Life After Death Karma Bit Me In the Ass: The Complete Story

By Chima Vincenza

A mother’s love for her son, a man’s love for them both, and a spiritual love that transcends all are the centerpieces of this joyous book about the miraculous side of tragedy. As a young pre-med student unsuccessfully juggling work, school, and motherhood, Chima decides her two-year-old son must be her priority. As she takes steps to create a new path, an accident leaves her body broken but her spirit becomes the true force to be reckoned with. LIFE AFTER DEATH Karma Bit Me in the Ass is a remarkable story of living life after death and facing insurmountable obstacles with grace and fortitude.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Apr 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483449715

Book preview

LIFE AFTER DEATH

Karma Bit Me in the Ass

THE COMPLETE STORY

Chima Vincenza

Copyright © 2016 Arthur M Sternberg.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-4970-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-4971-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016905693

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 04/26/2016

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Preface

Part 1 The Backstory

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part 2 Death

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part 3 The Bite

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Names have been changed,

but the story remains

100 percent true.

To Arty

A heart full of gratitude

for believing in me

and making all things possible.

and

To my Mum and Dad

For their never ending love.

I know you’re enjoying the bliss.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In the 1970’s, before PC’s existed, my friend Cindy used an old IBM typewriter to type onto paper my handwritten manuscript.

In the 90’s PC’s and floppy disks came into being. My friend April Dangerfield used her fingers to type the manuscript into the computer and save onto floppy disk.

After the turn of the millennium flash drives replaced floppy disks. My friend Judy Brown used her fingers to help with editing and transfer of the manuscript onto one of those little flash drives.

A couple years later my friend Lou Grantt suggested self-publishing and helped to that end along with friend Amber Stevenson. The part of my manuscript pertaining to my experience with death was finally published.

That brings us to present day 2016 and friend Rosie Marks who used her technological savvy to help with the final edit of my entire manuscript, the complete story, before it was set to print.

I wrap my arms around each and every one of these friends in a warm and loving hug of appreciation and gratitude. This writing would never have gone to print if it were not for them.

PREFACE

I wrote this book in 1978, when all the events and conversations were fresh in my memory. I am very happy I can now check off from my bucket list the publishing of my complete story.

The contents of this writing begin with what was going on in my life one or two years before my experience with death, then what I experienced while I was dead, and finally what came down afterward.

One of the police officers at the scene of my death tracked me for several years post death and finally appeared at my door one afternoon. He told me all the particulars of what had happened at the scene of my death.

Likewise, the inhalation therapist who worked the emergency room the night I arrived bumped into me a few times during my stay in physical therapy. He conveyed what happened to me in the emergency room that night.

These two men gave me the missing pieces to my puzzle of what actually occurred here in the physical realm while I was experiencing what we call death.

The intent of this writing is to assuage people’s fears of death and to demonstrate that it’s not the end of you but a new beginning and continuum. It is to help people understand that life in the physical is about handling its contrasts with equanimity. And finally, you are the creator of your life experience, whether or not you are aware of that.

May your journey be of love, laughter, and a peaceful heart.

PART 1

THE BACKSTORY

CHAPTER 1

September 24, 1970, 12:06 p.m. The clock is ticking, Chima. But you don’t know that, do you.

We raced down Summit’s Hill in warm Southern California sunshine, my little son and I, on my old, battered racing bicycle. We felt as free as flying birds. The wind blew hard against us, streaming my long chestnut hair behind me as Jase laughed with delight. We slowed to a stop at the end of Summit’s Hill. I braced my sneaker-clad feet on the asphalt as my precious cargo squirmed around in his seat, perched before me. His brown saucer eyes sparkled as he squeaked, Let’s do it again, Mommy!

Again? I teased. We’ve already done it three times!

That’s okay, he said with a laugh. I like being a bird!

You like being a bird? Well, little sparrow, are you hungry? Let’s go eat our sandwiches.

The cool, green grass of Riverside Municipal Golf Course paralleled Summit and beckoned us. It was empty of people. Here, you carry this, I said, handing him the lunch bag, and I’ll carry this.

What you gots, Mommy?

What do I gots? I echoed. "I have calculus."

What’s that? He continued his pint-sized query.

That’s part of what I have to learn to become a doctor. My premed studies at University of California, Riverside were in full swing.

We parked ourselves in the middle of some lush, green grass and sank our teeth into peanut butter sandwiches. The sun was hot on our heads, but we didn’t mind. Little Jase was trying to learn the calculus as hard as I.

"Fore!" came a shout from the distance.

I looked up and saw a man standing far off in another direction. I was not golf savvy, since I had never watched or played the game. He must be playing the fourth hole, I thought.

A minute later, it came again. "Fore!"

What’s four, Mommy?

Well, I said, squinting into the distance, maybe there’s four people playing that game. We continued eating.

"Fore!"

That must be fun! Can we play it too?

Four. I sat there musing. Four. Maybe that’s what they say, I paused for a second, when we’re in the way! I looked up and saw the man coming toward us. Oh, my gracious! I said, realizing my error. Let’s get out of here! In a flash, I gathered up our picnic and loaded my son, still hanging on to his sandwich, into his baby bumper seat. We raced off the golf course and headed for home.

He was nodding asleep as I rode my bicycle up to our apartment door. I carried my precious one-and-a-half-year-old treasure inside and laid him down on my sleeping bag in the living room. I gently brushed his silky brown hair from his forehead. Then I sat down on the piano bench and looked around the room.

There wasn’t much to look at—a scratched wooden desk, a floor lamp, and a small kitchen table with two chairs. Two pieces of particle board, separated by cinder blocks, housed Jase’s toys. This divided the living area from the door entrance. Despite its meager furnishings, the room had a comfortable feel. Nature posters splattered the walls, an Indian spread covered the sleeping bag, and a huge stuffed pillow sat on the floor. It was fun living this way. I really didn’t mind selling all the furniture—except the piano.

Playing the piano was my first language. It had always been my salvation, my safe place to express my feelings. I had begun piano lessons when I was eleven and continued music studies all the way through my growing-up years and on into my time at Wayne State University, where I majored in music. I swung my legs around to the other side of the bench and allowed my fingers to romance the keyboard with my favorite Chopin nocturne. I was completely lost in the magic of the music until the sounding doorbell broke my reverie.

And then the piano was gone. I felt sick. I sat down on the sleeping bag next to my baby. He woke and climbed onto my lap.