On Friday, I lost one of my most cherished possessions: a necklace my husband, Charles, had designed for me with the help of a jeweler friend from South Africa.

I wore it to a doctor’s appointment, then put it in my purse while I had a scan. When I went to retrieve it Saturday morning, it was gone.

Charles and I searched everywhere, even ridiculous places it couldn’t have been. I called the clinic (closed for the weekend,) emailed my doctor, and cried. I mean, I sobbed in a way I haven’t for years.

Earlier in the week, I realized I was losing something else. A psychic that I deeply trust said that, when she looked into my “field,” it seemed like I was allowing myself to waft away; that I was considering giving up on life itself.

That resonated. In fact, it was one of the reasons I’d made the appointment.

In the past several weeks, I had surgical biopsies of my jaw, which led to a loss of nerve sensation throughout the lower left side of my face and mouth and the discovery that my cancer was outwitting the chemo I was on; two wonderful women I know died of breast cancer; and I tore the meniscus in my left knee, making it extremely difficult to walk.

Loss, loss, loss.

I was wondering, the day I called Therese, whether it was time for me to give in to the inevitability of more loss, of eventually losing even myself.

Here’s what she said. First, the spirits/guides/angels/Blessed Mother gave her a clear sign that it is not my time to waft away; instead, they instructed her to “bring me back online” and even indicated that they’re available to support me.

Second, she said that until the moment we cross over into whatever is next, we can choose whether to live with a sense of life and joy and love, or to live with sadness, grief, and a focus on what we’re losing. I’d been doing the latter, particularly bringing myself to my knees by imagining saying good-bye to my husband and children.

She asked me if I’d rather foist these negative emotions on my dearest loved ones in our precious time together—however long that is—or, instead, spend every possible second in love and joy with them and with life. The choice was easy. Life, of course!

I’ve found myself again, and the reunion has been marvelous. I feel tingly with possibilities of things to do and create and learn and teach. I am loving my family deeply but doing it with a smile in my heart rather than the heaviness of potential loss.

While I was weeping some more on the bed Saturday morning, with sadness about my necklace and the fatigue of all the little losses I’ve sustained lately, I heard a sound. It was like a memory, but seemed to come from somewhere over my left ear.

It was the same clanging sound my purse had made when I got into my car after my scan on Friday. At the time, I’d thought it was just the logo from my bag hitting the door; I’d looked at the floor around me, but the garage was dark, and I hadn’t seen anything. Also, my bum knee kept me from having a deep look around.

I shot off the bed and called to Charles, “We have to drive back to the clinic and look in that garage!” We were out the door in minutes. The hour-plus drive was torture.

When we arrived, the parking garage and the building were locked. After a while, I caught sight of a security guard inside and waved to him.

After explaining the situation and being let into the building, we took the elevator down to P2 and I hobble-ran out the door and around the corner to the parking spot. There, against all odds, was my beloved necklace.