Crossing over with John Edwards and a bad cold

I have the worst cold on the planet. And I look awful.

I know that I look awful because my daughter keeps feeling my forehead.

I can’t seem to get warm, so I have my flannel robe on under my down quilt. The only thing I can do is to take cold elixir and put myself into a self-induced coma.

It’s about 3:00 p.m. and my television is on Channel 9. I can’t find the remote, so whatever channel is on is the one I’m watching.

Oh, look. It’s “Crossing Over” with John Edwards. He is a spiritual medium who has the ability to communicate with our loved ones on the other side. The way it works is that he is pulled across his audience by some unseen energy toward the person deserving of a message. The miracle elixir is kicking in and I am focusing on his handsome face. He is a lot nicer looking than Jerry Springer.

The first woman he is drawn to is crying and he mentions something about adultery. I’m certain that she didn’t want to share that on national television. Ah, the cold medication is starting to kick in and I’m getting sleepy, sleepy, so… so…. sleepy. I just have to close my eyes for a moment.

“I’m being pulled over there to the woman with the big hair,” I hear and I open my eyes. In an instant I have been placed in the middle of John’s audience.

Soothing mystical music surrounds me while I await my moment in the spotlight. I glance down at the tissue box in my hand and hope that I am dressed to the nines. Nope, I’m still in my gray robe and am on stage still wrapped in my quilt.

“I feel the energy pulling me towards you,” he says.

I can only hope; oh wait. I think he means a spirit energy. “It’s a very strong energy coming from a spirit who is above you.”

I pull my robe tighter, glancing up into the rafters above me for some sign. Which dead relative will come to me? What kind of message will I receive?

I am sure that, given my Greek heritage, it will be someone from my ancient past, someone like Hippocrates the father of medicine, who will pass me the cure for cancer. Maybe it will be Aristotle about to offer some wonderful philosophical words or an idea for a play. No, wait, how about Aphrodite? I fluff up my hair at the thought. That’s who it will be. She is looking down from the heavens and sees me lying in bed in my gray robe and red nose. She is about to have mercy on me and reveal to me on national television the secret of eternal youth.

I pause in eager anticipation. It’s coming from a female energy, John explains. Oh god, it is Aphrodite; I am so excited that I sneeze. “She is showing me a cup of tea leaves. She is shaking her head and showing me numbers.”

“Wait I’m getting an image of her,” says John. “She is dressed all in black and is telling me that there were four, no 44 times that you did not wear a slip when you went out and that she doesn’t like the gray robe.”

The audience is stunned, as a loud gasp echoes through the set. I pull in my robe even closer, now very much aware of how badly I’m dressed.

“The energy is pulling away,” says John, “moving back into the mist.”

I’m stunned at the message. Only in my family would my dead grandmother go to such extremes, crossing the dimensions of time and space to let me know that I have committed some 44 fashion faux pas. I sneeze again and I am awakened from my sleep by my daughter’s voice.

“Mom, are you okay? I could hear you talking to yourself from my room.”

Was it a dream, I wonder to my self, something brought out by the medication and fever? I look at the bottom of my bed and there is a nice black slip resting on the corner. Or was it something else?