my dad's
prescription sleeping pills.  My step-mother had gone to wake him up that
morning.  When she was unable to rouse him, she called the paramedics (he was
not yet cold, and he had a history of getting so drunk it was hard to wake him
up the next day, so she didn't realize [or maybe, accept] that he was already
dead).  

The coroner placed my brother's time of death at around 3:40AM eastern
time--the same time I woke up inexplicably sick.  

Here's what I know happened:  TJ had stolen my dad's gun a few days
earlier, but dad didn't discover that it was missing until Dec. 17.  TJ had
also broken into my dad's locked medicine cabinet that day and had stolen lots
of pills, including the sleeping pills.  Naturally,
Dad suspected TJ (there had been lots and lots of similar incidents leading
up to this), and searched his room.  He didn't find the gun or the pills, but
he did find a DWI citation and the paperwork showing that TJ's friend had
bailed him out of jail.  Dad had issued TJ an untimatum a couple of weeks
earlier--if he got busted again, he would be thrown out of the house.   To a
guy who was 29 years old and unable to hold down a job, this was a very scary
thought. After searching TJ's room, Dad lay down in bed, presuming that
without his usual knock-out pill,  he could hear when TJ came home.

TJ came home drunk shortly after midnight and
found that his room had been searched.  He knew Dad had found out about the
DWI.  TJ had attempted suicide on prior occasions when he knew he was in deep
shit.  He figured that if he almost died, my dad would forgive him once again.
He also figured that because he'd stolen the sleeping pills, Dad would be
unable to sleep, would hear him come home, come to his room to confront
him, discover him unconscious, and call the paramedics.  They'd
take him to the hospital, pump his stomach, and send him home where his father
would be so glad he was alive, he'd be forgiven and live happily ever
after--or at least until the next time he got into deep shit.   

It would've worked, too, except that on this night, my dad, a chronic
insomniac, fell asleep without the pills. 

Here's what I think happened:  TJ lay there losing consciousness and
wondering why it was taking Dad so long to show up.  By the time TJ gave up on
Dad, it was too late to get himself to the bathroom to make himself throw up.
As he lay there dying, terrified, unable to move or call out, and wishing he
could puke, a thousand miles away I woke, crawled to the bathroom, and puked
*for him*.

I'm a skeptic when it comes to the paranormal, but I truly believe I got
sick in response to his mentally crying out for help.  If only I'd known...


 
















-- 
 Jennifer L. Johnson | "`Reality' is the only word in the language that should
 jjohnson@convex.com |  always be used in quotes."     "Nervous Xians"
		     |			--My Life with the ThrillKillKult--