My Patients Tell Me They've Had A Paranormal Experience. I Believe Them — I Had One Too.

Tank’s life has been full of conflict and strife. Now he’s stuck in a wheelchair on his back porch with me, a hospice social worker, peppering him with questions.

He’s pondering my query about why he’s feeling peace about his impending death. His eyes soften as he motions with his head toward the workshop near the back fence.

“You remember me telling you about my older boy?” he asks.

“The one that died by suicide?” I ask. “Yeah, I remember.”

“If you count my old man, I was the second-worst father that ever lived. Most of my life I figured I’d go straight to hell when I died.”

I don’t argue. From what he’s told me, he was a lousy father — verbally and physically abusive to his kids, spending his paychecks on booze and drugs, leaving each of his three wives to fend for themselves and do their best to protect whichever of his children were in their care.

“You still think you’re going to hell?” I ask.

He shakes his head, and I ask what’s changed.

“I’m getting to that,” he says, looking again at his workshop.

“After Little Tank died, I went into a spiral — drinking, getting into fights, mouthing off to cops. Mostly, blaming myself for his death, thinking it should have been me that died instead of him. Last time I saw him alive, I told him to get out of my house or I’d shoot him.”

He looks down, his voice cracking. “Guess he thought he’d save me the trouble.”

I wait for him to continue.

“One day I decided to do the world a favor — not that anyone would have noticed. I took my .45 caliber and walked to that workshop to call it a day. I remember crying and saying out loud how sorry I was for all the pain I’ve caused. Then I put the pistol to my head.”

“What happened?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Scott, you know