The Power of Love: A Mother’S Miraculous Journey from Grief to Medium, Channel, and Teacher

By Heather Scavetta

Theres an old folk tale about a young mother who lost her child and is inconsolable. The wise man of the village tells her to go from house to house to
find what everyone sharesand what everyone sharesis loss. Its the universal experience.


Although we all will grieve the loss of our loved ones, we can learn how to reconnect with them. Through prayer and meditation, we can shift our awareness
from the physical to the non-physical. We can witness firsthand that death is but an illusion. We can heal. We can find joy again. Author Heather Scavetta
discovered that reality when she began developing her clairvoyant abilities after the death of her daughter, Elizabeth, in 2004.


In The Power of Love, Scavetta shares her personal journey of receiving visions and afterlife communication from her daughter, loved ones, and spirit
guides who encourage her to persevere through her grief. Having no previous ability, Scavetta shows that opening up spiritual gifts is accessible to
everyone. Through personal examples, she shares how to open your own psychic and mediumistic abilities, and she discusses the many ways spirit can reach
us.


A story of celebration about the amazing and wonderful experiences that occurred since Elizabeths transition, The Power of Love narrates one familys
story of how they opened their spiritual gifts to see, hear, and feeland to know beyond any doubttheir daughter never left their side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491735664

Heather Scavetta

Heather Scavetta, RN Non-Practising, is a Reiki Master and founder of School of Miracles. She has been teaching meditation, psychic development, mediumship, and Reiki since 2006. She and her husband, Tony, have twin girls and live with their Canadian and Icelandic horses and German shepherd dogs in Caledon, Ontario, Canada. www.schoolofmiracles.ca.

Book preview

A Door Closes

When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.

—Alexander Graham Bell

I’m sitting in the front seat of the cruiser. It’s dark and cold. I have my cell phone in my hand. I’m trying to remember my friend’s number. She’s at a New Year’s party in the east end of the city. She could meet me at the hospital if only I could dial her phone number, but I keep pressing the wrong buttons and have to start again. Why can’t I get my fingers to work? Why can’t the cop go faster? Doesn’t he realize we’re racing against time?

I’ve had this nightmare for years now. It’s always an emergency, and each time I try to dial a phone number for help, I get it wrong and have to start again, never getting the number right. My thoughts are jumbled. My mind darts from one thought to another. I’m not the one dying, yet bits and pieces of my life are flashing before my eyes. There is a panic somewhere deep inside me. On the outside, I look normal, but underneath, I am on the verge of becoming completely unravelled. I feel alone and at the mercy of those around me. My body continues to function on its own, but any higher decision making is impossible.

New Year’s Eve. I had gone to bed as usual. I had fallen asleep as usual. And then an hour later, I woke up to the sound of the phone ringing. A voice on the telephone was telling me the girls had been in a car accident. My twin daughters, Elizabeth and Cassandra.

They hadn’t come home? I raced through the house. The lights still on. Beds empty. I looked at the clock: after one o’clock. They should have been home by now.

My husband, Tony, is with me as I speed off to where the girls would be driving from. The car strains to keep up. Tony tells me to slow down. A few minutes later, we are met by a police car blocking the road. I run out of the car. A policewoman walks toward me.

I yell, My girls are in there!

You can’t go any farther, she says.

How calm she sounds. I argue with her, but she won’t let us pass; she won’t give us any information. We turn around and head for the hospital, some 10 minutes away.

The hospital emergency room is empty.

Where is everybody?

It’s New Year’s Eve. My pessimistic side tells me that all the good doctors will be on holiday.

You can’t go in there, a nurse shouts at me, blocking my way as I try to go into the trauma area.

I’m a nurse, I say, but she won’t let me in. Everything is confusing. Everything is difficult. I’m the woman from the farm, running around in black rubber boots—dishevelled, distraught. I’m the crazy mother you see in the movies, the irrational one who everyone has to calm down.

The clock is ticking. The panic within me is escalating. I want to know how my girls are. No answers. A nurse keeps talking about an unidentified female.

I keep correcting her: She’s my daughter Cassandra. Elizabeth is behind the nurses’ station in the ER somewhere.

Why can’t they tell me what is going on? I’ve lost track of time. It feels as if I’ve been here forever. Finally, I’m told that Cassandra has been flown out to the trauma hospital; Elizabeth is still here. They are trying to stabilize her. There is time for me to see her.

I’m escorted in to see my daughter Elizabeth. She’s on a stretcher. Blood hung, tubes everywhere. She’s unconscious. Her face is swollen, but from pressure coming from the inside. I know it’s not good. I lean toward her, and I tell her, It’s going to be okay; you are going to be all right. I kiss her on the cheek. I want to stay with her longer, but I know she has to go—the ambulance is waiting.

I have to be strong.

Can I go with her? I ask as they take her to the waiting air ambulance.

Another request from the crazy mom.

Frozen to the spot, I’m seeing my daughter being wheeled away from me. I’m hearing the nurse reciting rules and regulations about people riding in the helicopter. I can’t follow her words; my frustration is building. I am deaf to this monologue. I am searching for the word, yes. All I hear is, no.

Moments later, I’m alone in stunned disbelief. I am feeling my insides start to shake. My legs are barely holding me up.

Elizabeth was sent to a hospital at the south end of downtown, and Cassandra was airlifted to the north end of the city. I can’t believe my twin girls have been split up. It is an impossible situation. How can I choose one daughter over another? Ever since they were babies, I have tried so hard to make everything even between them. If I kissed one, I would kiss the other. If I picked one up, the other one got picked up too. I would never favour one over the other.

So, Tony went to Elizabeth at the hospital at the south end of the city, and the police escorted me to Cassandra at the hospital in the north. I sat in the vehicle, unable to think. It was as if I had been slapped in the face and punched in the stomach for no reason—and then handed a math exam to complete. Nothing could compute.

Somehow, I got to the hospital. Cassandra was in a coma with a severe head injury, a 3 on the Glasgow coma scale of 10, but she was breathing on her own. I knew that Elizabeth had a severe head injury and multiple internal injuries. I waited outside the intensive care unit. My friend Vanessa was there along with a stranger who volunteered with trauma victims. The volunteer kept asking me what she could do for me. She meant well. I mumbled polite responses but found her annoying. I didn’t have the energy to converse with her.

She has no clue what I need.

My cell phone rang. Tony explained that Elizabeth was on her way for a CT scan of the head.

Good, she’s getting the care she needs.

Ten minutes later, my phone rang again. Tony spoke slowly into the phone, Elizabeth had a cardiac arrest on the way to the CT scan. She died. I’m coming to get you.

My brain moved in slow motion, struggling to compute the incomprehensible. I closed my phone, turned to the ladies present, and informed them that Elizabeth had died. Even though my world stood still, the world did not stop. I kept breathing. Someone guided me to the hospital entrance to meet Tony’s taxi. Alone, I would never have found my way. Tony and I sat in the backseat. I kept looking at the driver, expecting some chit-chat. He said nothing. We travelled to Elizabeth in silence.

We found her alone, laid on a stretcher, breathing tube and intravenous lines still intact. Lips blue, one fingernail without polish. She had a small cut on her upper left cheek, but other than that, she looked perfect. I bent down and whispered in her ear that I loved her and always would. No tears came, just a stunned silence. I watched Tony do the same.

How long do we stay here? And what about Cassandra?

We decided to head back up to Cassandra, as we didn’t know if she would die too. So, we turned and walked out, carrying a bag of Elizabeth’s cut-up and bloodstained clothes. My feet moved, but my mind was numb.

Cassandra remained in the ICU for a few days and eventually opened her eyes. She looked at us, cold, detached. I told her what had happened, but she had no reaction to what I was saying. We found out later that she lacked many emotions. I tried to see this as part of her head injury, but it hurt tremendously as I just wanted to reach out to her, to share our loss of Elizabeth.

I spent the next several days walking back and forth from the waiting room to Cassandra’s bedside. Nurses and friends helped me to sit, take phone calls and drink some tea. Our friends filled the waiting room, creating a cocoon of support for us. They didn’t ask us for anything or expect conversation. They took turns, taking up all the chairs in the waiting room. They never left our side, even though I had little to give. Without them, I would have sat and never moved. Tony was there too, but he was making funeral arrangements.

Some of my estranged family came forward when they heard the news. I was not in a position to question why they came. I had no extra energy to attempt to fix what was broken between us. I was struggling just to breathe. But I felt that they didn’t have the right to be a part of this experience. They didn’t know Elizabeth or love her. Only those who loved her when she was alive should have the privilege to take part in her death. You had to know who she was before. You had to know her essence. You had to know what was missing. You had to know how we were together, before you could imagine how it felt to be without her. Of course, they came for Cassandra too, but they didn’t know her either. They couldn’t compare how she was now with how she had been before.

Cassandra was making steady gains, improving each day, so the staff advised us to get some sleep. The hospital provided rooms for parents to sleep in, but they were at the far end of the hospital. Although I didn’t like the thought of being away from Cassandra, I thought it would be a good idea to have a shower and lie down for a while. It was my first time alone since the accident. As I went through my routine, I had a strong feeling that I had been through this experience before, that I had lost someone close to me in a previous life. I felt people were watching me, that I was setting an example. I had to get it right this time. I had to do more than just survive this experience.

Tony remained in the ICU. It was early evening, and it was dark outside. I lay awake on the bed, staring into the dark. My mind was darting here and there. Unable to close my eyes, I looked into the darkness, and there, in the corner of the room, I saw a large cluster of white lights hovering in the air.

What am I looking at?

The group of white sparkling dots started a couple of feet off the ground and ended just below the ceiling. Time seemed to stop as I stared at the apparition. Just this presence and I were in the room. It didn’t last long, and then I