When we wed I was your true love,

You’d told me when they released the dove.

But now you look me in the eye,

I can see your memory flicker by.

The last ten years were an extra gain,

But still I feel the constant pain.

Alzheimer’s has taken you from me,

What we once had will never be.

For fifty years we’ve been cohorts,

And now we sleep with restless thoughts.

I think of all the things lost and won,

Of all the things we both have done.

When we wake with the bright new day,

I pray your pain will have gone away.

I lay here beside my man,

On this trip I firmly hold his hand.

~~Lynda Wood~~

With a Bonus Number of Ten...

“With a bonus number of ten.”

Clive stared at the television. He punched in Oliver’s number.

“Yeah”, a gruff voice answered.

“We won the bloody mega lottery!”

“What’s that you say?”

“The bloody lottery ticket you drove me mad to buy!” Clive cried out.

“You mean the big drawing?”

“YES!!! The big drawing!” Clive was ever amazed by Oliver’s slow wittedness.

As he paced, the lottery ticket fell to the floor. Othello, the Siamese, batted at the ticket as it fluttered in the air.

“Oliver! Focus! Three hundred twenty seven million! They say there is one winner! Oliver! We are that winner!”

“Clive, what is it you are saying?”

“I’m saying you are an idiot. If you don’t get your arse here pronto, you will be the ‘poor sibling’!”

Clive was convinced Oliver had been dropped on his head, more than once.

Clive looked down at the ticket. An empty hand looked back at him.

“Shite.”

Othello trotted out of the room with the ticket clamped between his teeth. Clive dialed Oliver.

“Othello has the ticket!! Get here as soon as you can!”

“What’s that you say?”

“I say mum should have stopped after me! Now are you going to help with this ticket or do I keep all the winnings?”

“On my way. How’d he get the ticket?”

“Never mind how he got it!”

Othello took a leap over the fence at the property’s edge. Clive took the hurtle of the fence with a grunt. Oliver heard the crash.

“Clive?”

Oliver ran through the yard. He looked over the fence at Clive in the middle of Mrs. Windsor’s prize rosebush.

“Have a death wish do you Clive? Old lady Windsor will have your hide when she sees this.”

“Oliver? Go. Find. That. Cat!”

“Oh, right.”

Clive, thorns sticking in him, groaned, “Idiot.”

“I see him Clive, I see him!”

Oliver, on the portly side, hitched his pants as he ran. He was almost to the branch Othello was on when he heard a crack. Othello watched as Oliver hit the garbage dumpster.

“You idiot! He’s headed for the fish pond at the park!”

The two limped at a fast trot toward the park.

“You go around that way, I’ll go this. Then we will jump him.”

Clive would later wonder why he thought this was a good idea.

They rounded the pond as planned, found Othello and jumped him. They saw stars when their heads collided.

“Clive! Othello dropped the ticket! Look!” Oliver grinned from ear to ear as he held up the soggy mess which was once a lottery ticket.

Hopefully, as he began pulling goldfish out of his pants, Clive said, “Are you able to read those numbers?”

“Yes I can. This ticket, that you’ve had me running about for? It’s from last week!”

Clive opened his mouth; closed it again. He stood up. As he walked, he squished. He shook head in disbelief as he walked home, no richer than when he left.

Oh! You Mean Mama!

For those of you that do not know me personally, I work fulltime in the medical field. I have not always worked in this field but I have always had a career in customer service.

My current career began as a nurse’s aide in a nursing home…excuse me, a “nursing facility”. Having been politically correct, it was a nursing home. I have dealt with Fred who only spoke in threes, play with his feces forming little balls of shit. Fred would line these on the side rail and use the aides as targets as we walked by. I began to enjoy the dodging exercise. Catherine thought I was her daughter Agnes. Catherine also thought Peter was her daughter Agnes. Our deaf man, Ed, would go through blind man Walter’s window for escape. John once choked me until there was a purple mark around my neck. Just some of my favorites.

The nursing home and all the abuse I received was left behind when I began working at the hospital. Because of my nursing “facility” experience, I would float to the skilled nursing floor on a regular basis. There, Fred was replaced by Jack. He did not form little balls and use us as a target, he would just fling his colostomy bag out into the hall. Customer service, another word for dodging shit.

Because of health reasons (I have learned that when a patient tells you he can walk, it does not necessarily mean he can stand) I jumped on the opportunity to go back to school. I choose medical billing. Yes, I often kick myself for not going for that Health Information degree. However, if I did, I would be very bored on a daily basis.

Talking to patients is my career. I get more abuse now than when I was working in the nursing home! The best way to handle the abuse is to ignore it. Sure, I am yelled at. But every call I think to myself, this patient is sick (mental really) and can’t help but get angry. Most times, this does not work.

Laughter works. I get a charge out of each and everyone of them. Some more than others. Today I returned a call to a patient. A male answers.

“Hello, this is Lynda (blah, blah, blah), I’m returning a call to Charlene (name change). Is she in?”

“Who?”

“Charlene.”

“I’m not really sure…..” male voice trails off.

“Charlene, C H A R L E N E, Charlene. Is she there?”

“Ohhhhh, you mean Mama!”

Why the hell didn’t I think to ask for mama? Thank you Billy Bob and Backwoods Mama for making my day!

If I not been aware of the passing of Truman Capote in 1984, I would have swore I spoke with him today. He made an appearance on The Tonight Show or it may have been Dick Cavitt (omg! I’m old!) when I was young. I had read In True Blood, a fabulous work and yet I always picture him sitting there telling how all of Hollywood are cannibals, eating baby lambs, baby peas, baby carrots. Believe me, when talking to that gentleman, I did everything I could not to laugh.

And, like, there was a young man, like he had some equipment, like but like he had it, like picked up, like months ago and like he was like told he was like done paying for it…..like.

To make the end of my day was an elderly woman, until she actually told me what the problem was, I saw living in the brownstone next to Rosemary and Guy with a drink of tannis root (I loved Ruth Gordon). But as she begins to spin her tale, the inside of my cheek becomes sore. It seems “Minnie’s” physician ordered a raised toilet seat for her. She said it was lovely of him to think of her comfort. She wanted to know exactly what she should do with the “damned” thing.

“Every time I sat on it, it fell inside the toilet with my ass end following after it!”

“The seat belongs to you Minnie. You can do with it what you like.”

“I’d like to give it to the old biddy (Ruth is in her 90s mind you) down the hall. It will keep her busy and out of my hair!”

I picture the “old biddy” getting a delivery in a light blue Tiffany’s box with a lovely white bow at the top.

I love to laugh, my job almost demands it. So thank you Backwoods Mama and her boy Billy Bob, Truman, the Valley Boy from Asia and Ruth. As always, you force me to love my job.

Let me begin by saying, “Mom, I’m so, so sorry."

I admit it, I wanted to be part of that “hood”. Motherhood. I was groomed for it. Like so many girls of my generation were. That’s what my mother and grandmothers attempted to do while I was growing up. I believe my mom gave up on the idea when I was 23 and living single. Her mother, bless her, went to her grave thinking I was a spinster while my devoutly Catholic grandmother (dad’s mom) began begging me to marry a nice Jewish boy.

To begin, you have to understand I am the oldest of five children. I love my siblings…now. At the age of 13, not so much. While my friends were joining clubs, after school activities, hanging on corners, I was helping feed babies and wash diapers (yes, I am pre-disposable). Because of this, I announced at the age of sixteen I would not get married or have children before I was thirty! By the age of 26, mom believed this threat to be a promise.

The nightmares began after attending a psychic party. One should never go to one of these things unless truly prepared for what you will hear. I was told by the Reverend Ruby I would have two children, one pregnancy. I’d say I dodged the bullet on that one. No twins, one beautiful daughter and a handsome stepson.

My stepson came to me when he was eleven…YAY! Potty trained! This boy stole my heart from our first meeting, please don’t tell him, it will go to his head. From dressing in a paper bag to blame the aliens for the mess in his room to the police bringing him home for breaking curfew to seeing him off to boot camp to handing me his newborn daughters. I have loved him every minute. There were times I didn’t like him but always loved him.

I’d always wanted a son so when my daughter was born I couldn’t have been happier. After those teen years with my stepson, I welcomed the break. She was born too early and was my little monkey. I’m often told what a great job I did with her…not me, she raised herself. She raised me! There were two times she received a “spanking” (nothing like her mom, I believe I still have a mark the shape of a wooden spoon). The first time she was still in her walker…it cost fifty dollars to have that toy removed from the VCR.

The second may have been my fault if you look at it in a twisted sort of way. I was on the telephone when she bit my butt. She was trying to get my attention I believe. That scar is next to the wooden spoon shaped one.

Now a young woman, she is not only my daughter but my friend. A snarky one at times but I’ll keep her.

And then the others came. My stepson’s friends began to call me “mom” as do some of my daughter’s friends. But there are others who also call me “mom” and young friends who deep in their hearts consider me “mom” when they need one. I’m happy and proud to have them in my family. These children happen to be very close to my heart.

There is this soldier who has my heart, he calls me mom. I met my soldier son on a poker table one evening. Since the war began, I have made a habit to thank any soldier I meet for serving. So as my custom, I thanked this young man for my freedom. We chatted, became poker buddies. The more we chatted, the more drawn I became. In one email, he spoke of his mom and how she passed away from cancer. He touched my heart. When I responded to that email, I told him if he was ever in need of a mom, I would be there. The email later that day started, “I think I will adopt you as mom.” The same email ended with hugs and kisses, I love you, Mom. I’m positive he’s mom is watching and proud of him.

This young man makes me laugh on a regular basis. The status only said, “missing someone”. I laughed until I cried reading comments from young women he is friends with. The email I got! An email quickly went out to him. “You think you have women problems now, wait until I email all the messages I got from your “women”! His sheepish response was “I was talking about you mom”. Yes, I love this kid with all my heart.

I’ve acquired another daughter over the past year. A lovely woman with three children of her own. As time has gone by, our acquaintance grew to a friendship. The friendship has grown into one of mother-daughter. I laugh at her rantings, she is so like me at times. I have cried with her when she is in pain, smile at her finding the woman she really is and protect her as only a mother can. I believe we are truly soul sisters and she was bought into my life now for a reason.

My family grows larger all the time. As a child, I never understood how my mom could have enough love for all five of her children. I now know. My heart will always have room for one more.

Merry Christmas to All

Another year is almost gone. So much has happened this year, I've grown (yes even at my age I managed to grow). I wanted to do something special this year for Christmas. I believe our talents, whether it's writing, painting, or just getting into trouble comes from our past. My mother's mom was a very talented woman. She was an artist. She was a poet. She passed her talent to me (well, maybe not the getting into trouble part).

A couple years ago I took on the project of typing up her recipes. They were all handwritten in pencil on faded paper. I knew the favorites by the splatters that stained the page. So many of them I remember from my childhood. At the back of the book I found a treasure , a poem. This poem is my gift to you this Christmas season. (Edith Jacobs pictured at right.)

Oh! Blessed Holy Night

Edith Jacobs

The sky so softly covered with blue.

Each bright spot is a star peeping through.

And yonder is a mother sweet

With wise men kneeling at her feet.

Oh! Gentle mother, kind and wise

With starlight shining in your eyes.

Hushed is your voice as low you sing

Sweet lullabies to your babe, the King.

All men are wise who worship Him

And so be freed from shame and sin.

I pray, Dear Lord, my life ne'er will be

Too crowded to have room for thee.

The little lamb so soft and white

Contented rest there though the night.

And shepherds calmed of their fear

To worship Him have ventured near.

All eyes turned skyward see the star.

Sweet angel voices sing from afar.

All sinful thoughts and deeds take flight.

All Christians worship Thee tonight.

A Thanksgiving To Remember

This is the time of year that we all give thanks, or at least that is the theory, for the blessings we have. My thought had always been that while heads were bowed during grace, the blessings are for more material things. Mom is giving thanks that her best china hasn't been broken to pieces, Dad is giving thanks that as soon as this is over he can take a nap before the football game. Bradley is giving thanks that he found a part for his car, Bella is giving thanks that she's not pregnant and little Billy is giving thanks that he can play his video games when all this family stuff is over.

Years ago I worked on the pediatric ward of one of our local hospitals. Now I know many of you are thinking, how sad, all those sick children. True, it could be very sad. But, as Art Linkletter used to say (yes, I am old) "Kids say the darnedest things".

This tale is not, however, not a happy one. It is the story of a little four year old Arabian girl who touched my heart in such a way that I will never forget her.

It was this time of the year and on the pediatric floor we were very busy. It's the middle of respiratory season. Children with asthma, sinus infections and chronic bronchitis are the main admissions. You can walk onto the floor and almost hear the oxygen tents at work. It was my year to work Thanksgiving and my shift began at three o'clock. Because of the holiday, several of the children had been discharged earlier in the day and most were expected to leave during my shift.

After, what would be considered the dinner hour, admissions called stating they had a child to be admitted with a fracture caused by a fall at her uncle's home. She was visiting from nearby Toronto in Canada for the holiday. Oh, she was tiny and timid, obviously scared to death. All I kept thinking was, here is this poor little girl, in a strange country surrounded by all these people poking and prodding, not understanding a word we said. How frightening that must be.

It was during the admission process while I was getting her into a gown, that I noticed a red marking on her back, a welt you might say. The welt was about an inch and a half wide and approximately four or five inches long. Of course, this was pointed out to my charge nurse who immediately called on the attending resident to look at. To all of us, this looked like it was done by a belt. This gets the ball rolling with Child Protective Services (CPS) in a heartbeat. I was asked to stay with her until her family returned from completing the admissions process. I picked her up, took her to the rocker and sat there with her, stroking her hair, humming and telling her that everything would be just fine, no one would hurt her again. She, of course, didn't understand the words I was saying but I believe she did understand the tears in my eyes and my gentle touch.

Her mother, back from admissions, took a chair but made no move to comfort the child. She sat there with her eyes darting back and forth like a scared rabbit. This really was not unusual. Many of the women I had encountered over the years at the hospital from Yemen or any of the Arabian countries do not speak English. I looked at her, smiled what I'd hoped would be a comforting smile, letting her know that everything would be fine. No sense speaking the words she wouldn't understand. Her uncle was the next to enter the room and the child tensed so much that I knew in my heart that he was the one that had done this to her.

When the resident came in to speak with the family, I gave her to her mother and left the room. I immediately expressed my thoughts to my charge nurse and asked that we move her to the "fishbowl" to keep an eye, not only on her, but her uncle. The "fishbowl" is what we called the observation room across from the nurses station. It's comprised of all windows and used most of the time for seizure patients. My spot at the nurse's station was directly across from this room and I kept a close watch to what was going on in there. This was one time my nosy nature was a blessing. I noticed the behavior of her with each family member, and each time her uncle came into the room she'd manage to get out of there and come running to me. It seemed I'd become her safe haven.

It finally came out that the uncle had sexually abused her, gave her the whipping and pushed her down the stairs as a warning as to what would happen to her if she ever told anyone what he had done.

This little one, that touched me so, nominated me as Employee of the Month (I lost to the groundskeeper. Mowing the lawn is so much more important than what I was doing), sent me cards and drawings. She came to visit me a few months later to give me the greatest of all her gifts, in English she said "Thank you". Suddenly, the cards and pictures stopped. I received word though her mother (just try and find someone to translate Arabic when you need to) that her uncle was released and beat her to death.

So each year, when my head is bowed in prayer, I think of that little one, who so many years ago changed the blessings I count.

Thanks to You

What a ride the past year has been. It wouldn't have been possible if you, my faithful reader and follower, had not been along for the ride. I began my journey writing about what I knew best, me. I held your interest. You asked for more. Amazed may have describe my feelings. Astounded and flabbergasted are adjectives I can think of. Requests for more began to fill my email. People began to send friend requests so they would get the announcement of the latest story. I have not been posting as often as I would like; I started a story that is becoming more of a book. I do promise to continue posting my shorter stories. Thank you again for helping me get to my first blogiversary.