Revelations From Spirit: Over-coming Grief

By Margaret Brand

Who hasn’t wondered if there is life after death? Margaret discovers there is, following the sudden unexplained death of her 22-year-old son Marcus, who died in his sleep.

Margaret couldn’t accept there was no medical explanation and went searching for an answer. Her quest ultimately leads her to spiritual contact Mediumship. Then, not only does she discover why her son died, but also received amazing revelations about his life in the spirit realms.

Revelations from Spirit: Over-coming Grief provides insight, solace, and hope to those affected by grief and sorrow that death invariably leaves behind. It is a heartfelt story of loss and discovery, revealing death is not the end, but a new beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035806911

Margaret Brand

Margaret was raised in the Exclusive Brethren, leaving the strict sect when she was twenty-three to marry her husband, Robert. They live in Hobart, Tasmania, with their French Bulldog, Oscar. She is a humanitarian, who has sponsored third world children through World Vision, and Watoto, an organization who helps women and children in Uganda and South Sudan. She has also contributed to numerous charities over the years. Margaret operated her own tourist accommodation business from their property at Acton Park, on the outskirts of Hobart for two decades before retiring. It didn’t take long before she took up volunteering at a private hospital, working in the Endoscopy department and the Cardiac Centre for almost five years. Her unfinished memoir was playing heavily on her mind, so she gave up volunteering to focus on completing Revelations from Spirt: Over -coming-Grief.

Book preview

About the Author

Margaret was raised in the Exclusive Brethren, leaving the strict sect when she was twenty-three to marry her husband, Robert. They live in Hobart, Tasmania, with their French Bulldog, Oscar.

She is a humanitarian, who has sponsored third world children through World Vision, and Watoto, an organization who helps women and children in Uganda and South Sudan. She has also contributed to numerous charities over the years.

Margaret operated her own tourist accommodation business from their property at Acton Park, on the outskirts of Hobart for two decades before retiring. It didn’t take long before she took up volunteering at a private hospital, working in the Endoscopy department and the Cardiac Centre for almost five years.

Her unfinished memoir was playing heavily on her mind, so she gave up volunteering to focus on completing Revelations from Spirt: Over-coming Grief.

Dedication

My beloved son Marcus

Copyright Information ©

Margaret Brand 2023

The right of Margaret Brand to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This book is a memoir. It reflects the authors recollections and experiences during a specific period, fully supported by recordings of all interactions with spiritualist mediums. While all the events recorded in this book are true, some names have been changed to protect the privacy of people involved. It is sold with the understanding that the author and publisher are not engaged to render any type of spiritual, psychological or any other kind of professional advice, or provide any recommendations in respect of spiritual contact through mediumship. Neither the author or the publisher shall be held liable or responsible to any person or entity with respect to any loss or incidental or consequential damages caused, or alleged to have been caused, directly or indirectly by the information contained herein.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035806904 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035806911 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Jill Robertson – editor (author, MacRobertson : The Chocolate King)

Meridith Anderson – copy editor (Reedsy)

Bethany Davis – proofreader (Reedsy)

Part I

Beginning the Grieving

Process

I Can’t Wake My Son

I steeled myself outside the cellar door. A decade had passed since I stowed a cardboard box in its recesses. All these years I’d been waiting—building the strength to deal with its contents. I slowly pushed open the old timber door, which groaned loudly under its own weight and stepped into the gloomy darkness with a lone shaft of light streaming through the iron bars onto the dirt floor.

When I reached the shelves, I gingerly lifted the tattered, dusty box from its gloomy home and carried it upstairs to the spare bedroom. Kneeling beside it on the floor in the middle of the room, I stared for a moment. I drew a deep breath, leaned forward, and blew the fine coat of dust off the lid. The unyielding packing tape sealing it was still shiny. I stripped it off. My throat tightened. I was about to open my personal Pandora’s box of grief, loss and pain.

Tears sprang into my eyes as memories and emotions engulfed me in waves. A stack of mismatched notebooks and exercise books waited to be rediscovered atop of The Compassionate Friends newsletters, now sepia-coloured and worn.

A cute Pierrot doll stared up at me with electric-blue eyes set in a white porcelain face from the cover of the notebook that sat on top of the pile. I opened the cover. It was my handwritten index listing the contents of the other notebooks and materials occupying this box of desperate, intimate sorrow.

Memories flooded back mercilessly and reawakened every detail of that horrific morning when I shakily dialled 000 and whispered, ‘I can’t wake my son.’

****

It was a still, overcast autumn morning when my eighteen-year-old daughter Sarah, burst into my bedroom.

‘Mum! I can’t wake Marcus. I can’t wake him! He’s going to be late for college,’ she urged.

I hastily threw back my covers and tumbled out of bed as I blinked sleep from my eyes. I grabbed my dressing gown from its hook behind the door and rushed across the landing to my twenty-two-year old son’s bedroom. He laid on his side facing the wall. His bare shoulder uncovered.

He did not turn when I touched his bare shoulder, so I grabbed it and shook him a little.

‘Marcus? Marcus!’

Fear spiked and spiralled through me. I tried again. No response.

A man’s intrusive voice blared from the clock radio on his bedside table and jarred my fraying nerves. The cheerful voice penetrated my crumbling senses as the announcer proclaimed the day’s events. My gaze locked onto my son’s face, I groped for the control buttons with trembling fingers.

Click! Silenced. But now blood pounded in my ears and my heart thumped relentlessly in my chest. He was far too pale. I leaned over Marcus and gently caressed the side of his face with my fingers. The coolness of his cheek sent my mind awhirl. I turned to Sarah. As I looked into her stricken eyes, an involuntary sob caught in my throat.

‘Is he…?’ the words caught in her throat.

‘I must phone emergency!’ I gasped. I ran to the telephone in my bedroom. A hot ball of terror gathering momentum in the pit of my stomach. I shakily dialled 000. With each ring, time and hope slipped away.

‘This is emergency. How can I help you?’

‘I can’t wake my son! I can’t wake him,’ I could barely speak.

The operator asked for my address and had me repeat it back to her twice.

‘Now listen to me,’ she directed. ‘You go back to your son and feel for a pulse on the side of his neck. When you have done that, come back to the phone. I will be waiting here for you.’

I rushed back to Marcus’s bedside and searched frantically for a pulse, moving my middle and index finger from one spot to another. I felt throbbing in my fingers and wildly hoped for a moment before I realised it was my own pulse, not his. I looked at Sarah in panic, then rushed back to the operator.

‘You must try to resuscitate him. Have you done CPR before?’ she said in a raised voice.

‘No,’ I said, my hysteria rising.

‘Get him off the bed. Tilt his head back, hold his nose between your fingers, and blow three sharp breaths down his throat. Then push on his chest with the flat palms of both your hands crossed over each other, five times.’

‘The ambulance is on its way,’ she assured me. ‘And I will still be here on the phone.’

Tears welled in my eyes as I pulled Marcus onto his back and pushed his bedcovers off from his chest. I recoiled—a deep red rash was spread across his chest.

‘What is that!’ I exclaimed.

I pushed past my horror with every ounce of willpower I could muster and began CPR. A dreadful hissing sound emanated from Marcus’s mouth after each compression. As I pushed down, it dawned on me my own breath was escaping from his lungs.

I didn’t know then the rash was his blood vessels breaking down. I didn’t know then he was beyond resuscitation.

The emergency operator was my only lifeline to the outside world as mine began to disintegrate. I ran back to my bedroom and snatched up the receiver.

‘Hello! Hello?’ I blurted.

Nothing.

‘Oh no!’ I yelled. I had been put on hold.

I called frantically, ‘I’m on hold. Stay on the phone until she returns!’

Sarah took the receiver from out of my hand.

‘Call for me as soon as she’s back!’

As I ran back into Marcus’s room, a deep sob escaped from my throat. I looked at his lifeless body lying on the bed.

‘Don’t do this to me, Marcus!’ I begged.

I was attempting chest compressions when Sarah shouted across the hall, ‘She’s back!’

The operator apologised and said she had to take another call. Now on the verge of a panic attack, I told her there was no response from Marcus.

‘Have you got him off the bed?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I plaintively responded.

‘You must get him off the bed and onto the floor and try again,’ she commanded. ‘The ambulance will be there soon. I am going to have to hang up now. I have another call on hold.’

She hung up. I was on my own and out of my depth. I staggered away from the phone. The lifeline I clung to was severed.

‘What did she say?’ Sarah asked.

‘We have to get him off the bed and onto the floor,’ I said, trying to sound hopeful. ‘I’ll take his arms and you take hold of his legs.’

I hesitated, taking a deep breath, then gently pulled the bed covers away from Marcus’s body. I was momentarily relieved to see he was wearing boxer shorts. Only then did I see more of the pervasive rash spreading over the top of his legs. My certainty that something was seriously wrong increased, but I couldn’t give up.

Our first attempt failed—his body was a dead weight.

‘We must try again!’ I stressed, with desperation clipping every word. ‘At the count of three, we will lift him up and over at the same time.’

On the third count, we heaved his heavy body up and over the edge of the bed. He landed on the floor with a thud, which resonated through me. By now, it was more than I could cope with, so I asked Sarah to run next door and get our neighbour, Anne. I dropped to my knees beside Marcus and began blowing air into his lungs, then counted to five as I pressed on his chest.

The longer I kept the compressions going, the louder the sounds emanating from his throat became. The breath of life I was trying to revive him with gurgled and rumbled back up his airways, escaping in an unearthly, guttural sound. I never paused to admit to myself he was dead. I persevered.

Sarah returned with Anne, who stood motionless in the doorway, staring wide-eyed in horror. Her pale face expressed a look of utter dismay as her eyes swept over me kneeling beside my son’s body.

‘Oh my God, Margaret!’ she exclaimed.

I said softly, ‘I think he has gone. It is my breath coming back out.’

Anne took a couple of strides across the room and dropped to her knees beside me. She said, ‘I will push on his chest, after you do the breathing.’

I didn’t hear the siren screeching in the distance. I was only aware of the grotesque sounds emanating from Marcus’s mouth after Anne did the compressions. Then there was a loud rap on the front door, echoing throughout the house.

‘I’ll let them in,’ Anne said, jumping quickly to her feet.

I heard muffled male voices in the entrance hall below, then hurried footsteps on the stairs. Finally, the paramedics were standing in the doorway, both looking at me. One of them stepped into the room and said, ‘Mrs Brand?’

‘Yes,’ I said wearily, slowly rising to my feet and hastily wrapping my gaping dressing gown across my bosom.

He said, ‘We can take over now.’

As I slowly stepped away from Marcus’s body, the second attendant unfurled a white sheet, covering him to his waist. The other attendant began sticking pieces of tape on his chest. That was the last picture I held in my mind as I walked from his room in a daze with Sarah and Anne.

I never heard the clunking sounds of the defibrillator pads being applied. They would have realised from the signs on Marcus’s body that he had been dead for some time.

Walking into my bedroom, my thoughts turned to Robert, my husband. I had tried to contact him earlier but without success, as he was travelling on the Spirit of Tasmania and, at that time of the morning, the ship would have been out of radio range, heading into Port Melbourne. I dialled his number and as his phone rang, my mind willed him to pick up. I took a deep breath, gripping the phone table for support. When he answered, my words tumbled out.

‘I think we have lost Marcus! The medics are with him now.’

I covered in detail what had transpired since I had been woken up by Sarah, then told him I would call him back after I had spoken with the medics. As I was explaining the situation, I heard drawers being opened and snapped shut again in Marcus’s room. ‘I think they are searching his bedroom!’

Robert quietly said, ‘They are probably looking for drugs. Ring me back as soon as you have spoken to them. I’ll try to get back on the next flight to Hobart.’

I stood stock-still, the phone dangling from my hand. My son lay dead in the room next door while I waited for the medics to confirm it. I opened my door. The medics stood outside with solemn expressions. They asked me about Marcus’s movements the night before, but I couldn’t think. My mind was in utter turmoil.

Downstairs, the phone was ringing. It sounded far away, as if it were ringing in someone else’s house. I discovered days later that it was our neighbours. They had heard the ambulance approaching in the distance, then saw it drive up our driveway. They had wanted to know if anyone was sick and if they could help. Sarah had taken the call and informed them that Marcus had died.

I didn’t give the caller another thought and walked back into my room to try Robert’s mobile again. Meanwhile the thought, ‘Marcus is dead,’ kept circulating in my mind. Robert said a helicopter had been organised to collect him from Port Melbourne and take him to the airport in time to catch the next flight to Hobart. The flight would arrive around eleven o’clock.

I phoned my brother Peter. His wife, Beverley, answered, and all I could say was, ‘It’s Margaret. Marcus died last night.’ I heard her quick intake of breath, and then she called out to my brother in a desperate voice. The seconds ticked away, and I could hear laboured breathing, then running footsteps getting closer to the phone. As Peter took the receiver from Beverley, I heard her whisper the news to him. He started to cry and told me he would come straight down, then asked if Robert was with me.

‘No,’ I said, ‘He is flying back from Melbourne.’

I then phoned my brother Garry, but he didn’t pick up. I concluded he was on his way to work, since it was that time of the morning. People would be heading off to work and children would be getting ready for school. To most, it was just another day. I also rang my eldest brother, Douglas, and explained to him what had happened.

He kept repeating, ‘I am so sorry dear, I am so sorry.’

I placed the receiver back in the cradle and started wandering around my bedroom in a daze, not knowing what to do. Marcus was dead; nothing would change that. My thoughts turned to Robert again, travelling by himself on a lonely one-hour flight across Bass Strait, knowing he would never see his son alive again.

Anne tapped gently on the door to tell me there was a policeman waiting downstairs in the dining room and that he wanted to have a word with me. I waited a couple of minutes, trying to quell my tears, then opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. I didn’t look towards Marcus’s room. I knew the door was closed.

I moved slowly down the stairs, making a conscious effort to place one foot after the other, gripping the balustrade for support. In a daze, I stood momentarily in the doorway of the dining room.

The young policeman was seated at the head of the table, with his back to the window. Turning to look at me, he asked if I was Mrs Brand. Nodding, I walked behind him to the far side of the table, stopping halfway along to stand in front of the fireplace, clutching the back of a dining chair with both hands.

‘Can I ask you a few questions?’ he said. I nodded, and he apologised for the intrusion, and mumbled something about it being one of the worst aspects of his job. I could not concentrate on the questions he was asking. My mind was in turmoil.

Anne came in and offered to make us a cup of tea; as we both declined, she returned to the