The author’s father with her two daughters

Since an early age, I have been an intuitive empath or someone who senses and understands the emotions, thoughts, and energies of other people. Because of this, I am often able to detect forthcoming events that others cannot explain. I believe some people are more inclined to be empaths than others. I don’t believe it’s a learned behavior; however, I do believe that 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 at an early age to get a sense of the energy of a situation and act accordingly. As an only child of European immigrants who were often franticly making sure we could make ends meet, I am one of those individuals. While they did not call it such, there’s little doubt that both my parents and grandparents had arranged marriages. Sometimes these types of relationships evolve into loving ones; however, in other situations, the couples might turn against and/or resent one another. I believe the latter is what happened to my parents and grandparents. There was no great love between partners in each of those relationships.

Growing up, we all lived in my grandparents’ suburban New York home. While I was never deprived of love, I definitely witnessed the lack of it between the couples during my childhood. Sometimes I could sense feelings of resentment and anger; the adults in my home often spoke ill of one another. I remember descending the creaky wooden stairs from my bedroom to the kitchen on numerous occasions to find doors slamming and voices elevated—although it was not always easy to hear what was being said.

My parents and other close relations often told me that I was a master listener which has served me well throughout my lifespan. To be an intuitive empath one really has to pay attention. I’ve had many mysterious, mystical experiences tied to my empathetic and intuitive self. A stand-out example happened before my father’s passing in 1991 at the age of 70, the age that I am now. Months before he died, I sensed that he would soon be moving onto another realm.

At the time, I was living in Florida with my husband and three young children. My grandparents had already passed away and my parents had moved to a new home also in the suburbs of New York. We visited a few times a year, often spontaneously, but once 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 wasn’t doing well.

“His doctor admitted him to the hospital because he was having difficulty breathing. He was diagnosed with congestive heart failure and was on oxygen.” I told her that somewhat coincidentally, I’d planned a surprise visit for the following day.

I switched our flight to the same day. Upon arrival, we drove straight from the airport to the hospital. As we entered, my father was sitting up in bed having a coughing fit. His face was all red, as he had just spit up a big glob of yellow sputum into a tissue he was holding in his hand. The episode exhausted him, and his head suddenly flopped back 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 heard you weren’t doing well.” I replied.

“I’m not. 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, finding it difficult to catch enough air to utter those few words. “I’m having so much trouble breathing. Look at me with this tube in my nose,” he said while pushing the prongs deeper inside.

Suddenly, his tone changed. While 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. As we entered it, he glanced to the right to the mirror hanging 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, told him I loved him, and helped him to the toilet.

“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. We slowly made it back to his bed where I tucked him in, rubbed his head and kissed his hand, and said, “I love you, Dad.”

Together, the rest of us walked outside to the hall so that he could rest. Within moments I heard an announcement on the hospital intercom: “Code in room 949.” That was my father’s room! I couldn’t believe it; his heart stopped just moments after we left the room. I knew that happened often; sometimes people don’t want to die with their loved ones in the room, so they wait until everyone steps out.

I believe that we have a choice to be born and a choice to die. I knew that my father waited to see us before making his decision to die. I’d read about this and could not believe it was now happening in my own family. Before long, there were teams of medical personnel surrounding his bed. They would not let us re-enter.

Finally, 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 knew he had a do-not-resuscitate (DNR) order on a sign outside of his room. I stood frozen in the hallway as tears poured down my cheeks. My husband pulled me to his chest.

My father was way 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 was, for me, a blessing that remains near to my heart.

Being an intuitive empath can serve us well during our lives because it enables us to be heart-centered, thoughtful, and kind, making it easier to form close personal connections. However, we have to be careful and protective of our sensitivity by putting a shield of white or pink light around us as protection from negative or harmful energies that could be detrimental to our body, mind, and spirit.