Later in the day, after the Ayahuasca ceremony had ended, and after the shaman’s apprentice had joked about us being a cult, the shaman came over to talk. Out of the blue, and with no lead up, he proceeded to tell me a story about how he and his partner helped people who were stuck, or didn’t realize they were dead, to cross over to the other side. He said one such person was a very rich man who died of stomach cancer. He said the man didn’t know until after he was dead that someone close to him had been practicing witchcraft on him and had caused his illness.
He said the dead man begged him to retaliate against the witch who cast the spell.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do it. It isn’t possible,” he said to the dead man. He shrugged his shoulders and briefly held his open hands up as his story continued. He encouraged the man to just cross over. As he talked, I was very conscious of how he kept resting his hand on my knee. I previously explained why I am hyper-aware of male touch. The shaman then abruptly changed the subject by asking about my job at the psychiatric hospital.
I remember feeling surprised that he would remember more than just that I was a nurse. I told him I was in the process of switching back to hospice. What happened next I can only blame on what, I couldn’t say. Maybe it was denial or maybe it was cognitive dissonance. I poured my heart out to him as I told him something I had never told anyone. And like the sucker I was, I even told him that I had never told anyone. The last thing I said to him was, “That’s why I’m so strong; because I’ve been tortured just for being good.”
I didn’t ugly cry but my voice cracked and my nose ran.
Continuing his theme of abruptness, he got up and said he had to go inside. I never saw him again. Before I left, I went to the altar and collected the only item I had placed there. It was a small glass vacuum-sealed container. Inside, was a folded brown paper bag which concealed its contents. If the lid had been removed, I would have known because a special tool was required to seal it again. Something had prompted me beforehand to take that extra precaution.
As I walked away, a young man, a seasoned ceremony participant, whom I’ll call Jack, walked up to me. “I was wondering what was in that,” he said as he pointed to my container. As we chatted, he reached down and made a brushing away movement across my leg. “You had a spider on you,” he explained. I didn’t flinch or squeal. As I looked down for the spider, which I never found, I laughed and told him, “I’m not afraid of spiders. Weird, huh?” It wouldn’t be until later when I recounted the days events, that I would start to put two and two together.
I searched YouTube and found the video above which sounds like the soundtrack which was playing alongside the ones with the demon chatter and monster vomit.
Before I continue to the next part of the story, I should add one thing. I have kept top secret my participation in the Ayahuasca ceremonies. I was quiet about it for the same reason I didn’t discuss my medical marijuana. Even though I had, of course, researched the laws about religious freedom in relation to plant medicine, I was still afraid of repercussions from my peers and superiors within the healthcare field. Therefore, as I now freely discuss what happened, the participants shall remain nameless unless they choose to reveal themselves.
