My Final Journey with My Mother: Cancer and the Search for Closure

Cancer and Being Aware

Cancer is a terrible disease, but if identified early, it can often be stopped. Interestingly, only 20% of cancer cases are genetic; the remaining 80% are environmental factors. Here are some signs to be aware of:

• Continuous Pain: If you experience pain that doesn’t feel right, get it checked for cancer. My mother had back pain, but it wasn’t her back—it was the cancer in her kidneys. She also had discomfort in her abdomen, which turned out not to be tummy pain but another sign of cancer.
• Lumps and Bumps: One of the first signs that cancer has entered the lymphatic system is swollen lymph nodes, often noticeable under the arms or on the neck.
• Loss of Appetite: If you're experiencing a loss of appetite, it could be more than just a passing illness; it might be an early sign of cancer rather than something like COVID-19.

Our bodies give signals, but we must learn to listen to them. Additionally, as part of your annual health check, consider a preventative cancer screening. For women, a CA-125 blood test can help identify any cancers below the waist.

I hope that the loss of my mother can help others recognise these warning signs and take action for their health.

"It is not our tears, but the words we share, that will bring us the most healing and closure"

A Turning Point

There is only one certainty in life—death. We spend most of our lives working, striving for success, and achieving our ambitions, all the while inching closer to the inevitable. I have been blessed—or perhaps cursed—with certain abilities that allow me to experience life differently. This heightened awareness has led me to seek understanding through science and mathematics, to make sense of what I know but cannot understand.

This pursuit took on new urgency when, on December 31, 2023, my mother was diagnosed with stage four cancer. Facing the inevitable became an overwhelming reality. I wanted to prepare my mother for the battle she fought so fiercely, yet one that was slipping beyond her grasp. In her struggle, I sought answers—not just for her, but for myself—about what comes next.

While I am aware of the potential for ridicule, I remain steadfast in my conviction about what I experienced and the insights I received. I believe that I was shown these visions to provide strength and comfort to individuals and families. In understanding that when one journey ends, another begins, we recognise the continuous cycle of existence. This awareness brings solace, reminding us that death is not merely an end, but a transition into something new.

Science-Informed Beliefs About Existence

In my search, I have come to recognise several scientific principles that shape not only the universe but also our existence within it.

Reincarnation of Matter: Our universe is composed of finite physical matter, continually recycling itself. Just as our solar system is the reincarnation of a larger sun, so too is life a cycle of transformation. The molecules that make up our bodies have existed since the beginning of time, finding new forms as they move through the universe. Perhaps this endless recycling of matter can be understood as a form of reincarnation—a scientific answer to what many believe is a spiritual phenomenon.

Frequencies Beyond Perception: The universe operates on frequencies, some of which we can sense and understand, while others remain hidden to us, just outside the range of human perception. This suggests that much of our reality is concealed in plain sight, simply because we are not attuned to these frequencies. Might death be a transition to a different frequency, one we cannot yet comprehend? If so, perhaps what lies beyond this physical plane is not an end, but simply a shift in how we exist within the universe.

The Multiverse and Dimensions Beyond Us: In recent times, with the advent of virtual reality and artificial intelligence, we’ve created entire worlds and realms that exist beyond our immediate perception. We enter these digital spaces, and for a time, they feel as real as our own physical world. If we can create new realities through technology, might not the universe itself be part of a greater collection of universes—a multiverse? Science today theorizes that our universe could be just one of many, existing in a vast network of parallel dimensions. Could it be that when we leave this physical plane, we’re not entering an unknown void, but merely stepping into another realm within this multiverse? Much like how we slip into virtual realities, death may be a passage into another dimension, an existence beyond what we currently understand.

The Last Days and the Last Hours

My mother began her chemotherapy and immunotherapy treatments in February 2024. At first, it seemed as though she was winning the battle. Her spirit was strong, and her body responded well. But in June, the second scan revealed the harsh truth—the cancer had spread. Faced with this new reality, Mom decided she could no longer endure the debilitating side effects of chemotherapy. In many ways, she chose to stop fighting in the traditional sense, yet she was not ready to give up. She resolved to combat the cancer with sheer willpower, relying on her inner strength.

About a week and a half before her death, we had an honest conversation, one of the hardest I’ve ever had. I told her that things didn’t look good, and gently, I reminded her not to be afraid. I shared everything I had learned through my tarot cards and psychic connections, hoping that it might give her comfort and strength for what was to come. In that moment, I wasn’t even sure if what I was saying was real or just fiction—I only knew that I wanted to offer her peace, to help her face the next stage without fear.

That’s all I wanted, really. To make sure my mother—the woman who had fought so many battles, who was always so brave—would feel no fear in her final moments. She took comfort in my words, and that was enough for me. Fearless as ever, she chose her path with grace and dignity. And that is how I will always remember her: strong, brave, and unyielding, even in the face of death.

On July 11, Aditya called to tell me that Mom had taken a turn for the worse. Her body was being ravaged by the cancer, and it didn’t look good. Deep down, I knew that if I went to India, she would likely die—she was waiting for me. I told Aditya not to blame me if Mom passed away as soon as I arrived.

I landed in Bangalore on July 13 and went directly to the hospital. By that time, we had decided to inform everyone that Mom had cancer; we had withheld that information, convinced she would recover.

When I entered her hospital room at 20:54, I was relieved that she recognized me. That night, I stayed alone with her. All she asked was, “What should I do?” I took a deep breath and told her, “Mama, it is time to go. Your body is rotting; you cannot use it anymore. Go and come back new.”

For four hours, I sat by her side, urging her to let go and end her suffering. I have never witnessed pain like that—the way cancer contorts the human body is truly unimaginable. It was a heart-wrenching reminder of the fragility of life and the struggle between holding on and letting go.

Despite my reassurances, she wasn’t convinced. In a moment of vulnerability, I urged her to ask my deceased grandmother for guidance. Mom looked at me and said something that sent chills down my spine. She claimed she had asked Grandma if she should stay or go, and that Grandma was standing right there—but she wasn’t answering.

In that moment, I felt three unseen presences in the room. One, I knew without a doubt, was my grandmother. The other two, however, remained a mystery to me. Their energy was palpable, creating a surreal atmosphere as we navigated this threshold between life and whatever lay beyond.

Mom’s last words were about her paperwork. She had always been a stickler for everything being right and proper. I assured her that it was all taken care of and that all her books were closed. With a sense of relief, she replied, “Good, I know what to do now.” She said this at 4:30 in the morning. After that, I closed my eyes, hoping to find some rest.

When I woke up two hours later, I was met with the heartbreaking sight of her in terrible pain. It was July 14, and by the afternoon, she was still alive, but her mind had shut down; she stopped responding to us. There was another sign , for the first time a beautiful green parrot came to the hospital window and peeped in , this had never happened before.

At 2:20 AM on July 15, she took her last breath. We were all there with her. Aditya and I lost our mother that day, just a few months short of her 75th birthday and a year away from her 50th wedding anniversary. In that moment, we lost our universe.

The Last Leg and the Journey to the Beyond

We brought her home at 4:30 AM, and as we entered, we were struck by a carpet of Parigata flowers covering the ground. My mother’s favorite tree had blossomed more abundantly than ever before; it was the first time it had shed so many flowers. This sapling, gifted to her by her beloved aunt, seemed to signify a warm welcome from my grand-aunt as Mom transitioned to the next stage of her journey.

As the sun rose, the ceremonies began. According to Hindu tradition, my mother was cremated. I made the choice to accompany her, standing witness as her body was placed into the massive incinerator. In that moment, I felt an overwhelming wave of emotions not mine but hers, it was confusion and anger, but strangely, not fear. I was engulfed in a tumult of feelings as I began to perceive the world from my mother’s perspective.

I felt an undeniable connection to my mother, and the next day, when we went to collect her ashes, I sensed the presence of the afterlife—a profound journey awaiting her. On the second day, as part of our rituals, we prayed for her spirit, seeking to calm her and clear our sins for separating her soul from its physical form. Aditya and I chose to go alone; we wanted that last intimate moment with Mom.

While Aditya performed the ceremony, I closed my eyes, and that’s when I saw it all. I found myself in a dark room, the blackest black I could imagine, where I couldn’t see anything. Yet, I felt a presence in that space—was it my mother? From a corner, a golden flicker appeared, growing brighter and more beautiful. For a moment, I thought it was my mother’s aura, radiant and vibrant.

But then, in an instant, that golden veil was pulled away, revealing my mother’s frail body, decaying from the ravages of cancer. I jolted back in fear. Is this what my mother had turned into ? Is this what life after death entailed?

Gathering my courage, I ventured back into that space. This time, my mother appeared as a ball of energy, having shed her physical form. In a surprising and joyful manner, I could almost hear her saying, “Look at me! Look what I can do!” She zigzagged through the still dark room, her golden aura illuminating the space with a warm, ethereal light.

She was free from pain.

I don’t recall how long I remained in that realm, but eventually, a dull tunnel emerged, breaking through the darkness of the room. My mother indicated that it was calling her. I felt a surge of longing to accompany her, to protect her on this journey and to finally see the tunnel I had heard so much about, she agreed.

As I walked through the tunnel, the colors began to warm, illuminated by what felt like white neon lights. An overwhelming sense of calm enveloped me, akin to being wrapped in a blanket of love. It’s difficult to articulate, but the atmosphere was filled with a profound warmth and connection.

As we moved forward, I couldn’t tell if we were walking or being guided, but the clinical appearance of the tunnel was soon softened by beautiful green branches that penetrated the walls, and lovely flowers of all colors began to bloom along our path. One flower, a striking hibiscus, stood out to me—its size and beauty captivated my attention.

The tunnel began to open up, revealing a vibrant forest ahead, punctuated by three majestic pyramids. Just then, I heard my mother’s voice. Though she no longer had a physical form, I could hear and sense her presence clearly. She gently informed me that I couldn’t go any further—that this part of the journey was hers to undertake alone.

I understood. I felt a part of my soul yearning to remain in that beautiful space, yet I knew I had to respect her journey. With a bittersweet realization, I felt my spirit begin to detach from my physical body, and I knew it was time for me to go back.

In an instant, I felt myself falling back into the physical plane, the distance between my mother and me was greater than it had ever been. But I recognized that this was her journey now, and I had to let go. I had to.

Further Contact: What Happens on the Other Side

I have maintained contact with my mother to check on her well-being and what unfolds in her new existence. Unlike my journey through the tunnel, where I could perceive my surroundings, I find it challenging to visualise her world. Instead, glimpses come in flickers, as my consciousness struggles to align with the frequencies of her new realm.

During one of our connections, she revealed that her life was undergoing review. Two entities were present—one documenting her experiences from this life and the other writing the script for her next incarnation. This life review encompassed all the opportunities she had been given: the choices she embraced and those she let slip away. She was inundated with a wealth of information and recalibrating herself to grasp the frequencies of her new reality. While she could see much, she struggled to hear many of the entities surrounding her. The more she adjusted, the more she could engage with that world.

In another communication, she excitedly shared that she had witnessed wonders I could only dream of—galaxies, planets, and entire universes, including Earth. She described sitting atop all these realms, being taken to various worlds to plan her next journey.

Within ten days of her passing, her judgment was complete, and she had achieved more than she was meant to. Everyone was immensely proud of her accomplishments. Yet, true to her nature, she requested that I stop disturbing her, as she was busy studying—ever the dedicated student, eager to excel.

When I inquired whether we would meet again, she affirmed that we would, though she expressed uncertainty about returning to my physical plane. Having accomplished everything she could here, she wished to explore other realms. A part of me longed for her return, but I understood she had her own journey to fulfill, lessons to complete, and experiences to gather.

She conveyed her joy in her current state, describing a reality free from the constraints of time and space. She could be anywhere at any moment. Each entity in her new world maintained a kind of library—a repository for the experiences and memories from their past incarnations. She told me she was holding onto the memories she cherished from our shared life.

The weeks following her death were bittersweet. Shortly after, two of our beloved dogs (Julie and Little Lemon) also passed away. I asked her if she had met them, and received an intriguing download. She explained that the afterlife is divided based on intellectual evolution; while she could see our dogs , interacting with them was more challenging. However, she had connected with her human family—those who had been around her during her earthly life.

She also mentioned that while she would always be there for me, it would become increasingly difficult for her to reach out. There were rules in place, and she would need permission to connect with me. This realisation struck me with a mix of emotions—comfort in knowing she was still present, yet sadness at the thought of her growing distance.

Embracing the Journey

The emptiness and loneliness I feel know no bounds. I wish she were still here in this physical realm, yet I have come to understand that there are journeys we must undertake alone. Our souls, our very essence, forever seek experiences and knowledge, pushing us to grow and evolve even in the face of loss.

As time goes by, I find myself forgetting much of what I saw and felt, and that is why I needed to put these thoughts into words.