Any acknowledgment of the existence of the Second Body immediately demands the question mankind has pondered since the day he learned to think: Do we live on? Is there life beyond the grave? Our religions say believe, have faith. This is not quite enough for the syllogistic
thinker who seeks valid premises that are clear-cut, leading to an inescapable conclusion.
All I can do is be as reportorial and objective as one can be in a basically subjective experience. Perhaps my premises will be valid to you as you read them.
I first met Dr. Richard Gordon in 1942, in New York. He was an M.D., a specialist in internal medicine. We became friends, and he became our family doctor. He had a very successful practice, built up over the years, and possessed a rare cynical-sarcastic sense of humor. He was a down-to-earth realist with the wisdom of experience. He was in his fifties when we first met, so I never knew him as a young man. He was short and thin, with straight white hair, tending to baldness.
Dr. Gordon had two conspicuous mannerisms. He had decided to live a long time, evidently, and so paced himself very carefully. He walked
deliberately in a slow, careful stride.
He hurried only when absolutely necessary. More correctly, he strolled when he walked, with studied casualness.
Second, when someone visited him in his office, he would glance out from the inner doorway and stare intently. He didn't say "hello" or nod or wave. He simply stared as if he were saying, "Now what in hell's the matter with him!"
Without ever having spoken of it, Dr. Gordon and I had a very warm and close rapport. It was one of those things that happen without
explanation, with no logical reason. We had not too much in common, other than the fact of going going through a life experience at nearly the same moment in history.
In the spring of 1961 visited Dr. Gordon at his office and had lunch with him there, cooked over a Bunsen burner by his long-time nurse. He looked tired and preoccupied and I commented about it.
"I haven't been feeling too well," he replied, and then flared up into his usual self. "What's the matter, can't a doctor get sick once in a while!"
I laughed, and suggested he do something about it, such as seeing his family physician,
"I will," he said absently, then back up to his normal self, "but first, I'm going to Europe."
I said that sounded fine.
"Already have the tickets," he went on. "We've gone a number of times before, but this time I want to see a lot of the places we've missed. You ever been to Greece, or Turkey, Spain, Portugal, Egypt?"
I said no.
"Well, you ought to," he said, pushing his food away. "Go when you have the chance. You wouldn't want to miss seeing places like that. I'm not going to miss my chance."
I said I would do my best, but that I didn't have a fat practice that would wait around for me to return. But he was serious again.
"Bob?"
I waited for him to continue.
"I don't like the way I feel," he said carefully. "I don't like . . . why don't you and your wife come to Europe with us?"
I wish we had.
Dr. Gordon and his wife sailed to Spain a week or so later. There was no word, so I assumed they were sunning themselves somewhere in the
Mediterranean.
and they had to cut short their trip. He had refused treatment overseas, and had insisted that they return home instead. He had been in great pain, and had gone immediately into the hospital for an exploratory operation.
I was unable to see him in the hospital, but I was kept informed of his condition by his wife. The exploratory operation was a success. They found what they were looking for, an abdominal cancer, beyond treatment. Nothing more could be done but to make him as comfortable as possible. He would never leave the hospital. Alive, that is. Or more aptly, physically alive.
With this news, I felt I must find some way to see Dr. Gordon. It was all quite clear now, as most things are in retrospect. I am sure he knew of his condition that day in his office. After all, he was an internist He certainly could have read the signs and symptoms in his own very personal laboratory. That was the reason for the sudden trip to Europe. He definitely wasn't going to miss his last chance! And he didn't
The need to talk with Dr. Gordon seemed urgent. In all of our
conversations, I had never mentioned my "wild talent" or what I had been going through. I think I was afraid he would have thrown back his head and laughed, then sent me to his psychiatrist son.
Now it was different. He was racing something where perhaps I could help him for a change. I didn't know how what I had gone through could help, but I had a deep conviction that it would.
I tried again and again to see Dr. Gordon, but only his wife was
permitted in his room. I finally asked Mrs. Gordon to help me get in to see him. She explained that the doctor was in such pain that he was kept under deep sedation most of the time. Thus he was very rarely lucid and conscious. Usually he recognized her early in the morning, but even this didn't happen every day. I told her that I had something important to tell him. I didn't elaborate. Even in her sorrow, she seemed to
recognize that I intended to bring a message beyond that of a comforting friend. The intuitive woman found a solution.
"Why don't you write him a letter,' she suggested. "I'll take it to him."
I said I was afraid he wouldn't be able to read it.
"If you write it," she said, "I'll read it to him, when he's conscious enough to understand it."
And so that was what we did. She read it again and again to Dr. Gordon whenever he was conscious. She told me later that these repeated
readings were at his request, not at her suggestion. Was there something in the letter he wanted to place firmly in his mind?
When I heard this, I felt a great sense of regret. Perhaps he would not have leaned back and laughed, after all. We might have shared much more if I had only gathered the courage to discuss my "activities" with him. Here are pertinent excerpts of the letter to Dr. Gordon:
". . . and you remember all the tests and examinations you gave me because you knew I was worried about something. Well, that was when it started. Now as long as you are in the hospital for a while, you might just try it and find out for yourself. That way, you don't have to take my word for it. It will give you something to do while you recuperate. "First, you have to accept the possibility, remote as it may be to your experience, that you can act, think, and exist without the restriction of a physical body. And don't tell your wife to send me to that
psychiatrist son of yours. It takes more than Freud to solve this one. Besides, he's making enough money as it is.
"In all of our conversations, it didn't seem appropriate to bring up this subject. But as long as you're going to be tied down, give it some serious consideration. It might be useful later on, and I hope you can discover a few things about it that I have passed over. It all depends upon whether you can also develop the ability to 'leave' your physical
body while loafing in that hospital bed. If so, you might find many ways that it can be helpful. It may be one way to ease physical pain. I don't know. Give it a try.
"... With all the sincerity I can muster, I urge you, Dick, to think about it. You will have passed a major milestone when you do no more than accept the idea that this second, non-physical body of yours actually might exist. Once this has been achieved, your only other barrier is fear. And it need not be. Because this is like being afraid of your shadow, of yourself. It is natural rather than strange. Get used to this idea-that your lack of conscious experience with it does not necessarily mean it is something to be afraid of. Unknowns are feared only as long as they remain so. If you can hang onto this, you need not have fear. Then, and only then, try the formula I have written here. I don't know the effect of any medication you may be taking. It may help or hinder the technique. But do give it a try. It may or may not work the first time.
". . . Most important, let me know how you get along with it. When you get better, perhaps I can drop over and discuss the whole thing in detail. I would have come now in person, but you know how cranky the hospital is about rules. If you tell your wife about any attempts, I'm sure she will relay them to me. But I would much rather hear them from you later on. Just let me know. . , ."
Mrs. Gordon did not let me know if he actually did try. I felt it entirely inappropriate to query her too specifically at the time. She was much too sadly overwrought with the knowledge that Dr. Gordon's condition was terminal. I still am not sure that she realized my letter could be construed as suggested training for death.
Dr. Gordon dropped into a coma several weeks later. He died peacefully without regaining consciousness.
For several months I thought about an attempt to "go" to Dr. Gordon, wherever he was. He was the first person close to me who had died since the development of my "wild talent." I was both curious and objective. It was the first such opportunity. I was sure that Dr. Gordon wouldn't mind-if he did continue to exist.
Not knowing about such things, I decided he would probably need some rest before I interfered with whatever he was doing. Also, I needed to summon up some additional courage on my own. This was an experiment I hadn't tried before. It might be truly dangerous.
Then, on a Saturday afternoon, I made the attempt. It took about an hour to get into the vibrational state, and I finally swung up out of the body mentally yelling, I want to see Dr. Gordon!
After a moment, I started to move rapidly upward, and soon all I could see was a blur of motion and feel what seemed like a rush of very thin air. Also, I felt a hand under my left elbow. Somebody was helping me get there.
After what seemed an endless journey, I suddenly stopped (or was
halted). I was standing, somewhat dazed, in a large room. My impression was that it was an institution of some kind. The hand under my elbow moved me to an open doorway, and stopped me just inside the door, where I could look into the adjoining room. A male voice spoke almost directly into my left ear.
"If you stand right here, the doctor will see you in a minute."
I nodded agreement, and stood there waiting. A group of men were in the room. Three or four were listening to a young man about twenty-two who was excitedly relating something to them, complete with gestures.
I didn't see Dr. Gordon, and kept expecting him to appear at any moment. The more I waited, the warmer I seemed to feel. Finally, I became so hot that I was extremely uncomfortable. I didn't know what was causing me to feel so hot, and I wasn't sure I could stand it much longer. It actually felt as if streams of perspiration were running down my face. I knew
that I couldn't stay much longer; I couldn't take the heat. If Dr. Gordon didn't appear soon, I would have to go back without seeing him. I turned and looked again at the group of men, thinking that perhaps I should ask them about Dr. Gordon. At just that moment, the short, thin young man with the big shock of hair stopped in the middle of his conversation, and looked at me intently for a moment. After the simple short glance, he turned back to the other men and continued his animated discussion,
The heat became unbearable, and I decided I had to leave. I couldn't wait for Dr. Gordon. Using a motion I had learned, I moved quickly upward and away from the room. It was a long journey back. After
reintegrating, I checked my physical body. I felt cold, a little stiff. Certainly there were no streams of perspiration running down my cheeks. Disappointed, I sat up and made notes of the trip. I had failed for some reason. I had not been able to find Dr. Gordon. Time away from the physical was two hours.
There is a stubborn streak in my heredity. The following Saturday I tried again. Just at the moment I left the physical body and started to yell for Dr. Gordon, a voice spoke right beside me, almost irritated. "Why do you want to see him again? You saw him last Saturday!"
I was so surprised that I dropped back into the physical almost
instantly. I sat up and looked around the office. There was no one in the room. Everything was normal. I thought of trying again, but decided it was too late for another attempt that day.
Last Saturday. There was nothing important about last Saturday. It hadn't worked. I went back through my notes for "last Saturday." And there it was.
"The doctor will see you in a minute.' And what could have been a minute later, a short, thin young man with a shock of hair had turned and looked at me intently. He had looked at me without saying a word, as if he were thinking. What I had noted was a perfect description of what Dr. Gordon would have been at twenty-two instead of seventy.
This seemed to lend more credence to the experience than anything else. I had expected to see a man of seventy. I didn't recognize him because he was not what I expected. If I had suggested this as a hallucination, I conceivably would have met a seventy-year-old Dr. Gordon.
Later, at a visit to the home of Dr. Gordon's widow, I managed to see an old photo of Dr. Gordon when he was twenty-two. Of course, I didn't tell Mrs. Gordon why I wanted to see the picture. It matched perfectly the man I saw, and who saw me "there." She also mentioned that at that age, he was very active and eager, always in a hurry, and had a big shock of blond hair.
Someday I will try again to visit Dr. Gordon.
Another time, in anticipation of a move out of state, we sold our home when a buyer suddenly came along. As a temporary measure, we rented a house for the year prior to our move. .
It was an interesting place built on a pinnacle of rock directly over a small river. We rented it through an agent, and never met or came in contact with the owner. My wife and I took the master bedroom, which was on the main floor.
About a week after we moved in, we went to bed and my wife fell asleep almost immediately. I lay there in semidark-ness and looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the night sky. Without willing it, I felt the familiar vibrations begin, and wondered if it would be all right to let it happen in the new location.,
Our bed was positioned off the north wall. To the right of the bed, if you were lying down, was the door to the hall. To the left of the bed was the doorway into the master bathroom.
I was just in the act of lifting out of the physical when I noticed something at the doorway. It was a white form the general size and shape
of a person.
Having become extremely cautious about "strangers," I waited to see what would happen. The white form moved into the room, around the bed, and passed within a foot of my side of the bed as it went into the bathroom. I could see that it was a woman of medium height, with dark straight hair and rather deep-set eyes, not young, not old.
She was in the bathroom only a few moments, then emerged and started around the bed again. I sat up-non-physically, I'm sure-and reached out to touch her, to see if I really could.
Seeing the motion, she stopped and looked at me. When she spoke, I could hear her quite clearly. I could see the windows and drapes behind her and through her.
"What are you going to do about the painting?" It was a woman's voice, and I could see her lips move.
Not knowing what to say, I tried to give a satisfactory answer. I said I would take care of it, don't worry.