Angel Numbers and Dragonflies

It all started with 444.  For some reason, I kept seeing it. Everywhere.  On clocks.  Prices.  Mileage.  Exit numbers.  For years. 

I decided to research what it meant. Psychics say that angels, spirits of those we loved and who loved us, attempt to guide us through our thoughts, feelings, words, visions, and with physical signs ~ tangible things we see or hear over and over. 

One of the physical manifestations of this is recurring number patterns.  Our spirit guides are calling our attention to something ~ giving us a cosmic ‘heads up’.  They’re called Angel Numbers, a means for the spirits of our loved ones to communicate with us by physically placing things with the number sequence in front of us and by subtly whispering for us to look up in time to see that particular clock, car, billboard or sign.  The spirit guides hope that we will become aware of the repeating numbers and research what the messages mean.

According to psychics, 4 is an angel number, symbolic of the four seasons, four cardinal directions, and four elements of earth, wind, fire and water. Recurring 444 is an indication that you are being surrounded by angels who love and support you, and their help is close at hand.  They say that the lost loved one who came to mind first when you saw the sequence was the person who was trying to connect with you.  It was always my Grama Alice.

Last June, the kids and I made a road trip to California to see my brother’s and sister’s families.  One stop we made was to Westminster Cemetery to put flowers on Grama Alice, Grampa Reg, and Donald Jacob’s graves.  And, although I’d become quite accustomed to seeing the sequence and had The 444 came on with force.  The Chili-Cheese Dogs we took with us to picnic with (that’s another post) were 5 for $4.44.  Gas was $4.44 per gallon.  When we got in the car after we’d found all three loved ones, it was 4:44.  I believed that Grama, Grampa, and my oldest brother were telling us they knew we had visited and expressing their gratitude for being remembered and honored.  They knew.  They were aware of our love, aware of our gathering, and giving their approval. They were healthy, happy, and in the arms of those who had gone before them.  They will be there to greet us.

And then the dragonflies arrived.

I had always told my kids that, when I died, I would come back to them as a dragonfly.  Anytime they saw one, they would know that I was there with them.  For Christmas last year, Sarah bought us matching dragonfly bracelets.  She wrote me the greatest letter, and told me, You Will Always be My Dragonfly.  (That’s another post.)

In mid-July, my nephew died.  It was tragic and traumatic, an unintentional suicide.  I was absolutely devastated.  Honestly, I didn’t really understand why.  Chris and I hardly knew each other.  He was married to Dave’s niece, Elisabeth.  We’d seen each other over the years (they’d been married maybe 5 or 6) at weddings, Christmas or birthday parties, and when out-of-town family members came for a visit.  But, for some reason, his death knocked the wind out of me.  I curled into a proverbial ball and was completely distraught.  We found out on a Sunday morning.  Unfortunately, his death occurred in a very public place and was the stuff of sensational news.  There was no escaping it, and I was consumed with the need to find out what happened to him. 

I changed my profile picture and cover photo

and posted, “For the most part, I want to be a dragonfly.”

A few days after Chris died, we were invited to a memorial show at Mod a-go-go, a downtown art gallery where Chris displayed his work.  I sent the gallery owners a message indicating that we would be there and hoped to take home some of his work.  They said they would set some pieces aside for me to choose from, including something from Chris’ latest collection, stage scenes.  Since we were in the process of finishing our theater, I told them I would definitely want one of those.  When we arrived at the show, a lovely, well-attended event at a delightful, eclectic gallery nouveau, and made our selections from the display – a beach scene, a stage set, and a crammed subway car.  I was disheartened to learn that they had all sold but, when I let the owner know who I was he said, “Oh!  We have some downstairs for you!”  Of course, they were two beach scenes, a stage set, and a crammed subway car – exactly what we’d picked from upstairs.  We bought them all.  What we didn’t know, but was explained to us, is that Chris himself appeared in both of the beach scenes, walking away from the camera.  Not only did we get pictures from his collection, we got pictures of him.

The funeral was the next day.  I wore a dragonfly pin that I got for Christmas for the first time.  It was highlighted nicely on my plain black dress.  There were dragonflies flying around everywhere, which was weird, because we were nowhere near water. 

I attributed them to Chris.  He knew.  He was aware of our love, aware of our gathering, and giving his approval. He was healthy, happy, and in the arms of those who had gone before him.  He will be there to greet us.

Within a few days I had found the perfect hanging spots and purchased the perfect frames for the artwork we bought.  I set about putting all of the prints into the frames and noticed in the stage scene – the one I was adamant about getting – two dragonflies.

The week before I got The Call (that’s another post), I was in a complete panic about my brother’s well-being, and could not take my hands off my dragonfly charm on the bracelet that Sarah gave me. During his memorial, I wore the same pin.  The next morning, we attended his daughter’s soccer game, and were joined by two very active and very close-flying dragonflies.  After returning to the home of Greg’s in-laws, I saw a metal dragonfly attached to their porch swing. 

He knew.  He was aware of our love, aware of our gathering, and giving his approval. He was healthy, happy, and in the arms of those who had gone before him.  He will be there to greet us.

Here’s to my dragonflies.

The Call

I'd been waiting for the call.  Not waiting, really.  More like expecting.  Anticipating.  Dreading. After years of wonder, worry, effort, calls, emails, requests, research, desperation, I got the call.

My brother was dead.

What?

My brother, Greg, was a HUGE part of my life for 39 years - in the spotlight, playing a main character in my life's play. For the other six, he was the most important bit part in the wings of my stage.  

As kids, we did all the obligatory brother-sister things.  We wrestled. We laughed.  We lay on his bed and listened to Styx and Boston.  We walked to the school bus holding hands.  

As teens, we drove around in his hot rods with the windows down and the music loud. We went to parties.  We went on double dates.  We lay on his bed and listened to Styx and Duran Duran and the Fixx.  We shared confidences.  We told lies and made excuses for each other.  

As adults, we raised our families together.  We had a successful business together.  We made friends together, hosted parties together, won campaigns together, camped and traveled together, and raised money for our kids’ elementary school together. 

Yeah, we probably fought growing up, but I don't remember that.  I remember a fierce defender, a faultless hero, a motivator, a friend.

But my brother was plagued by demons.  He had many challenges I couldn’t see, and many that I could.  He made choices that I couldn’t condone.  He went down a path I couldn’t follow.  I lost what would be the last six years that I could have had with him, and that has broken my heart from the day I last saw him.

Those last six years have been mind-bending and heartbreaking.  With him on the East coast and me near the west, the distance between us was not only metaphorical, but physical.  We both changed.  We became different people than the ones who had wrestled and shared and camped.  I was bitter.  He was wounded.  I was confused.  He was tight-lipped.  I questioned what caused this, what could I have done differently.  Did his drinking cause his poor decisions, or did living with his choices cause him to drink?  Either way, it didn’t matter.  What was done, was done. 

I never stopped thinking about him.  At first, my thoughts all turned to disappointment, and anger, and loss.   Disappointment in him.  Anger at what he’d done.  What I’d lost, what I missed.  Tangible things.  Psychological things.  My dreams.  My plans.  My future.  I was missing.  (That’s another post.)  I didn’t want to know anything about him.  I didn’t want to hear if he was successful, or if he was not.  I didn’t want him to know anything about me.  I asked my mom to maintain a “don’t ask, don’t tell” approach, putting her in a terribly difficult spot of impossible neutrality between two parts of her heart. 

But, as the years passed, my thoughts of disappointment and anger and loss turned to feelings of longing and sorrow.  I missed him instead of the things.  When his health turned for the worse, mom broke her silence and told me that his struggle with alcohol had become a consumer of all he was.  He had lost multiple jobs.  He had been in and out of both medical and rehabilitation hospitals.  His wife had asked him to find his own place to live.  He’d been warned that one sip of alcohol could be fatal, based on the severe pancreatitis he had developed.  Suddenly my own recent history with Greg became nothing but a wisp of some past life and was suddenly of very little importance.  Greg’s health became my priority. 

Over the last two years, I took an active, albeit back-seat, role in researching intervention programs, pestering various family members for information.  I bet they got tired of my emails and texts asking, “What’s the latest on Greg?”  When I walked into my parents’ apartment in April, 2014, and heard my dad say, “Greg’s on the phone . . . Greg, do you want to talk to Sharon?”, my gut reacted as if it had just experienced its first MMA fight.  I curled into myself.  Sweat beaded on my forehead, my knees became weak, I felt faint.  I’d been so afraid to talk to Greg over the years.  I knew that he needed to heal and I was so worried that speaking to me, the seeming cause of his troubles, could send him off into a downward spiral.  I knew he needed to heal physically and mentally before he could come to terms with what had happened, and that he would reach out to me (make amends, so to speak), when he was ready.  I was not about to upset that process.  So, I said, “No,” and quickly left the apartment. 

A few weeks later, I got a call on my cell phone from an unknown Virginia number.  Since I didn’t know who it was, I let it go to voicemail, listening quickly after the message recorded.  There was nothing but dead air space, so I deleted it.

In June, after hearing that Greg was heading into yet another rehabilitation program, I had doubtful hope that this time would be different.  After all, it was voluntary.  It was out of state.  It was inpatient.  He would spend the month of July in Nevada.  Mom gave me his phone number and address so that I could reach out after he came home at the end of July.

A few days after his return home, Greg’s wife shared with mom that Greg had showed up at her house drunk.  He hadn’t even made it five days.  Everyone tried to reach out to him – except me.  My fears of exacerbating the situation caused me to maintaining my active role from the shadows.  Until August 6.  After no one had been in contact with him for at least five days, I called the Bladensburg Police Department and asked them to do a welfare check.  They called me after their visit and explained that he was home and promised he would contact family soon.  And, he did.  He left an angry voice mail on my mom’s machine with his surprise and disappointment that, after all these years without contact, this is the first thing I would do.  She responded that, if he chose not to answer or return our calls, texts, or emails, what choice were we left with.  I believe that was, sadly, the last time my mom heard his voice.

Dave and I were planning to go away for our anniversary and discussed taking a trip to Virginia instead, throwing caution to the wind, and showing up at his door.  Those old fears crept in, though, and we chose not to go, heading instead to Jackson Hole, one of our favorite places, and one we frequently traveled to with Greg and his family.  Before we left, I mailed Greg a card, telling him that I loved him, that I was looking forward to the day that we could reconnect and talk again.

When we returned, I cleaned out my phone’s old data.  When I looked at deleted voice messages, I saw one from Greg Foster.  It was dated April 22.  I realized that, when I’d entered his contact information, the phone had linked it to that unknown Virginia number.  Remembering that there had just been dead air, I decided to listen again to be sure.  There was his voice.

“Hey, Sharon.  It’s Greg.  Umm . . it is about 9:30 my time here on the East coast.  Umm, I just wanted to let you know that I love you.  And I’m thinkin’ about you daily.  Umm, I would love to reconnect, so when you are comfortable and ready, umm, please give me a holler.  Again, my little sister, I love you. And, umm, I’m doing well from the health-side right now, umm, and just trying to reconnect.  Umm, so again, hope your evening’s going well, and I’ll be up another couple hours if you feel like calling back tonight or whenever you’re comfortable. Bye.”

After taking a day to let that soak in and listening to the message a hundred plus more times, I called him back on Monday, August 25.  It went straight to voice mail.  I told him about the mix up with the voice mail, and how sorry I was that I didn’t receive it sooner so that I could have called him back.  I let him know, again, that I loved him, and hoped that we could talk soon.  I immediately sent the same information in a text.

“Hi Greg.  It’s Sharon.  I just left you a voice mail, too.  Your message from a few months ago must not have come through right away because I just found it yesterday when I was cleaning out my old messages.  I would love to reconnect.  Thank you for calling me.  It meant the world to me. I’ve missed you so much.  Please call when you have a chance.  I love you.  I hope you got the card I sent a couple of weeks ago.”

The next night, I sent him another text.

            “Hi.  Me again.  Just seeing if it’s a good time to visit. :)”

Wednesday, I sent my standard “What’s the latest on Greg?” message to the family.  It was August 27, and he hadn’t returned anyone’s messages in several weeks, including his wife’s and kids’.  He had missed his daughter’s and oldest son’s birthdays.  He had missed his 25^th wedding anniversary.  His wife’s only means of tracking him was by his debit card purchases which, she admitted, included liquor store purchases.  She was considering driving to his place that weekend to check on him.  She had asked her oldest son to stop trying to help.

Everyone had reached their own respective tolerance levels at different points.  Gary was exhausted, physically, mentally and financially tapped, and had nothing left to give.  Elizabeth had tried over and over again and, after seeking help from a past addict, was admitting there was nothing left that she could try.  Mom and dad were at a total loss and seemed paralyzed by their fear and lack of knowledge and understanding.  Kim couldn’t let her children go through any more emotional turmoil.

I’d had enough.  Screw downward spirals.  Screw privacy and history.  I was either calling the police again or flying out there.  I spent the afternoon and evening looking at flight options.  After a summer full of vacations, I had neither the time off or the money available, but I was so far beyond caring.  We were at critical mass.  I was panicked, and truly believed that if someone did not make contact soon, we would be getting a call that he was gone.

The next morning, I continued my search for flights, contacted an interventionist in Virginia, and sat distractedly through my standard Thursday morning meeting.

Mom called at 11:48 a.m.  Since my meeting was just about to end, I let it go to voice mail.  A minute later, one of my coworkers came in and whispered, “Your mom just called.  It’s an emergency and she needs you to call her right away.”  And that was it.

“Mama.  What’s wrong?”

“Honey, I just got a call from Kim.”

“Mama.  No.”

“Yes, honey.  The police were called to his apartment and they found him inside.  They say he’d been gone for several days.  I don’t have any more details.”

“Oh, mama.  No.”

The next few hours are nonexistent.  Somehow, I managed to drive to Brian’s school and pick him up, drive home and get Sarah, get to mom and dad’s while the kids were at the emergency room (that’s another post).  We stopped keeping track of time.  The next two weeks have seemed like one very long day.  Many things were made.  Calls.  Reconnections.  Plans.  Travel arrangements.  Professions of love.  Admissions of misplaced guilt. A memorial invitation.

Information came in shifts.  The Tuesday after we learned of Greg’s death we found out that it was ruled a massive heart attack.  That was a blessing because we knew he hadn’t suffered alone following some other medical emergency.  He had advanced liver disease and severe damage to his pancreas.  His blood pressure was extremely high because he hadn’t been taking his medications regularly.  His cat was with him, presumably hungry, and we’re guessing made a lot of noise to try and call attention to the fact that it was well past dinner time.  Someone had called the police.  He had been found inside, having fallen in such a way as to confirm his death had been instantaneous.  Estimates place his death at five to seven days prior to his being found.

That means he was gone when I called.  His phone went to voice mail because the battery had run out.  My panic was likely due to me instinctively knowing he had to be found – I just hadn’t articulated that he was already gone.

The day after we found out Greg died, our friends took us to a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert that we’d had tickets to for months.  Many members of their band have been lost over the years, and their encore performance was Freebird in honor of those lost.  The visuals included beautiful photography of doves in flight.  I felt a sudden and overwhelming sense of loss for my brother, and was completely overcome by emotion.  His younger son just got a tattoo of a dove with a halo.  I will forever remember my brother as a beautiful dove, now flying free.

I’ve spent the last two weeks gathering, scanning, cropping and editing photos of Greg throughout his life, and collecting song suggestions from family to compile into a video memorial.  The simple task of it has been cathartic, mundane, technical.  The idea of it is numbing.  I'm memorializing Greg's 50 years into what will seem a few short minutes.  We leave Thursday to attend Greg’s memorial where we will play the video.  I cannot imagine saying goodbye.  I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him in 2008.  I’m not ready now.  I’m so grateful that I believe this physical life is just one stop on our journey, and that we will meet our loved ones again once our time here is done.  I cannot wait for another Greg-Hug.

Hug the people God gave you.  Because, one day he will want them back.

In loving memory

Gregory Carl Foster

1963-2014