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I was challenged today to think about my notion of health, specifically my own. The discussion had turned to secondhand smoke and opinions about people who smoke. So what do I believe? That being around my parents smoking affected my lungs and contributed to my asthma? Yes. That being around smokers now is unhealthy for me, and irritating as hell? Well, yes again.

But am I limiting myself and not allowing full health and vibrancy because of these beliefs? Could I in fact heal myself of any perceived lung damage simply by refusing to believe that I am limited?

To be continued

Two of my friends have been meeting weekly to share what they are writing. I’ve put it off because of my need to complete those continuing education hours. Done with that! So now it’s back to writing…

I am learning such incredible things in the classes I am taking, and want to write at least some of them down so I don’t forget!

I will rejoin the Writer’s Group as soon as school is out (June 12). They meet one morning a week, so it is only a summer activity for me. But I can write the rest of the year, too!

Finding Miss Daisy

Ambling down the middle of the two-lane rural highway in front of me, a brown dog caught my attention. I didn’t want to stop, not this morning. I was already somewhat late for work, and I don’t stop for strays. Not people, not dogs. But something about the way she walked, right on the dotted line, made me think she needed me to find her owner. I pulled over onto the dirt and gravel, opened the car door, and called to her. I say “her” because, as she came up to me, I could see that she was a recent mother, with nipples not yet completely dried up.

(to be continued)

I have started to believe that we are all connected. There are no accidents. My latest proof came this morning in the form of a phone call.

“You might not remember me, but I am married to Mark,” the voice said. Mark who? Oh, that Mark. My ex-husband’s co-worker and law partner Mark, who introduced him to his new wife. That Mark.

“Sure, what can I do for you?”

“I am calling to ask you for a favor. Will you give me the name of your divorce attorney?”

A note of explanation is in order here. My ex met his current wife at Mark’s wedding. And this was Mark’s wife of three years calling to get the name of my divorce attorney. This did not bode well for their marriage.

“Oh, sure. Of course. I’m sorry.”

I searched my memory for the attorney’s name, which did come to me, along with assorted details of her credentials and the positive experience I had had with her office. This is saying alot for a divorce attorney. Most of my friends can’t stand theirs and have nothing good to say about them.

Brenda was not your stereotypical divorce attorney. Petite and strawberry blonde, she exuded confidence and down-home friendliness. She dealt only in family law, and by the looks of her office and professional building, she was doing very well. She handled my lawyer spouse professionally and firmly, making sure I was protected and provided for.

I gave Mrs. Mark (number three, by the way) my impressions and wholehearted recommendation. I wished her well and rang off. I sat for several minutes, pondering the possible course of events that had led her to me. Who had suggested that she call? Was I the least bit smug? No, I really don’t think so. Satisfied that I could give her a good referral, but sad for her that her marriage was ending.

We are definitely all connected.

We meet in the hospital corridor outside the closed door. My parents have just arrived, and I have been here for the two days.
“How is he?,” my mother asks.
“A little better today, I think. The tests results aren’t back yet.”
My mother and I exchange deep, sad looks. “When will we know? What do they suspect?”
“Mom, I wish I could tell you it’s not AIDS, but I can’t.”
She sighs, “I know. That’s what I think, too.” Mom reaches into her purse, fishes around, pulls out a rumpled tissue and dabs at her eyes. “Well, let’s go in and see him.” My father reaches to open the door to my brother’s hospital room, and both parents enter. I hold back to allow them private time.
About five minutes pass, and the door opens. My mother comes out first, struggling to hold back her tears. My father is expressionless, closing the door and looking away as my mom and I hold each other in silence.
Mom pulls away first, blows her nose and wipes the tears from her face. “What do we need to do first? Your father will take care of the insurance. And what’s that document called? The one that will give us the right to make decisions for Brian?”
“Mom and Dad?” I look down at my hands. “Brian said he wants me to make health decisions if he can’t, and I said I would.” My parents look at each other, and back at me.
Mom’s response is firm, tinged with anger. “We are his parents, and we will make those decisions when he can no longer do so. You should know that, Maureen.”
I wait a moment or two before responding to choose her words and still the quiver in her voice. “I know, Mom, and I was surprised that he asked me, but he was insistent, even when I told him I thought you wouldn’t like it. He said it was his decision.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
“Maureen, can’t you see that you are upsetting your mother?” challenges my father. “Let us do it.”
“Please understand. I am not trying to hurt you. I can only think that he wants to spare you somehow. He said it would be easier to tell me what he wants at the end, and he already did.” I look at my parents, and look away quickly.
The standoff is interrupted by the arrival of a doctor, and we move down the hall to talk with him more privately. He states that AIDS is the most likely diagnosis, but that more tests will be needed to confirm it beyond a doubt. “Has your family member given someone his Durable Power of Attorney?,” he inquires.
“He did that yesterday, ” the lead nurse interjects from the side. “He asked his sister to do it, and we had the papers signed and witnessed.” She opens the patient file and shows the document to the group. With that, the staff members move on and are again left alone.
“Nothing will be decided without talking to both of you first,” I offer to appease them. The battle is over for now.

From my writing group this summer, I have a few starts on topics, and will keep working on them to get a short story. I can do this!