Category Archives: Personal Essay

A Religious Awakening

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Fifty years ago, my faith was in doubt.  Tired of hearing the hell and damnation homilies of the local parish priest, I tuned out every time he spoke.  I knew that I should have been listening, for I feared that I was one of the sinners that he condemned to everlasting fire, and that there was no hope for my salvation.

I did not “do” drugs, proffer myself to men, nor commit crimes against society.  I was, however, not a dutiful daughter who accepted her subservient status in a household that held women with little respect. My parents believed that my sole purpose in life was to work for them, as a household servant, and when those jobs were done to satisfaction, then and only then could I pursue an education.

I did not object to assisting with the care and operation of the house.  What angered me most was that my siblings were exempted from any and all responsibility, including cleaning up after themselves.

A major part of the problem was that my parents were ultra-conservative and narrow in focus.  To them, the duty of an older daughter was to manage the house and to marry young.  By young, I mean by the age of fourteen.  I didn’t even date at that age, let alone have a serious boyfriend, and I hated housework, so I was a failure in their eyes.

It should be a surprise that I was so affected by what was said for the pulpit, for Sunday worship was not something that my parents faithfully practiced.  They went to church when they felt like it, when the weather was good, when there were no sporting events on television.  And when they did go to church, it was not at the nearest church, but rather one which held the shortest service.

When I left for college in the summer of 1969, I decided to act boldly: I would not go to church at all.  My resolve faded as soon as the first Sunday arrived.  Not wanting to anger God, fearful of blackening my soul any further, I found the Newman center on campus.  The atmosphere was one of welcome.  The music filled me with joy, literally erasing all my negative thoughts and feelings in one fell swoop.

As time passed, my attitude toward the church changed. I believed the good news that I heard over and over during those joy-filled services. I understood that God had not judged me and found me wonting.  Instead, I now knew, He was a loving God who cried when one of His souls lost the way.  He offered peace and salvation to all who believed.  He gave solace, when needed, in times of stress and anxiety.  He loved us, no matter what we might have done.

Several months into that first school year, the Newman Club organized a retreat up in the nearby mountains.  I had never done anything this before, but it sounded exactly what I needed.

The camp was somewhere east of Los Angeles, a rustic setting nestled in a forest. From the time we arrived at the camp, I felt at peace. All of us hurried inside, anxious to claim a bunk in one of the dorm rooms.  There was no pushing, no domineering, no one person making others feel worthless.

Having never been camping, I was unprepared for the chilly nights and the crisp morning air.  My clothing was not substantial enough to keep me warm, especially when it snowed in the night, leaving about six inches on the forest floor. Nevertheless, thanks to the generosity of those who shared warm mittens and thick sweaters, I stayed warm.

Throughout that weekend, my heart sang.  It was as if a giant anvil had been removed. Like a newly feathered chick, I flopped my wings, and took off.  Faith came at me from every direction.  From the treetops came God’s blessed light.  From the ferns sprang His offerings of love.  From my fellow participants came God’s unconditional love.  From our times of prayer and reflection, came discovery of my love for the God who loved me back.

I smiled until my face literally hurt.  I laughed at the crazy antics of my roommates, and joined in the singing in front of the fireplace at night.  During prayer times, tears poured down my face, yet I did not have the words to explain why.  It was as if someone had reached inside, pulled out all the pain, and filled me with a wholesome goodness.

I do believe that God touched me that weekend.  Not with His hands, for I did not feel the slightest brush against my body. What I did experience was the enveloping of His arms, holding me and making me feel safe. He gave the gift of feeling both loved and lovable.  He made me feel important, and inspired me to continue to follow His way.

When the weekend drew to a close, it was with deep regret that I packed my things.  I hoped to hold on to all that I had experienced.

I would love to report that my life was permanently changed, but it was not.  When at home, I continued to feel inadequate.  Not one day passed without hearing what a huge disappointment I was.  There was nothing that I did that ever pleased my parents, and not once did they give me a single word of encouragement.

When I graduated from college, I moved back to the still stifling environment of my parents’ home.  Pulled down by the never-ending criticism of my unmarried state, my unemployment, and by the wasted years at college, I quickly fell into a state of despondency.  The local Mass situation had not changed, even if the pastors had.  One pastor continued to preach the same old fire and brimstone message about the blackening of our souls.  In another, the Mass was so short you could be in and out in less than forty minutes.

It was not until my husband and I moved into the parish that he had known as a teenager, that the glow returned.  I rediscovered the God who loved me, who sheltered me from the storms of life, and who walked with me every step of every day.

It was, and continues to be, a community of caring individuals who come together to worship and to pray for each other in times of need.  While priests have come and gone, the overall feeling has not.  We are the parish, the ones who define the atmosphere that envelopes all who step through the doors.

I know that there is a loving God who helps us walk through life’s challenges. He has blessed my life in ways that I am still discovering.

That is the story of my faith.

 

 

 

 

A Fresh Idea

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            When it comes to getting my hair done, I’m an avowed cheapskate. As far back as I can remember, my hairdos were monitored and maintained by my mom. She cut it, permed it and styled it, all using home care products that were unpredictable at best.

My hair hung well below my hips until I was nine. At that point, after tiring of my cries of pain, my mom decided to cut my hair. We walked to a bus stop, then rode from the country into Dayton, Ohio. There, at a shop, I got my first professional cut and perm.

I loved the feeling when someone else shampooed my hair and ran a comb through it. I was entranced by the parting and snipping that shortened my hair to shoulder–length. I hate the perm. Long rods were wound into my hair, rods which were attached to an electrified pole.

My dad hated it. In fact, his words were so hurtful that it was a long, long time before I allowed my mom to cut my hair again.

After college it became popular to have an Afro style. I loved it. My hair was very short, easy to take care of, and required minimum care. The one downfall was that my hair did not take to the perm chemicals naturally, and so I had to have second and third dousing in order to get tightly wound curls.

I kept this “do” into my marriage.

Then I discovered the joys of going to the beauty college, where I could get my hair cut for free. Yes, it took a long time. Often hours. Every step along the way a supervisor had to come over and approve. But it was free! And inconsistent.

After months of this, I graduated to the next stage, which still required hours, but the skills of the operators were much better. For this I had to pay a minimum fee, I think five dollars. Quality varied, and I had to be flexible in terms of the final product.

When this program was terminated, I moved to the floor of the school, where my care was still monitored,  but not as closely. I was still getting perms, but only enough to put some life in my normally straight hair.

After I went back to work and was making a little more money, I found a local shop that only cost eight dollars. Perms were now out of style, so all I needed was a trim now and then.

I kept this up for years. Again, the quality varied. Sometimes I got a good cut, something that pleased me. But more and more often the operator cut my hair too short, making me look more male than female.

Three months ago my sister-in-law treated me to a cut at a salon that normally charges forty-five dollars! I was in shock, but, I have to admit, terribly pleased with the result.

That was the first time that I understood two main things: you get what you pay for and there is a difference between a cut and a style. I fell in love with style. Not that my “do” is fancy, because it isn’t. What I liked was having my hair cut evenly, the finished product a blend all the way around.

I would have returned to that shop even though it’s a long drive, but then I met someone local who called herself a stylist. The next time I needed a cut, I went to her. Once again, I loved the result. So I returned and will continue to go to her as long as she is local.

Now my cuts cost actual dollars. It pains me to pay so much for a cut, as I am still an avowed cheapskate, but I love the end result. It is well worth it to pay more if, when you walk out of the shop, you feel pleased.

Conference Take-aways

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February 16-19 I attended the San Francisco Writers Conference at the Mark Hopkins Hotel. It was a sold out event, with hundreds of “wannabe” authors as well as established publishers, authors, agents, editors and author coaches.

There were many interesting sessions, in fact, too many for one person to attend.

I took notes, so as to remember the bits and pieces of advice given. Following are those things that seemed most important.

  1. Creative nonfiction is now called narrative fiction. Memoir falls into this category. The nice thing about the title change is that it allows for the recalled essence of dialogue that most likely took place.
  2. Book Club fiction are those pieces that inspire discussion and tends to appeal to women readers. Think JoJo Moyes. Commercial fiction are titles that appeal to a wide range of reader. Think Gone Girl.
  3. In terms of what agents want to see and don’t want to see, here are a few tips:
    1. No prologues or epilogues for debut authors. They feel this is “a lazy way to jump start tension”
    2. No first lines of dialogue.
    3. Skip flashbacks altogether unless there is something about the memory that adds to the emotional history of a character.
  4. Be careful about including diverse characters unless you are well informed about the particular group. For example, when including an African-American character, verify with a trusted source to make sure that you are not typecasting or stereotyping. Avoid writing in dialect unless you are very familiar with that dialect, and it is important to the essence of the story.
  5. Within each scene, look at how the flow of time is reported. How much time has elapsed? But avoid terms such as “three days later”.
  6. Within scene, also be aware of change. In each segment, there must be a starting place and then an ending place, and change must have occurred. There is external change, in which a character moves from one place to another. Internal change is the most powerful, as this lets the reader see how it impacts the character.
  7. When editing, it nothing is happening in a scene, no forward movement, no choice-making or risk-taking, then delete.
  8. Characters should behave in a logical way, unless strange behavior is part of the character’s M.O. People come to story to see logical human behavior, verified with an underpinning of evidence. Must believe that the character is a living human being. People do stupid things all the time. Readers question what in their lives forced them to act that way.
  9. Be watchful for the “dreaded middle”, which is the part of a scene where things get too slow. When this happens in your work, cut the scene or condense it into another. Ask yourself if the scene needs dialogue or action. Make it fast and punchy to keep readers engaged. Introduce a new obstacle that must be surmounted.
  10. Make sure there are no passive characters. Empower them by putting them in situations that force them to take action.
  11. Avoid dreams, waking up and overheard conversations.
  12. Your villain, whether it be a person or a force, needs to arrive early.
  13. Create a history for each character before you write the first scene. Know who your character is, what he/she wants, what motivate him/her, and when confronted with a problem, does the character feel trapped or betrayed.
  14. When writing an emotional scene, try to channel that emotion before beginning. Feel the anger or the hurt. Remember what falling in love feels like.

I hope these tips help!

 

What I Hope to Get Out of Conferences

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Today is the first day of a major conference in San Francisco. I will have the opportunity to sit in a variety of seminars, all geared for the “wannabe” writer.

There are sessions on publishing, which I’m nowhere near needing, to beginning the first novel, which hopefully I’m long past.

On one of the days I can sign up for a free eight minute session with a publisher, author coach or editor. Last year I met an author coach who read my entire manuscript, for a fee, and helped clean up the rough edges.

I also had eight minutes with an editor, who used more ink deleting sentences than I had used printed them. It was terrifying to watch her pen zipping around my page!  I did not hire her.

This year I am going to meet with a different editor and see how that goes. I realize that my novel is a bit lengthy, so I’m sure there are places where scenes can be eliminated or condensed, but I hope that there is much to be saved.

There will be guest speakers who are all published authors. I’m to the point now where I’ve heard so many success stories that I’m not sure I want to hear any more, but there might be something to be gleaned.

The best part of the next four days will be the opportunity to mingle with agents. Last year I met six who wanted me to send them a query. Of those, only one requested more information. Eventually she turned me down.

What I hope is that there is one who will be interested enough in my book to want to publish it. Not a small wish, but it’s that main reason that I spent the money to register and will travel by BART and cable car to the conference.

My dream is to one day walk into a bookstore, or log on to Amazon, and see my book. What an amazing thing that would be!

Keep your fingers crossed that I will learn the secrets to success, hear something that will open the door to publication, meet the right editor and agent, and that all will be good.

 

Mic Mistakes

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I’ve been singing in my church choir for a number of years now. When  I first began I was a practically silent member because I was terrified to sing loud enough to be heard. I feared being off-key or hitting the wrong notes and so would stand out.

Those fears are not irrational because I have no formal music training. I remember being enrolled in a junior high music class, but we didn’t learn how to read notes. All we did was sing old-timey songs like “The Erie Canal” that made no sense to a young child.

I’ve always loved music. In high school I bought a portable radio and took it everywhere with me. If we were picnicking or visiting relatives, it was on. Only in the privacy of my room did I sing aloud, primarily because my father told me I couldn’t carry a tune. But I loved the way the words moved me, the way the melody carried me away in its wake.

Our church had a choir and so I was able to sing along, enriching the experience for me. But I was terrified to join. When I worked up the nerve to go to a rehearsal, I expected to be laughed out of the room. When it didn’t happen, I became emboldened and returned week after week, but not singing louder for I was learning how the rise and fall of notes carry the melody.

Things went well at first. There were about five of us who showed up on a regular basis. All of the others were experienced singers, most with formal training. I attempted to blend in and not destroy the music. But one Sunday morning none of the others came. It was just me and the pianist. At first I felt like sitting in the pews with the congregation. When the choir director smiled at me and told me I could do it, I stood there and gave it my besteffort. I know I flubbed some words and notes, but I survived.

After a six year hiatus, I recently returned to the choir. Maybe it’s my age, but I’ve made some major mistakes. I’ve sung the wrong lines for verses until I realized what I was doing. Instead of singing “desert and wasteland will bloom” I sang waistband. More than once. When I realized what I had done, my knees weakened and I felt a blush creep up my neck. I listened for snickers from the congregation, but either they didn’t hear or they were too polite to laugh.

I came back the following week, determined to get all the words right. Unfortunately the director cranked up the mics, so every little thing I did wrong blasted back at me. I sang rhyming words instead of the right one. I got lost and mumbled, but pretended that I knew what I was doing. I thought about quitting, thinking that I was destroying the holiness of the moment, but I keep coming back. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, or maybe at my age I’m already starting to lose my faculties, but I’m determined not to give up.

I am a natural alto, but I’ve been singing the melody, which is for sopranos. My choir director decided I should sing the alto parts in the worship music. To help myself, I record the part during rehearsal and go over it, again and again before church. The song begins, I sing, but when we come to my part, I fabricate notes.

This past Sunday I didn’t think my mic was working. I sang louder, thinking maybe the  sound level was turned down. That was a huge mistake for several reasons: my voice cracked, I ran out of breath and I had a hard time hitting the right notes. After Mass I found out that the mic wasn’t working. What a relief!

Despite all the stupid things I do, the choir director hasn’t asked me to leave. I’m sure I’ll substitute more words and hit more wrong notes. But I’ll keep singing anyway.

 

Mounting Fears

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In 1964 I was a freshman at Beavercreek High School in rural Ohio. I was a lonely, introspective young girl with an active imagination and an ability to seal myself off from whatever goings on were taking place around me.

One day an announcement came over the PA system stating that we were going to practice a disaster drill in case of nuclear war. Our teacher explained the procedure to us, and then when the bells rang, we silently walked into the hallway, faced the red brick wall, sat down, crossed our legs and put our hands over the backs of our heads. We sat in that position for what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes. When the all-clear sounded, we stood and silently marched back to our classrooms. Instruction resumed as if nothing untoward had happened.

At the time I knew nothing about the effects of nuclear war for I didn’t pay attention to the news and had never had an interest in historical events. You would have thought that simply hearing about the events of World War II would have inspired me to read about it, but it didn’t.

Several months later a jet bound for Wright Patterson Air Force Base fell from the sky. The pilot knew he was going to crash and so ejected himself from the plane, not knowing where the jet would go down. By some huge stroke of luck, it fell into the U-shaped enclosure of our school, not hitting a single bit of brick. We were evacuated into the gym, the building furthest from the accident, and kept there until our parents rescued us.

On the news that evening they showed pictures. My belief in God was strongly reinforced, for how could a jet fit so tidily inside the three walls of the school and not a single person be injured?

When school ended for the year we packed up and moved to California. Our first residence was in Rancho Cordova, near Sacramento. McClellan Air Force Base was nearby, but I didn’t know that until I became aware of the bombers. One afternoon I was sitting on my mattress on the floor of my bedroom. First the floor vibrated, then the walls. Next came a drone that grew louder and louder by the minute. I went outside to look and saw several huge planes flying in V formation overhead. I stood agape as they passed, relieved when the noise finally ended.

Later I learned that these bombers were practicing for war. Night and day planes flew overhead. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t concentrate and I lived in a constant state of fear. I started paying attention to the news and everything I saw contributed to my concerns. I was convinced that I would not live to see my next birthday, let alone begin school in my new state.

And then one day the planes flew no more. I got up one morning and could hear birds singing for the first time since we had arrived. It filled my heart with joy!

Years passed before the Vietnam War loomed over the heads of my classmates. By now I was away at USC, which turned out to be a hotbed of protest. I joined the marches and sat in the rallies. I made signs and attended meetings, but I never skipped a class for fear of losing my scholarship, the only means that allowed me to be there.

The effects of the war filled the air waves. Every day images of injured soldiers and civilians distressed me terribly. We learned about napalm, snipers, poisoned sticks, the enemy hiding in rice paddies and women and children bearing bombs who approached our soldiers only to blow everyone to smithereens.

My nightmares returned. I truly believed that the world would erupt in a nuclear war so devastating that nothing would be left. There seemed to be no hope, no future, nothing to dream for and nothing to do but wait to die.

When the war ended without world annihilation, I hoped that America had learned a lesson. That we would act more cautiously, think before intervening, and never push us to the brink of war again.

Years passed. Life was good. I married, had children, became a teacher and loved every single day that God had given me.

And then 9/11 happened and my world was rocked again. Watching those planes careen into the twin towers was so shocking, so unexpected, so devastating that I was left bereft of words. What could you say to make it go away? Nothing.

But even after we invaded Iraq and Afghanistan, I still felt safe at home. I did not fear nuclear war as I believed that sane fingers were on the button and that no one in his right mind would ever resort to using our arsenal to destroy another country.

Until now. Now I worry. Every night I have trouble falling asleep, my mind analyzing, in a continuous loop, what’s going on in our country. The troubling decisions being made that will hurt middle and low income Americans. I worry about backlash. About someone with a grudge walking into Target and shooting at random anyone caught in their crosshairs. Sitting in a theater, I think about how trapped we are, how hard it would be to escape, how easy it would be to slaughter innocent people.

My fears are not of foreign-born terrorists committing these horrendous acts, but of home-grown people who have no regard for life, who only live to hate, who are so filled with bigotry that they see only the color of the skin or the clothes worn and begin killing anyone who fulfills their narrow-minded vision of difference.

As a child I was taught to fear the Russians. Now I fear Americans. And with the hatred spewing out of politician’s mouths, it will only get worse. Other like-minded bigots hear the call to action. They arm themselves in preparation for the cleansing of our soil, for the removal of anyone who does not look, think or act like themselves, and not one elected official is doing anything to disenfranchise them of this notion.

What’s going to hurt us is ourselves. And that’s what’s sad. That’s what makes me anxious. It should keep you awake as well.

Happy dreams.

Restless Leg Syndrome

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It’s been well over forty years since the burning began. At first I thought my legs hurt because of a lack of potassium. I played on two soccer teams, referred three to four youth soccer games a weekend, and coached a girls’ team. I was on the field five days a week, and almost all of this after work.

My legs would jump and twitch with pain. It felt as if someone was shooting an electrical current down my legs. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I could sit on the floor with legs fully extended, holding them flat to the carpet, and the pain would go away. But as time passed, that stopped helping.

I went online and read somewhere that it could be due to a lack of potassium, so I ate bananas and drank sports drinks, both of which I greatly dislike. Neither helped.

The pain worsened. I was uncomfortable sitting, stretched out on the coach, and in bed. I was unable to get a good night’s sleep, and exhaustion was taking its toll. Some mornings I drove to work in a fog, fighting to keep my eyes open. I was lucky that I didn’t kill anyone.

Then one day while reading the paper I saw a tiny ad for a medication to help with restless leg syndrome. That ad saved me! For one, it proved that I wasn’t hallucinating the pain. For another, it gave my symptoms a name. And lastly, it offered relief.

My doctor understood and gave me a medication that works. I’ve been taking it, as needed, now for those forty years.

Restless Leg Syndrome is a disorder of the nervous system that causes an intense urge to move the legs, and at times, the arms. Movement seems to temporarily quell the pain, but that relief might only last seconds before the urge to move comes again.

Symptoms come and go. Some days I feel fine and then all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, the pain comes. I have to switch positions, get up and move, and when I can’t stand it any longer, take the meds.

Usually it hits in the evenings, but if I’m in a confined space, such as on a long car ride or in an airplane, or even in the movies or at the theater, but it can occur at any time and comes on suddenly. One moment I’m at peace, the next my legs have to move.

I did some research into the disorder and found that it affects about 10% of the population, mostly women. It usually hits people considered middle age or older. There is no known cause, but they do suspect that genes could play a role. Why? Studies have found that nearly half of people with the condition have a family member with it. Which does not bode well for my kids.

Like me, many people don’t go see a doctor for fear that they won’t be taken seriously. I truly thought my doctor might laugh at me or think I was crazy. Thankfully she didn’t.

If you get the sensation like bugs are crawling inside your legs, or an intense itching that seems to be near the bone, or a throbbing, pulsing pain that runs up and down your legs, please see a doctor. It is not life threatening, but interferes with life’s activities.

Restless Leg Syndrome is real.

 

Second Chances

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On Sunday I tried to put on earrings. The post went through the left lobe without too much difficulty, but it would not go through the right. The hole in the back had healed over.

So today I had my ears pierced a second time.

It got me to thinking about all the second chances we get in life. For example, when we’re learning to ride a bike, we’re not expected to have mastery the first time the training wheels are removed and we take off on our own. There’s an attitude that failure is okay. That we’ll learn from our mistakes and eventually be able to pedal, maintain balance and stop and turn.

School is not nearly as forgiving. You are expected to do certain things at a specific time, and if you’re a little bit slow or a tad too fast, you don’t fit in the mold. I was slow to read and learn math. My teachers didn’t know what to do with me except stick me in the slow groups. I had no extra help or encouragement. No one told me that it was okay. Instead I was consistently bullied and humiliated. But eventually I did master those skills. In fact, I went to college as a math major.

When you start dating, it’s expected that you’ll shop around. That you’ll choose poorly and learn, culling down those things that you hate and those that you admire, so that when you finally find your one and only, you’ll know that you’ve made the right choice. It’s an expected process, the ogling and drooling over and the break up.

Then there are the medical miracles. The diseases overcome. Surgeries. Allergies. Things like asthma that steal your breath away and make you think of death. Each time you survive, you become more and more grateful for those second chances.

I certainly am. I’ve got titanium knees that work and an arm that is held together with a metal plate and nine bolts. I’ve got inhalers that keep my lungs open and medication that helps me sleep.

I often think back to the times before, when such medical treatments weren’t available. Lives were short then. Forty was considered ancient. Now it’s not uncommon for a person to live to 100. For people to survive some forms of cancer. For athletes to come back from major reconstruction and compete again.

In this time of turmoil, we need to keep in mind that all of us have benefited from second chances, often many times over.

 

 

The Gift of Life

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Breathing is an automatic response.  The diaphragm falls; air fills the lungs.  The diaphragm rises, pushing out the air. The action is repeated over and over again, without any mental acrobatics on our part.

So it was with me for most of my life.  Every day my breath came and went, in an endless cycle.  Whether sitting or standing, awake or asleep, the lungs and diaphragm continued the rhythmic dance of life.

Shortly after my fortieth birthday, however, something changed.  In the midst of a soccer game, as my feet pounded their way down the field, my lungs decided to alter the flow of air.  With each step it became increasingly more difficult to breathe.  By the time the goal posts were within sight, as I moved down the field with my team, watching the ball get closer and closer to the net, normal breathing was replaced by a whistling, high-pitched sound.

I played for a few more minutes, but when I felt dizzy, I took myself out of the game and paced the sidelines. I found that if I titled my head back and opened my chest, I could breathe. But it did not happen right away and the feeling of tightness lasted for hours after the game ended.

But, being as stupid as one could be, I did not report this to my doctor. Instead, on the following Sunday, I was out on the field once again, being surprised when the same thing occurred.

Fortunately one of my teammates was a nurse. She heard my wheezing, saw how hard it was for me to breathe, and told me I had asthma. I thought she was crazy, but I did follow her advice and went to see my doctor.

That was the first time that I had heard of exercise-induced asthma.  From then on, a regime of inhalers would be mandatory any time I played soccer, swam, or hiked.

Within a few years, the prescribed inhalers were no longer effective.  There were nights when breathing required so much effort that visits to the emergency room for prednisol treatments were the only option.

December 18, 2002 will be forever etched in my mind.  The day began as all my days, with an early morning trip to the gym.  After the workout, breakfast, a quick shower, I got dressed and drove to my high school where I worked as a teacher for the learning disabled.

The school day passed as usual, except that sometime in the afternoon a rasping cough appeared.  As the day progressed, the coughing became worse. I had some cough syrup in one of the closets in my classroom, so I doused myself.  It helped a little, but not for long. As soon as four hours were up, I took another swig. The coughing continued, now accompanied by a deep gurgle. My voice was a hoarse whisper, and every time I moved another round of gasping and choking was triggered.

I was so relieved when my word day ended and I could go home. I thought that if I could sit and rest, it would go away. That if I drank enough cold water, it would end. But I was wrong.

 

By the time evening fell, my sides ached as if I had multiple broken ribs.  Standing required supreme effort and walking even more.  I was both dizzy and disoriented.  Breathing was a forced activity.  Breathe in.  Cough until my eyes saw black spots.  Breathe in.  Cough some more. I couldn’t stand up straight, instead stood in the kitchen bent over the counter, holding on as if my life depended upon it.

Finally, around eleven o’clock, I begged to go to the hospital.  My husband ushered me into the car and drove to the Kaiser Emergency room in Hayward.  Shortly after we checked in with the clerk, an orderly appeared pushing a wheelchair.  It took both the orderly and my husband to maneuver me into the chair, a feat that would have been impossible on my own.

I was pushed through double doors and into the main treatment room.  I recall glaring lights, blue uniforms and white lab coats.  After a few preliminary checks, I was transferred to a quite hard bed in a private room.

“Breathe,” the nurse said.

“Breathe,” the doctor said.

“Quit coughing,” they both said, almost in unison.

“It’s all in your head,” the doctor said.  “You’re hyperventilating.”

Call it whatever you like, my mind wanted to say, but the coughs stole away the words.

“Breathe,” the respiratory technician said until she put her stethoscope to my chest and listened.  “There’s fluid in your lungs.  X-rays will tell if you have pneumonia,” she said as she walked out of the room.

 

Coughs and more coughs.  Drowning in a pool of water would have been less painful, or at least more merciful, as it would have taken considerably less time.

“Sit up,” a cart-pushing technician said.  A huge white machine was placed behind my chest.  It zapped and snapped and popped.  Then off went man and machine.

Minutes that felt like days passed.  The respiratory therapist returned.  “There’s no fluid in your lungs.”  By now breathing was extremely challenging.  Tears poured down my face, soaking my clothing.  Sitting up was virtually impossible, but reclining was not a solution either.  No matter the position, fluid prevented all but the tiniest bit of air from entering my lungs.

“She’s going into distress,” the therapist shouted through the door.  Within seconds, a horde of emergency room doctors and nurses surrounded my bed.  “We’re going to have to intubate.  Do you object?”

My head indicated no problem.  Living was a priority, and so whatever they chose to do to me would be wonderful.

“Wait, there’s one more thing we can try,” the therapist said as my entourage began pushing my bed toward a waiting elevator.  She asked for some type of injection, and as the doors closed, she stabbed my right arm with the needle. It must have worked, for when I came to, I was not intubated nor was I hooked up to a ventilator.

The next several days passed by with me barely conscious.  I wore a mask that produced prednisone steam twenty-four hours a day.  Whenever possible, the nurses encouraged me to stand next to my bed.  One minute was all that my wobbly knees could tolerate.

 

After three days of around-the-clock treatment, the doctors decided, in their infinite wisdom, that it was time to wean me off the prednisone.  Why?  Who knew.  The coughing had never subsided, and my lungs still gurgled like a fountain.  Nevertheless, the mask was removed and the machine turned off.

It was easy for me to predict what would soon happen, but optimism became my mantra.  Breathe.  Don’t cough.  No, don’t cough.  Hold it in.  Breathe.  No coughing.  Oh, no!  Here it goes again.  Call for the nurse.  Where’s the button?  There it is.  Push.  Did it work?  Will someone come?  Please come.  Breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.

By the time a doctor arrived, my hands were tightly wrapped around the IV pole, my head throbbed, and the fluid in my lungs had gathered into an invading, nearly victorious army.

The machine was turned back on.  The prednisone provided some relief, but the coughing continued.  Even after several more days of treatment, my lungs refused to cooperate.  At one point death seemed preferable to living.

I asked my husband to call our kids and have them call me. I didn’t want to die without hearing their voices one more time.

They did call and each wished me well.  Tears poured down my face, and sobs made it difficult to speak.  My heart told me that this would be the last time that my ears would ever hear their voices, and that my eyes would never see another Christmas.

On December 20 the respiratory therapist decided to try antibiotics, even though repeated x-rays showed no sign of infection.  For some bizarre reason, the medicine worked.

 

By the next day, the fluid was nearly gone, and the doctor was able to reduce the prednisone treatments to once every three hours.  I was able to eat a complete meal for the first time in days. I felt stronger almost immediately, and that night my legs supported my body.

The day after that the nurse said that ICU would no longer be my home and I was moved to the regular ward.  Finally, on December 22 the doctor released me.

As my wheelchair passed through the hospital doors and into the crisp afternoon air, a smile crept across my lips.  My sides hurt, and breathing still did not come easy, but I had a glimmer of hope.

Driving home, we passed countless Christmas displays, but there was one that pushed me over the edge.  On a lawn was an old-fashioned manger scene, with figurines made of cheap plastic.  The baby Jesus reclined in His mother’s arms, and she looked at Him with a beatific smile gracing her face.  My heart filled with joy, for now it was made clear to me.  He had given me an opportunity to live, and for that, my entire family was grateful. 

Grandma’s Gift

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When I was a little girl, probably five or six years of age, someone gave me an old, cheap plastic doll. It’s arms and legs moved and I could rotate its head a bit to the right or left. Its hair was painted auburn and its lips a light shade of red. It was nothing fancy, but it was mine.

And when you’re poor, you appreciate those hand-me-downs more than a rich kid receiving another shiny toy. So that doll meant a lot to me and I brought it everywhere I went.

At the time we lived in a suburb of Dayton, Ohio, in a housing development that I later understood would have been called projects.

My older brother was the bain of my existence even then. He teased me, pushed me around, took things from me and ridiculed my appearance and my parents did nothing to stop him. As a small child, I understood the power he held over me and the lack of presence I had within the family unit.

Anyway, my mother’s parents lived in Galipolis, Ohio, a long drive from home. They lived so far away that we usually only visited them once a year. While we had little, they had even less. We had furnace heat, they warmed their house with coal. We had running water in the bathroom and kitchen, they had an outhouse which terrified me and a pump in the kitchen that poured out the coldest, most refreshing water I’d ever tasted.

On one journey to visit my grandparents I brought along my doll, as usual. During the ride, my brother took it away from me several times which brought me to tears. He would eventually give it back, only to steal it away almost immediately.

When we arrived at my grandparent’s house, after getting hugs from Grandma, I went outside on my own to play with my doll. My brother followed me. A chase began, which I lost due to my shorter legs and slower-moving body.

My brother stole the doll, threw it on the ground and stomped on it. He repeated this over and over until the arms, legs and body were little more than shattered pieces of plastic. I howled, long and loud.

My grandma came to investigate and listened carefully as I told her the tale. She chastised my brother and told him to go sit in a chair on the porch. She took me inside and wiped off my face. Gave me a cup of cold water. And held me close, brushing my hair off my reddened face.

When we left that night, of course there was no doll to take home. Months passed. In time I forgot about my doll as I moved on to other things. I colored obsessively, filling page after page with drawings that I meticulously colored, staying within the lines.

The year passed and nothing changed in my life. My brother still teased, pushed, pulled, pinched and ridiculed. My parents still did little to stop the abuse.

When summer came we returned to my grandparent’s house. As always, Grandma greeted me at the door with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. But then a most magical thing happened. Slowly, ever so slowly, she pulled something from behind her back. It was my doll!

Actually, to be precise, it was my doll’s head attached to a hand sewn body.  The doll was now made of some type of beige cloth. It had lines to indicate fingers and toes. It had underpants, a slip and a dress. It was beautiful!

I brought it to my chest, tears in my eyes. The words of thanks whispered from my lips.

Then my grandma turned to my brother and told him that he had better, never take that doll from me or he’d have to answer to her, and she would not be gentle.

My grandma gave me a most precious gift. It goes beyond the doll and its clothes. She gave me a symbol of love. A toy that made me feel special. Unique. But most importantly, loved.

I still have that doll. It is now more than 62 years old and it occupies a place of honor in my house. Whenever I see it, think of it, it speaks to me of the one person who loved me as I am.