The Intuition Diaries, Episode 2: “It's Time To Go.”
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Wednesday, November 22nd, 1995
It was the day before Thanksgiving, I was a junior in college, and I had been very excited about leaving campus for a few days. One by one, my classmates packed their bags and disappeared. I planned to catch a ride with my friend Keith on Thanksgiving morning- he would drop me off in Milwaukee to celebrate with my mother and other family friends. My father had gone up north to go "Deer Hunting," which was a joke between us as my father never hunted but instead preferred sitting around our cabin's pot-bellied wood stove curled up with a good book and a big bowl of chili. Dad was going to be up north for two whole weeks, and he was thrilled about it. We all had a plan for Thanksgiving Day, and we were good to go.
Around 2 pm, suddenly, I started feeling "off." My muscles began to ache, and then I started having chills. By 4 pm, I started coughing and losing my voice. It was the flu, and it hit me like a bullet train. I called my family, wanting to give a heads up about the quick change in my health. Concerns were raised about making other people sick at the family gathering, and I was disinvited from the Thanksgiving festivities.
That's when it hit me. I was going to be one of the only people on campus until classes resumed the following Monday. There would be no meal service. I had no car. I had no money. I had no medicine. Worst of all, I had no food. Suddenly I found myself alone, sick and stranded, and I needed to ride out the flu by myself for the next four days.
Feeling sorry for me, Keith gathered what food he could find the following morning and dropped it off at my room. It was enough to sustain me for the day. Then he too had to hit the road, and I was on my own.
My fever was bad. I was weak and struggled to make it back and forth to the communal bathroom. And by that evening, I had eaten the last small remnants of food Keith brought me.
The next day, my fever intensified. Then my blood sugar started to drop. Panic set in. I scrounged together what coins I could find and bought chips and cookies from the downstairs vending machine. It was a massive feat of strength that flattened me.
The following morning I was having bouts of delirium, and I had to crawl on all fours to avoid passing out. I was quite literally brought to my knees, and I was terrified.
I was on the verge of calling a local hospital when my phone unexpectedly rang. With what remained of my speaking voice, I squeaked out, "Hello?"
A familiar voice cheerfully answered, "Hi, honey! I'm back."
It was my father! I started sobbing in relief and crying, "Oh, Dad! Thank God you're home! I'm so sick, I haven't eaten in two days, and I've been so scared!"
He swiftly replied, "So THAT'S why I had to come home! I'll be right there!" In less than 30 minutes, he was knocking on my dorm room door with a thermos full of chicken soup, a jug of orange juice, and medicine. He threw his arms around me, gave me the warmest and most comforting hug, and said, "Oh, my little girl! Everything's okay- I'm here now."
After my health stabilized, Dad told me that on the morning of his third day in his Northwoods cabin paradise, he had just settled in with his book after eating his breakfast when he said he felt a sort of energetic hit to the forehead. At the same time, he simultaneously heard a clear and distinct voice in his head say, "Time to pack up and go home." Dad sat up and attention, stunned. He tried to shake it off as some weird random anomaly, and he returned to his book. Again, he felt the "slam" to his forehead, and the voice returned: "Okay, pack up. It's time to go."
As previously stated, he'd planned to be gone for two weeks in his little tiny log cabin paradise. Now he found himself feeling he was being energetically shoved out the door. Both the feeling and the voice wouldn't let up. Over and over, it said, "Let's go. Pack your things." Finally, after half a day of this nagging, pushy feeling, in his typical fashion, he exclaimed aloud, "Fine, dammit! I'm going. I'm going!"
When he got home, the first thing he did was call me to see how my weekend was going. As soon as he heard how sick I was, it all clicked, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt why he needed to come home. His little girl was in trouble. He picked up my "Bat-Signal."
He saved me that day.
Throughout our years together, my father consistently and repeatedly urged me to always listen to my intuition. That day, I was fortunate to have a father who knew how to follow his own advice. We didn't have cell phones. The cabin didn't have a landline. (Not to mention I was also out of long-distance minutes.) He was totally off the grid. Yet, he was connected in the most potent, transcendent, and significant way possible. And it saved me.
Thanks again, Dad.
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