Kim Bantle

The Final Days

As hard as I tried to stay turned off from the supernatural world, it didn’t always work. Sometimes, things are just meant to be, like Macie.

It was baseball season, a hectic time with our sons playing Little League and then traveling with the All-Star team in the summer.

One day, a friend mentioned that one of the moms, Macie, had cancer. I hadn’t met her yet, as she mostly attended weekend games due to working full-time at UCLA, while I usually went to weekday games, juggling my other kids’ activities on the weekends so Scott could watch baseball.

Still, I made a point to introduce myself and finally noticed her.

She looked great for someone undergoing chemo, though I could tell she was wearing a wig. We chatted casually about our boys.

That summer, when our sons played on the All-Star team, we found ourselves alone during a tournament break.

The temperatures in the valley where we played were soaring into the one-hundred-plus-degree range, so the coaches sought out an air-conditioned activity for the team. They tried to see a movie, but nothing worked with their schedule. They eventually found an indoor arcade. The kids were in their glory, but Macie and I stepped inside, heard the whirling, ringing, and dinging of the machines, topped by the roar of excited children, and stared at each other with dread.

I said to her, “Let’s get out of here. There are enough coaches and dads to watch the boys.”

We decided to visit a random mall in a town we didn’t know. I still barely knew Macie. The ride to the mall proved as heavy as the searing sun. The weight of her undiscussed illness seemed to fill all the breathable space in the car. I’d heard from another friend, a sorority sister of Macie’s, that things weren’t going well.

Once in the mall, I suggested going to the Gap, feeling awkward about the situation. As we walked around the racks of clothes, I casually said, “I’m sorry about your cancer and all you’ve been through.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

“How’s the treatment going?” I asked, reaching for a shirt on a high rack to avoid looking at her.

“They stopped treatment,” she said simply.

Her words struck me like a dagger. I turned to her, and she shrugged.

Unable suddenly to take my eyes off her, I said, “You don’t want to be shopping for clothes in a Gap right now, do you?”

“It doesn’t make much sense for me, but I’m happy to walk around with you.”

Out of nowhere, I heard: THIS IS NOT A COINCIDENCE.

Suddenly, my entire body began to tremble. I felt lightheaded and winded, as if someone had punched me. I immediately understood what Macie meant and what her words implied. I also somehow understood that I was supposed to be there at that moment. I didn’t know why, but I was being called, and my entire body knew it before my head could wrap itself around it.

“Is it okay if we find somewhere to sit and talk, maybe?” I asked.

“Yes, I’d like that,” Macie responded.

We found a bench that I practically crawled to because I felt so faint. Embarrassed by my reaction, I tried desperately to hide this weird physical manifestation I was experiencing. It was as if the treatment, trauma, pain, and sickness that Macie had endured flooded over me and through me. I felt weak and nauseous as the various symptoms hit me.

I know what cancer looks like, I said to whoever was manifesting this. You don’t need to show me.

“Is there another treatment they can try?” I asked once we were seated.

“No. I’m out of options,” she replied calmly.

“Holy shit, Macie. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “How would you know?”

Her composure was astounding. It struck me that she was radiating grace, her acceptance of her fate as clear as if she’d already moved beyond it. She exuded a divine energy, as if she were halfway crossed over—a calm I hadn’t seen in my own father’s death.

It became clear that she had received this news recently. I held onto my shaking hands, hoping one would keep the other steady, desperate to hide my trembling body. Macie continued to sit, entirely composed.

“You just found out,” I commented, somehow understanding that and realizing she probably needed to talk.

“Last week.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said again, facing her and trying to process what was happening. “You’re so calm.”

“I’ve been at this for a long time. I’m tired. I don’t have any fight left. I’m ready.” She was unapologetic.

“I understand.”

“This isn’t a coincidence,” I finally said.

“No,” she agreed.

“You feel that, too?” I asked. “I’m here for a reason.”

“Yes,” she replied.

“So, you’ll let me help you?”

“I will.”

Breathe, I thought. Divine intervention, which I realized this to be, was not for the faint of heart.

I fumbled in my bag until I found a pen and a wrinkled receipt, which I flattened with my hand as best I could. Then I turned it over with the blank side up.

“Let’s begin. Meals. Who’s feeding you? What are you doing about dinners?”

“My mom does the cooking,” she said, adding, “But she’s exhausted. It’s too much for her.”

“Done. We’ll cover dinner. What about groceries? Should the person who brings dinner also bring breakfast items? Milk? Eggs? Bagels? Butter? What do you all like to eat for breakfast?”

“Hmm, I think we’re okay for breakfast. We can manage that.”

“What about Henry?” I inquired. “Do you want him with you, or should we keep him busy?”

“I don’t want him to sit and watch me die.”

“We’ll keep Henry busy. But if it’s too much, let me know, and I’ll have people back off.”

I paused to think. I kept hearing breathe, as if I needed reminding to do so. I paused and did as instructed.

“Macie, I’m unsure how to organize this without telling people.”

“I know,” she said.

I realized immediately what my next role would be.

“Is there anyone you’d like to tell yourself?” I asked.

“No,” she answered.

“You want me to tell them?”

“Yes. Please. I don’t want to do it.”

“I understand. What about work?”

“That’s covered. Work and my family already know.”

“But not Henry,” I assumed. Robert, her husband, seemed to be handling everything in stride, almost too much so.

“Not Henry. He knows it’s serious, but he doesn’t know we’re out of options. Robert understands the situation, but I’m not sure he’s dealt with it.”

“Geez, Macie. Do you have anyone to talk to? It has to be difficult trying to protect those around you.”

“It’s difficult. But I’m talking to you, and that’s helpful. My work friends have been incredibly supportive. There isn’t much to talk about anymore. I’m ready. There’s nothing more I can do for Robert and Henry,” she mused. “I’ve done all the worrying I can do. It’s up to them now.”

We both turned our heads toward a screaming child, reminding me of our surroundings.

“You look beautiful, by the way. You seem to be glowing, and I’m in awe of your strength and grace. I can feel both,” I told her.

“I want you to know that I believe this is a gift to me, not the other way around. I feel honored and blessed that you or someone chose me for this. If you want to talk or need anything, please call me.”

We continued to sit in silence.

“It’s going to be great where you’re going,” I said.

“I know. At least I hope so,” she said.

We walked to the food court to get something to eat, then returned to the baseball field to watch the rest of the tournament.

I saw Macie when I brought over meals or groceries. Her mother always answered the door, but if she lingered, Macie would ask her for a favor, like checking the laundry or looking into something in the kitchen. Macie and I sat and talked, and once, I held her hand.

At one point, she excused herself. I stood up and tried to peek at the family photos around the room. When she returned, she stood smiling, and I blushed, trying to hide what I’d been doing. She held up a photo album and said, “I thought you might want to see what I looked like. You know, before.”

“You read my mind.” I smiled back.

As we looked through the photo albums, she said, “I wish this wasn’t the only way that you knew me. I thought about that today and wished we had known each other before.”

“Macie, I guarantee I won’t forget you, no matter what you look like now or before. You are radiant and glowing, and that’s how I’ll remember you.”

I had called Rita, a mutual friend from her son’s school, and she offered to take the reins on organizing much of the food and playdates, as she knew more of their friends than I did. I let her know it was okay to tell people about Macie’s condition.

As promised, I made calls to other people I knew were friends of Macie’s to let them know. While I could tell they thought the call was odd coming from me, I felt them deduce that our boys were the same age, so we had probably crossed paths. They had no idea that Macie and I had been strangers just months earlier.

During one of my visits with Macie at her house, I asked her if she was afraid.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” she said. “It tortured me that I’d leave my son behind motherless. No one should have to go through that. But now I know there’s nothing more I can do. His journey is his journey.”

She hesitated for a minute.

“I’m a little afraid of how it’ll feel.”

“To die?” I asked. “You mean at that very moment?”

“Yes. No one can tell me how that will feel.”

Macie knew nothing about me or my life. There was no time for us to get to know each other and no real reason to. She never once asked me about my past, and I never once asked her about hers.

We didn’t need to know.

But this last question felt like my experiences coming full circle.

“Oh, but people have told us about that. Books have been written by people who died and were brought back to life. I’ve read some of them. Have you ever heard of these stories?”

She shook her head.

“People who medically died and were somehow revived tell of similar things. You’ll feel an all-encompassing love that’s unimaginable. There will be light, beauty, and peace, and the pain will be gone. Your soul may rise before your body shuts down, so you won’t feel anything physical.

“It’s a long story, but a similar thing happened to me once after a complication from surgery. I didn’t die, but I’m pretty sure I was headed there, as I remember watching from above as the doctors and nurses worked on me. I felt no pain. Don’t worry about that.”

In October, Robert called to say that the end was near and that Macie had asked to see me.

Macie had developed a large tumor in her chest, a side effect of the last treatment. At the hospital, Macie looked at me with a calm, radiant smile, still filled with grace and a newfound peace. I smiled back, feeling strangely happy for her, and it was all oddly serene as I realized she was moving toward something beautiful.

After she died, UCLA held a celebration of her life at Royce Hall, where I finally learned more about Macie—her love for performance and dance, and her days as a school cheerleader.

Watching the slideshow, I got to know the vibrant person she had been. I was honored to have shared her last moments and grateful for the chance to know her as both who she was and who she would soon become.

The Photos That Survived

On the morning of January 7, 2025, my husband called me at the gym in a panic.

“Come home now! There’s a fire in the hills right above our house. It’s spreading fast.”

Fortunately, I was already in the car running errands, so I headed straight home.

We had no idea how the next hours, days, and months would unfold.

The Pacific Palisades fire became one of the worst disasters in California history. Our home, most of our neighbors’ homes, every school, church, park, library, and much of the town were destroyed.

Our life as we knew it—and our children’s childhoods—were suddenly gone.

And we were powerless to stop it.

Having evacuated before, we initially packed lightly, assuming we would be gone for a night or two. But this time, we could see the flames.

So we grabbed documents, computers, a few paintings, photographs, and the dog.

In the end, we were among the lucky ones. Many of our friends never made it back home.

Twelve people lost their lives, devastatingly, although we all knew the toll could have been far worse given how many people were trapped during the evacuation.

“Why Didn’t You Save Us?”

Several months later, I felt strong enough to resume my monthly Zoom class with Carm and the mediums she continued to help train and practice with.

As usual, at the beginning of class, she had us meditate to open our chakras and our minds—to let our spirit guides in and allow any other souls who wanted to reach out to make contact.

I had been doing okay lately. I no longer burst into tears every time someone mentioned the fires.

But when I closed my eyes to meditate, all I saw was fire.

I tried repeatedly, but all I could see was fire.

Then I became angry.

Angry at those who had gone before me because, in my grief, I felt as though they had allowed this to happen. They had done nothing to save us from the devastation, trauma, and financial and emotional ruin.

“Why didn’t you save us?” I asked angrily.

When meditation ended, I remained quiet.

Carm had been updating the class about my situation, the fires, and the loss of our home, and I could tell everyone was hoping to hear from me.

Eventually, I described what had happened during meditation.

When I said, “Why didn’t they stop this from happening?” I burst into tears.

Graciously, my classmates spent much of the rest of the evening helping me unpack what I was feeling and process my grief.

Then something happened that I could never have anticipated.

The Message

Someone sent my husband a text saying they had found photographs at the site of our burned home and wanted to return them to us.

The message said the photographs had been found by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, which had been hired to help clear the lots.

We couldn't imagine how photographs could have survived.

We had already visited the property ourselves in full hazmat gear and gone through the rubble. We had found very few belongings of consequence.

We assumed the message was spam.

Then we received a second text.

The next day, I drove to Pacific Palisades to retrieve the photographs.

A weary but friendly gentleman handed me a stack of badly damaged pictures in a dirty, mud-stained plastic bag.

Trying to hide my disappointment, I thanked him profusely—not only for returning the photographs, but for everything they were doing for the fire victims.

I looked at the photograph on top of the stack.

And there was my Uncle Joe, who had passed away just two months earlier from old age.

Standing beside him, I could barely make out my cousin, several years younger than me, who had died during COVID after suffering a heart attack when his heart surgery had been postponed because the hospital lacked space.

The rest of the photograph was too damaged to identify anyone else.

I couldn't tell where or when it had been taken.

I put the dirty plastic bag into the clean bag the Army Corps had given me and placed the stack in the trunk of my car.

There it remained for two days.

One Photograph at a Time

Finally, when I had the time and presence of mind, I opened the stack.

Gingerly, I began prying one photograph away from another, hoping not to cause any additional damage.

Photo after photo revealed another person I had lost.

Then another.

And another.

Eventually, I realized what I was holding.

They were my wedding photographs from the early 1990s.

All of those we had lost since then—my mother, two of her siblings and their spouses, Scott's father, stepmother, sister, and my cousin—were clearly visible throughout the photographs.

One deceased relative after another appeared.

Only a handful of those still living were visible.

It was shocking.

Poignant.

Beautiful.

And somehow, profoundly meaningful.

I couldn't ignore it.

I had been angry because I felt abandoned. I had asked why those who had gone before us had not stopped this from happening.

I knew, rationally, that they were not in control of the fire and could not have prevented what happened.

But seeing those photographs gave me something I didn't know I needed:

confirmation that they had not abandoned us.

The Photograph That Changed Everything

About fifteen photographs into the stack, I had seen very few people who were still living.

Then I uncovered a barely recognizable photograph of Scott and me.

I gasped.

There was my wedding gown.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized that my wedding dress had also been lost in the fire.

In the photograph, Scott and I were standing at the altar of the church.

We had just been pronounced husband and wife.

And we were kissing.

I thought long and hard about why that photograph had survived.

And eventually, I understood.

It is the love that matters.

Not the house.

Not the wedding gown.

Not the possessions.

Not the things we spend years accumulating and believing we need to preserve forever.

Love.

That is what remains.

I realized how incredibly fortunate I am to have love in my life—with my husband, my children, my extended family, and my friends.

The fire took so much from us.

But it did not take that.

And perhaps that is why those photographs found their way back to me.

They reminded me of where I came from, who walked beside me, who loved me, and who remains part of my story.

Now, when I get down, I try to remember that photograph.

That kiss.

My family.

My friends.

And the photographs of every soul who is in my camp.

Because sometimes, when everything else has been taken away, we discover what was most important all along.

Love is what remains.