Signs from Deceased Loved Ones. They Can Hear Us

They Hear You, and They Still Communicate

I know I can’t touch you, feel you. But know I’m aware you’re here with me (AI Generated image by CHAT GPT)

There are days grief feels like a heavy coat you can’t take off. You wake up and the world is still moving, still normal, still loud-yet your heart is somewhere else entirely, reaching for someone who isn’t in this realm anymore.

And in that reaching, many of us start to wonder something quietly, almost afraid to say it out loud: Do they still hear us? Do they still see us? Are they still with us even when we can’t see them?

I can’t explain every mystery of what happens after someone we love dies. I only know what I’ve lived. And I know what my brother did for me after he left this earthly world.

My Brother Reagan

My brother Reagan-Reag-was one year younger than me. Growing up, we did everything together. Same friend circle, same inside jokes, the kind of closeness where you don’t have to explain yourself because they already know.

As adults, we worked together. For many years, Reagan even lived with my family. He was constantly laughing and joking about his observations of people-quick-witted, sharp, and somehow always able to bring light into a room.

He loved his family and his nieces and nephews so much, and they loved him right back. Kids gravitated toward him like he had a magnet in his spirit. He was fiercely loyal-to our family, to his friends. The kind of person who would give you the shirt off his back, his last penny, and then still find a way to spoil you if he could.

In summary, my brother was selfless and full of life.

The Day Everything Changed

Leading up to “the day,” he had increasing discomfort in his heart and his breathing. Finally, we brought him to the ER. And that’s when it was all too late.

That evening-that day-is forever etched into my brain as the absolute worst time of our life. The shock. The surprise. The true loss. The heaviness in my chest that felt like it would crush me from the inside.

I remember running to his room when we heard the “code”. I fell on my knees halfway there on the tile floor of the hospital halway. And that moment I prayed so hard. Please god, please god, everything take from me but him. Please goddd!!! Please don’t, don’t! OH MY GOD!! Not my brother!

I prayed so hard… typing this I feel like I’m back on that tile floor praying and fainting at the same time. Seeing, twenty feet away, my family screaming and yelling, was another dagger thrown in your heart… Then more than twenty nurses rushing in. It is a nightmare that still replays in my mind. That I’m sure replays in all of our minds who witnessed this horror that you only saw on tv…

Naturally, we were in disbelief. In shock. In pain. I relive it as I type this, and there are no words I could write that truly explain what it feels like when your world splits open in one moment, swallowing someone you love. You stare in disbelief.

The Pain After the Pain

The days and weeks after, we were lost. And there was another layer of pain that surprised me. Even though I believe Reagan is with God, I still worried about him. Not knowing. Not seeing him. Not understanding what was happening in his new state.

It’s a strange thing — grief is already unbearable, and then your heart stacks questions on top of it until you can hardly breathe.

Where are you? Are you okay? Can you hear me? Do you know how much I love you? Reag… Reag — please. Find me. Talk to me. Give me something. We’re “grown” now, at least that’s what the world sees. We show up, we function, we say the right things. But none of that changes the picture that keeps haunting me: you’re still my baby brother.

You’re the six-year-old I made cry and would do anything to take back. The eight-year-old who laughed like he was being tickled from the inside out. The eleven-year-old I raced in rollerblades, both of us flying, fearless, sure we had all the time in the world. My baby brother.

And that’s what breaks me — because I can’t follow you to wherever you went. I can’t see you. I can’t understand this new place you’re in. I’m left reaching into the dark with a love that has nowhere to land.

Where did you go?

The Night I Begged for a Sign A couple of weeks after Reagan passed, my cousin Joanne planned a trip to see us-specifically to see my dad, who was in the ICU at the Cancer Research Center. She asked me and another cousin to stay with her at her hotel.

That evening, we recanted my brother’s amazing life and our experiences with him. We talked. We remembered. We tried to breathe. I cherished being with family who grieved with me and supported us. And I gave a smile that I knew would brighten up their second, their minute because i knew that’s all they wanted to see was that we’re ok. We’re not terribly dead inside…But inside, I was hurting, we were dead. I was looking for my brother… every second.

It had only been a couple of weeks, and I needed to know if he was okay. When everyone retired to bed and the room went quiet, I cried silently. I prayed and begged God: Please let Reagan hear me. Please let him give me a sign. Just one.

My cousin had brought a noise machine-a white noise maker. And in the exact moment after I asked, it stopped. It was so instant that for a second I didn’t even connect it.

Then my phone started to flash and buzz. And I knew.

I knew in that moment my prayers were heard. I knew my brother was there. If you knew Reagan-his spirit, his humor, his energy-you would understand why it felt so him. I imagine heaven giving him a tiny window like, “Okay Reag, you’ve got three seconds-make some noise.” And he did.

I cried and told him I loved him so much. I felt like I hugged that little 6 year old boy with the bowl cut. I thanked him. I thanked God for allowing his presence to be shown and felt.

Then the white noise came back. And my heart panicked. It felt too short. I wanted to hold onto him a second longer. I whispered, “Oh no, Reag… did you leave already?!? Please please come back.” I pleaded again.

And as soon as my chest cracked like losing him again, my phone buzzed and flashed. For those seconds, my heart felt full. Not “fixed.” Not “over it.” Just… held. Like my brother was hugging me, loving me, telling me he was okay.

That night, I slept. I hadn’t really slept at all before that. The Inn, The Memory, The Peace

In the morning, I shared what happened with my cousins, and we all felt thankful. We took a walk around the Inn’s property, and I felt something I couldn’t explain-peace. An odd familiarity. Like the place itself was holding us gently.

Later that day, we met up with my mom. In conversation, she asked where we were staying. When we told her the Inn’s name, she paused.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s where me, your dad, and Reagan stayed while your dad was in cancer treatment.”

My cousin and I looked at each other, full of delight. Because what are the chances? I am certain my brother led my cousin there. To remind us-I’m here. I remember. I’m still with you.

They’re Not Gone-They’re Different

In conclusion, I choose to believe our loved ones pass, but they still communicate in ways that meet us where we are. For me, I often see it through electronic devices-songs that answer what I’m asking, messages that show up at the exact moment I’m breaking, little interruptions that feel too personal to be random.

Call it coincidence. But I believe it’s their spiritual response. They’re not gone. They’re still right here-just in a different form.

Reag and Dad, don’t cause too much trouble up there :) … Love you both so much! Thank you for everything you’ve given me and us. Until we’re together again…

Originally published at https://cherrylmacalino.com.

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