The Many Voices of Music...

Discovering the many voices of music in our wo4ld is like delving into the spirit of discovery through the eyes of every author who has put pen to paper to express their thoughts and tell their stories.

I grew up with music in my home.  My mother loved to listen to her favorite music station on the radio.  Most of the time she would sing along, singing every single word by memory.  It was from her that I gained a deep appreciation for music.  She was my springboard to the music world.  (She also gave me other worlds to explore, but those will be saved for another day and other writings.)

My introduction to music was through the Big Band Era--Tommy Dorsey, Glen Miller and others.  Bing Crosby was my mother's favorite singer, as well as Dean Martin and Perry Como.  Mom loved the "crooners," (but she did not like Frank Sinatra!)  In later years she grew to love Inglebert Humperdink and Alan Jackson--quite diverse for her.

In my teen years, I was introduced to Jazz via my brother, Darell.  I loved the sound of it with all of its intricate variations and drifts from the melody line through major and minor keys.  When he was on his Mission in Switzerland and Austria, he left his stereo at home, as well as all of his LP's.  I played them over and over and was comforted by his music.  It kept him close.

I took piano lessons for many years and loved to play the popular as well as classical pieces Mrs. Marshall would find for me.  I still sit down and play those good old songs.  There is a great surge of emotion flowing through from the brain to the fingertips as I play the songs of yesteryear!

As I grew older and music genres began changing, I drifted for a season into both Rock and Country music.  An odd mix, I know, but I found in both, messages that spoke to my inner experience.  And it is the inner experience that draws us to the music we learn to love.  All over the world, that same inner experience makes both the performer and the listener draw closer to each other.  From the Indian bells and stringed instruments, to the African drums and dances, to the sounds of the music in the Alps, to the tambourines of the energetic Spanish dancers or the strumming of their romantic guitars--music unites all of us.

New Age music brought a whole new experience into my life.  I worked in the Music Department as a stenographer at the University of Illinois in the '60's and heard one of the very first synthesizers that was being developed by one of the students in his lab.  I began to view the world through the eyes of the mystical or "out of the box" musician--sometimes extremely happy and energetic--sometimes dark and melancholy.

I have to confess, there is one genre of music I cannot wrap my arms around personally, and that is Rap.  But, like all other expressions of music, it expresses a multitude of feelings experienced by its writer and it has its place in our music culture.

In my waning years, the music that touches that deep, inner space inside of me is the sacred music of the Gospel.  Hilary Weeks, The Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Paul Cardell and others are a few of my favorites.  I relax and feel closer to my Heavenly Father when I can play or sing a sacred hymn.  Or I can be moved to tears when I hear a Patriotic tune.

I have a son who has given his life to music.  And I respect his choices.  I have watched his life's story unfold through his expressions in his music.  I have witnessed first-hand the growth from little boy Rock Star to his endless variety of expressions on guitar, piano, clarinet, drums, ukulele, and his ultimate love, cello.

Billy was born with music inside of him and it was only a matter of time before it bubbled to the top to express itself.  He is not selfish with his gift and has shared it with the world.  He knows from whence it came and he shares it with love.

Many of my ancestors were musicians.  The ones I remember were my Grandmother and Grandfather on my dad's side.  Grandma played the guitar, mandolin and harmonica, while Grandpa played the fiddle and guitar.  They played for many open-air dances in their younger years.  Grandma's dad and grand-dad played in local bands.

I have other children who have been blessed with the gift of music.  Some sing, some play musical instruments, and some just appreciate listening.  That gift has also been passed on to some of my grand-children.  Oh what a great gift it is.

From my pioneer heritage to my gifted children and grandchildren, music has been one of the common threads that bind us.   It is the universal language that every soul on God's earth can understand.  I picture the Heavenly choirs that will usher us home and music will be the final voice that will live through the eternities.

Lost, But Not Alone...

 

JULIE

Chapter One

 

I met Jacob in the spring of 2009.  He was sitting on a curb, hugging himself, rocking back and forth and crying.  He was dressed in dirty, ragged jeans, an old sweatshirt and a thin jacket that looked to be two sizes too big and barely adequate to keep out the spring chill.  His face was dirty and he wore a few days growth of peach fuzz on his chin.  I guessed his age to be maybe 17 or 18 and a long way from home.

 

I don't usually pay much attention to these lost, homeless street urchins.  My usual action is to just pass them by and mutter something like poor soul to myself.  But this young boy was different.  I had a strange feeling that I needed to stop.  I looked at him with a strong feeling of compassion, took a few steps to the curb and sat down beside him.

 

"Hi, my name is Julie," I said.  I felt a little strange, but thought that might be a good opener.

 

Nothing!  Silence!

 

All he could do was continue as before, rocking and sobbing.  His head was bowed down with his chin nearly touching his chest.  My heart was breaking.  I wanted to put my arms around him and hug him tight, but I resisted.

 

"I just noticed you sitting here and you looked cold and maybe hungry.  Are you hungry?"  I tried again to get a response.

 

Still he was silent.  I decided to look away and give him some time.  I sat there with him, keeping my thoughts to myself, and wondered if maybe I was wasting my time.  The moments ticked by slowly.  Who was this boy?  Where did he come from?  What was his story?  Everyone has a story.  Even I have a story.

 

After several minutes, he spoke.  "Jacob.  My name is Jacob."

 

I looked at him and smiled.  "Well, Jacob, are you hungry?  There's a little diner around the corner.  I'd be happy to buy you something to eat.  I'm pretty hungry myself," I offered.

 

Again, he was silent.  However, this time I could feel something in the silence.  It was speaking volumes of loneliness to me and I knew I could not just give up and abandon this boy.

 

"Why would you offer to feed a total stranger?" he asked.  "I'm just a worthless piece of trash waiting for the garbage truck to pick me up and deposit me in the dump."  His depression was thick as syrup and finally had a voice.  My heart responded, and I continued to reach out.

 

"Let's just say I don't see garbage sitting here.  I see a young boy who has probably lost his way and could use a friend to help him find it."

 

Another long silence--punctuated by less rocking.  I asked myself, what is it with this boy?  I could feel his thoughts.  Is that possible?  He wasn't crying any more.  This boy is a processor, I decided.  He just needs time.  And so I sat there on the curb giving him all the time he needed.

 

With both of us deep in thought, I began to reflect on how many kids I've seen on the streets lately.  They just seem to be multiplying, as though it is a whole new culture springing up.  I don't know, maybe this kid isn't one of them.  Maybe he's just dirty because he chooses to be and just had a major blow-out with his dad.  I do know though, that right now something made me stop and this poor soul is hungry.  The one obvious thing here and now is that here is a kid who feels worthless.  No child should feel worthless. 

 

My thoughts then turned to something that my good friend, Kate said to me the other day.  She was all upset about her sister's 15-year-old son who had just up and walked out the front door and hasn't been heard from since.  I wondered if I felt impressed to stop because of that.

 

The word Prodigal came to mind, as I recalled the parable as recorded in Luke, Chapter 15.  I tried comparing today's runaway children with the son who took all the riches his father bestowed upon him and went out into the world.  He was extravagant and wasted all he was given and in the end was penniless and destitute.

 

Unlike the repentant son of the parable, today's prodigals don't leave their homes with riches to squander.  The only riches they have are their future potentials.  Today's prodigals squander their potential by making their homes under bridges, on our city streets or hidden away in desolate places far from home.  They leave home for a variety of reasons.  Perhaps the number one reason is abuse, either physical or emotional from one parent or both or even some other family member.  Or they leave because they feel misunderstood, misjudged or neglected.  Their self-worth, as this young boys', is in the basement.

 

More and more kids are leaving home because of peer pressure, getting involved with drugs or alcohol, or problems including failure at school.  Whatever the reason, the numbers are astounding.  I read an article in Kids Health that there are somewhere between "one million and three million runaway and homeless kids living on the streets in the United States."  That number is astounding to me.

 

"Ma'am?  Julie?"  Jacob's voice broke through my thoughts, and I turned to face him.

 

"Uh, yes, what is it Jacob?"

 

"I think I would like something to eat, if you're still offering."  He barely spoke above a whisper, but I was delighted to hear his words.

 

"Of course I am.  Let's get up from here and go find you and me a meal."  It would be good to get off this curb and in a standing position again.  My backside was beginning to feel numb.

 

We stood and walked to the end of the block, turned left and walked another half block or so to Alice's Place, a local diner that served pretty good food.

 

"You like hamburgers?" I asked.

 

"Yeah," was his one-word reply.

 

"Alice probably makes the best hamburger on the planet," I said, as I held open the door and we went inside.

 

We sat in a booth, facing each other.  The waitress took our orders and I turned back to Jacob.

 

"Where are you from, Jacob?" I asked.

 

He didn't answer my question, but responded with a question of his own.

 

"Why did you stop to talk to me?  No one does that."

 

I thought a minute before I replied.  "I'm not sure, really.  I just saw you sitting there and something inside me nudged me to stop.  Are you sorry that I did?"

 

"No, I was just wondering," he said.  For the first time, he raised his eyes to look at me and I could feel him struggling to find words.  "Do you know what I was thinking when you stopped?  I was trying to think of some way to kill myself.  And then I started thinking about my mom.  That's when I started losing it...and then you stopped.  Are you an angel?"

 

I had to smile at that observation.  "No, Jacob, I'm not an angel, but sometimes God sends people to act as angels for Him.  Maybe He sent me, I don't know."

 

The waitress brought our burgers and Jacob attacked his ravenously.  I wondered when was the last time this kid had anything to eat.

 

I asked him again where he was from.  I still didn't get a reply, but the tension that clouded his face, his downcast eyes, and his clenched jaw told me I better not push it right now.  I decided to change the subject.

 

"I'm pretty new to this area.  My daughter and I moved here from California," I told him.  "We had to leave a lot of memories behind.  I was pretty lucky because I found a job right away."

 

It was pretty much a one sided conversation for several minutes, me offering bits and pieces of my life, and Jacob consuming his hamburger, fries and Coke.  When he finished, he looked around and started to get up.

 

"Would you like anything else?  A milk shake?  A piece of pie?"  I didn't want him to just leave.  I had so many questions and hadn't found the right way to break through yet.

 

"No, I really should be going," he quietly informed me.

 

I really didn't feel like I could push him anymore.  "Is there anything you need, Jacob?"

 

"No, I'll be fine," he said.

 

"Not even a place to sleep?" I asked.

 

"No.  You've done enough already.  I really don't know what to say.  No one has ever been this nice to me.  I won't forget it."  Now he was standing.

 

I scooted out of the booth and stood next to him.  I reached in my purse and pulled out a $20 bill and one of my business cards.  I reached for his hand and put the money and my card in it and wrapped his fingers around them.  "Take this, Jacob.  And if ever you change your mind, call me.  My cell number is probably the best one to reach me."

 

He didn't say anything, just looked down at his hand, shoved its contents into his pocket and looked at me.  Then he turned and walked toward the door.  When he reached it, he turned around and said, "Thank you."

 

That was it.  He went through the door and walked down the street, out of sight.  I wanted to cry.  My heart felt like it had just been ripped to shreds.

 

I picked up the check and walked to the cashier to pay.

 

"Where did you find that riff-raff?" the cashier asked me.

 

I looked her straight in the eye and said, "That young boy is no different than you or me.  He's just been dealt a different playing hand and right now he doesn't have a clue what to do with the cards he's holding.  He's lost, alone and just needed a friend, a meal and maybe a small helping hand."

 

She took my money and just shook her head. 

Anatomy of a Head Bleed, Part Two...

 

In Retrospect

 

 

After a couple of weeks of recovery and multiple visits to the Physical Therapist, I asked my daughters and my husband  to write their feelings about the experiences they had as first-hand

observers of my illness.

 

Kim, my oldest, wrote, "Mom was in so much pain; she didn't look so good.  My first reaction was, 'Oh, I can't stand to see my mother in so much pain, what can be done?'"

 

"Mom was in a lot of pain and wasn't talking a whole lot," said Debi.  "She wanted to be left alone."

 

JerriAnne said, "When I looked into her eyes lying in that hospital bed and saw the great pain and confusion, my heart hurt deeply.  I wanted to take all that pain and confusion away for her."

 

My youngest daughter, Heather, has had a very difficult time processing her feelings, and she has not sent me her list of feelings yet.  But her silence speaks volumes.  I know in my heart that she was deeply affected by this experience but just can't bring herself to talk about it.

 

My husband's words touched me.  He wrote, "We were more than concerned--we were stoically squelching our fears to appear 'strong', but inside, worry, fear and prayer were all bubbling up in a confused or rampant admixture of...HOPE!'"

 

Physical pain is subjective in nature and can only be truly felt by the person who is suffering it.  However, there is another kind of pain that is experienced by watching a loved one in agony.  This was attested to by my loved ones in their thoughts above, and I can relate, because I felt it strongly while watching my mother's suffering in her last months of life.

 

I'm very grateful for trained and experienced surgeons who can work miracles, but I know the greatest healer of all is my Savior.  It was through faith and prayers that my life was spared.  I received two Priesthood blessing prior to surgery, and felt the peace and calm all around me as I listened to those powerful, healing words.

 

Kim wrote, "When I went to bed that night I prayed they would move up the surgery to Tuesday to relieve the pain in my mother's head.  My prayers were answered, as the next day, they said they were taking her into surgery that day."  Kim also commented on the family prayer she offered before I went to surgery.  "That was a very humbling experience, too.  I could feel the spirit comforting all of us as we gathered around mom's bed and I said a prayer of thankfulness and asked for a blessing to be upon her and all of us and our families."

 

During my surgery, my husband went to the hospital quiet room and took time on his knees to pray for me.  He told me later that there was a little book in the room for writing thoughts.  He wrote, "Praise God for His blessings; blessed by His Son, the Grand Healer who, through Him, creates miracles for ALL of us, every day."

 

Kim also commented in that little book: "So grateful today for all of the blessings we have received.  Thank you, Lord for answering our prayers and sending this comfort."  The words Debi wrote were few, but powerful:  "THY WILL BE DONE.  Thank you Heavenly Father!"

 

When I was released from the hospital, three days after my surgery, I faced a long uphill climb back to my previous level of health.  Mentally, I had to re-train my brain to do even the simplest things such as getting a spoon to my mouth.  It was also difficult to get the task I was thinking about in my brain to travel to my arms and hands and respond with the correct action.  In the beginning, I couldn't type; I couldn't write a sentence with a pen; and I couldn't play familiar music on my piano.  These were all devastating to me, but I knew with determination and perseverance that I could move forward.

 

Physically, I had issues with balance and gait when walking.  I kept running into things.  The use of a walker was a Godsend, but still I would push it into a wall.  Two months of physical therapy brought strength, balance, and coordination back to my body.

 

I lost all of my hair where they shaved my head for surgery, but it grew back, slowly.  I look at pictures of my former self with long flowing hair and then I would look in the mirror and laugh.  Yes, that former head of hair was fun to wear in all kinds of fashionable do's, but this new me, with barely an inch of hair on my head, looked at life with renewed gratitude.

 

It has been a little over a year since that first headache and I am sitting here writing my thoughts in perfect harmony with cognitive and physical unity.  I hold each and every new day tightly in my hands and delight in the fact that it is mine to shape and enjoy.  Though I could choose to waste my time on meaningless living, I choose to use up every single second in gratitude that the good Lord has seen fit to give me so many new days.  I choose to do good works in my life, like offering help to my fellow man, loving more freely, giving more to those in need and showing more gratitude.  I choose to let the frivolous things, like thinking only of me and my needs, live in the past.

 

I know now my life is indeed blessed, and I will move forward one day at a time, grateful for every sunrise.

 

 

Anatomy of a Head Bleed...

PART ONE

THE ONSLAUGHT

 

Life has a way of jolting us back to reality from time to time, making us aware of just how fragile it all is.  I have experienced a few of these life-changing events in my 73-year journey; the most recent took me within knocking distance of heaven's door.

 

I have been plagued with headaches for a good part of my life.  Though never tested thoroughly or officially diagnosed, I was convinced I had migraines; the throbbing pain and sensitivity to light and noise that accompanied my headaches were classic migraine symptoms,.  But on the evening of June 7, 2012, I was struck down with the worst head pain I had ever experienced.  I took my usual migraine medication and went to bed to relieve the agony.  It felt like a knife stabbing through the top of my head and into my eyes.  I had no idea, however, that this pain was not a migraine.

 

Two hours after taking my medication, I was awakened again with the same intense pain.  This time, however, it was accompanied by nausea and vomiting.  I knew I needed relief, so I shook my husband and woke him.  "I need to go to the emergency room," I said.

 

Barely aware of what I was saying, he grunted, "What?"

 

"I said--I need to go to the ER."

 

He opened his eyes and looked at me like I was crazy!  But seeing the pain in my eyes galvanized him into action.  He quickly dressed, escorted me to the car, and drove me to the hospital.  The ER staff did their job and gave me a liter of fluid through my veins.  They also gave me some IV medication that put me to sleep and relieved my pain.  When it was time to go home, I felt a little dizzy, but they said that was normal.

 

My relief was short lived with the headaches returning the following day.  They weren't as severe and responded well to my migraine medication so I continued to endure them for another nine days.  Having been a registered nurse in the Intensive Care Unit for 35 years, I had a gut sense that something else was going on.  For once in my stubborn life, I listened to these deep visceral feelings and the prodding of my husband and called my physician.  My husband and I explained my circumstances, and were sent back to the hospital to get a CT Scan of my head.

 

At this point, I felt like I was living in a nightmare.  Nothing seemed real.  When I returned to my room from having the scan, the doctor came to my bedside with a concerned look on his face.  He took me by the hand and looked me in the eyes, "Your CT Scan shows a very large head bleed on the left side," he said.  "It corresponds to where your headaches are located.  We are going to have to send you to a hospital in Portland where you can receive a higher level of care."

 

I felt numb.  Completely numb.  I knew from my medical training how serious this diagnosis was.  I have helped prepare many patients for transport to a higher level of care facility.  Some of those patients made it; some of them did not.  I told my doctor, I wanted to see the x-ray, and so he took me to the doctor's dictating room where the x-ray was already up on the view box.  When I looked at it, my knees began to buckle.

 

"May I sit down?" I asked.  He brought me a chair and the two of us went over the areas of the brain that were affected.  The bleed, a subdural hematoma, was huge and had shifted my whole brain to the right side by one millimeter.  No wonder I was having headaches!

 

When I had seen enough, we went back to my room and the staff got me ready for transport.

 

All during my ride to Portland in the back of an ambulance, my head was swimming for answers.  How did this happen?  I didn't even remember bumping my head?  The Paramedics were very attentive, but they had no answers.  Upon my arrival at Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) I was taken via gurney to the Neurological Intensive Care Unit (ICU0.

 

Our brain is the electronic powerhouse that controls our bodies, (shaped much like the two halves of a walnut).  Wrapped around that brain is a tough, protective meningeal membrane called the Arachnoid Mater.  Between that membrane and the next one, is a small space which is the home of bridging blood vessels.  The other membrane, the Dura Mater, is the second protective covering for the brain.  Due to an injury to the brain, tiny blood vessels between the two membranes rupture and the resulting blood flow fills that limited space, then starts compressing the brain itself that can cause brain tissue damage.

 

There are two types of subdural hematomas, acute and chronic.  Of the two, acute is the most life threatening.  These are often the result of "high speed acceleration or deceleration injuries and have a high mortality rate," according to Wikipedia.

 

"Chronic subdural bleeds develop over a period of weeks, often after minor head trauma," Wikipedia states.  These bleeds are common in the elderly, due to atrophy (shrinking) of the brain, which stretches the veins in the subdural space making them fragile and easily broken.

 

My head bleed fell into the category of a chronic subdural hematoma.  My doctor said it had been leaking for quite some time.  His plan was to observe me for a few days and then, if needed, they would go in and evacuate the blood.  I decided to settle into my new "home" for the duration and let the professionals take care of me.

 

On Monday, I had a pleasant surprise when my four daughters came to see me.  My husband also managed to get an emergency week off work making it feel like a family reunion, though frustrating and sad to be under such grim circumstances.

 

I don't remember a lot about Monday.  Most of it was a blur because of the pain and the meds I was given to treat it.  Later, JerriAnne, my third daughter said, "The pain killers made you loopy."  Debi, my second daughter said, "You were in a lot of pain and wanted to be left alone."  My husband said, "I saw that, even with pain meds, you were literally tormented with head pain and just wanted to rest."

 

On Tuesday, June 18, 2012 I felt very emotional and unsure of my future.  I was angry--"Why me?  What have I done to deserve this?"  I was afraid--"What can I expect as an outcome of brain surgery?  Will I be cognitively or physically impaired?  Would I have memory of who I am and what my life had been or was like?"  I even thought, "Would I come out of all of this alive?"  And, I was anxious--anxious for my family, anxious for my friends and of course, anxious for myself.

That afternoon, I looked around the room, into the eyes of my four daughters, and I didn't know who they were.  I knew my husband's name but not who he was.  I didn't know where I was.  I didn't know what day it was, or even the month, date or year.  But I did know that Obama was the President.  I said his name loud and clear in a low, guttural tone.  My husband said he laughed at that one.  My doctor immediately cleared his surgical schedule and prepped me for a craniotomy.  Time was not on my side.  The longer we waited, the bigger the bleed would become and the pressure could do more damage to my brain.

I was wheeled out of the room on a gurney.  I left my family not knowing whether I was going to have a complete craniotomy, where they remove a sizable portion of the skull to get to the hematoma, or drill holes and place a drain or two to accomplish the same goal.

I don't remember going for an MRI on the way to surgery.  I don't remember being wheeled into the surgical suite.  And, thankfully, I do not remember the surgery.

My heart went out to my family, as they were witnesses to these events.  Somewhere in my confused state, I did know I was in good hands.  Not only did I have a brilliant and competent surgeon, I knew I was being taken care of by my loving Savior, the ultimate healer and physician, who would guide the surgeon every step of the way.

When I awakened back in my room, I was relieved to find they had only drilled two holes.  I could feel two drains coming out of the top of my head.  The nurses had to remind me to keep my hands off of those drains!  I was pretty groggy from anesthesia, but instantly relieved that I recognized my girls and husband and witnessed the joy that came into their faces as they saw me returning to my former self.

I knew I had some cognitive issues right away.  When I talked, I slurred my words and had difficulty finding the right words for what I wanted to say.  It was a frustrating feeling. 

As time moved on and my prayers slowly brought me closer and closer to the person I was before the bleed, I began to feel a gratitude in my heart such as I had never felt before.  Coming so close to knocking on the Gates of Heaven made me realize how fragile life is, and how valuable every second of it is.

 

 

   

Change, Life's Only Constant...

We experience many changes in our lives.  We change our minds like we change our clothes.  We carry around many coins in our pockets and purses, and we call that "change."  Our bodies are forever changing from infant to toddler, child to adult, thin to fat and back again.  We change residences and friends every time we move, and we change our names when we answer "I will" to the question of forever.  (That last change is only reserved for the women in my chain of friends and family.  Sorry, guys!)

We go through life hoping the decisions and choices we have made will come to somehow improve our lives and keep us on a relatively stable course.  For the most part, we learn to accept minor changes and even some major ones as long as they fit in with the overall plan.

Some changes we control and through calculated planning, move on with our lives.  We can't always control the amount of change we have in our pockets--in fact the sum keeps growing smaller and smaller these days.  Other changes are thrust upon us without so much as a "may I" or "thank you."  It was one of the latter that pulled me up by the roots and sent my whole well-planned life into a tail spin, introducing me to a chain reaction of events that would change my life forever.

The one major event that knocked the wind out of my sails and drove me to my knees came into my life on February 7, 1981.  That was the day I received the news that my life-long sweetheart, whom I only teasingly said, "see you" to on that fateful morning, was not going to come home--ever.

It was a Saturday and my husband got up early to go running and do a little work with some of his students at the University. I was left at home to do my usual Saturday chores, getting five kids off to their Saturday activities, and getting myself ready for work.  It was a Saturday like every other Saturday.  There was nothing unusual about it.

But, as it turned out, it was not my usual Saturday.  At somewhere near six o'clock p.m., just after my dinner break, I was called into my manager's office and offered a seat.  I can't begin to list all of the things that were going through my head.  Whenever one is called into the boss' office, it seems natural to think that you might be getting in trouble.  When you are a nurse, you pray every day that you will do the right thing, be precise with your care, and bring no harm to your patients.  And, as I sat there, looking into my manager's eyes, searching for some clue that would tell me what it was that I had done wrong, she began to speak.

"I have bad news for you, and I really don't know how to say this."  That was all I needed to hear.  In fact, at that moment, I stopped hearing at all.  Here it comes, I thought.  I've done the unthinkable and I'm about to be fired!  Trouble was, I couldn't figure out what the "unthinkable" thing was.

"I just got a phone call from your daughter, Kim," she was saying as I tuned her in again.  "Your husband has died and your daughter is on her way to pick you up."  I just stared at her.  Comprehension had failed me.  No, disbelief!  I could tell she was devastated by having to give me such news.  Her hand bridged the distance across the space of her desk, and she took my hand in hers.  Then she said, "I'm so sorry."

Did she just say, "Your husband has died?"  Did I hear that right?  Never in my life had four words slammed into my whole being as those four words did.  "YOUR HUSBAND HAS DIED!"  I felt all of the blood drain out of my head and into my feet and for the first time ever in my life I knew why they always say, "sit down" when they are about to deliver bad news.  I couldn't have stood on my feet if I tried.

"Your husband has died."  Suddenly, in one instant my whole world became a void, a hollow space that I somehow managed to move through.  I don't remember getting up from that chair, let alone making it down the hallway with my daughter's arm around my shoulder, and into her fiancé's car.  I don't remember walking in the door of my home.  I don't remember the looks on my children's faces when I wandered aimlessly through the house, trying to make sense out of what was happening.  I was in a fog.  My system was on auto pilot, because I certainly was not in control.  The numbness I felt was like something that was other-worldly.  Nothing was real.  "Your husband has died," and a part of me died that day, too.

Loneliness and depression are my enemies.  Where one goes, the other follows closely on its heels.  Time and keeping busy become your friends.  They help combat loneliness and depression.  I have no idea how I managed to muddle through those long days and nights of loneliness trying to prepare for the funeral, but somehow I did.  I took an extended leave from work and immersed myself in the routine of raising five children.  I shall always be grateful for them.  They kept my mind occupied and focused me on the tasks of daily living.  I don't remember crying because I now had the job of being both mother and father to those children.

In June, I had to face another loss.  Our oldest daughter, Kimberlee was already in the planning stages of her wedding when her father died.  Now, it was going to be a reality.  Together, we planned, executed the plan and basically did the entire wedding ourselves.  Kim was the "wedding planner."  She was phenomenal!  She worked out the details and I just followed instructions.  I don't remember the time passing because we were so busy.

Kim is an artist and she designed her own wedding gown.  She picked out patterns for bridesmaid's dresses and we earnestly began to burn the midnight oil sewing.  Kim transformed the flowing, soft white fabric into an elegant gown.  she also sewed three of the bridesmaid's gowns.  I assisted her and sewed two more of the gowns and made one for me, as well.  This was the activity that consumed us for four very short months.  In the end, the day of celebration proved to be worth the effort.  On June 6, 1981, my number one daughter became Mrs. Kenneth D. Messick and was the most beautiful bride I had ever seen.  Another change came into my life.

It is hard to express the feelings I had when my firstborn left the nest.  The emptiness wasn't the same as when her father died, but it was emptiness, nonetheless.  There was gratification in my heart knowing her father and I had done a good job raising such an amazing daughter.  Sometimes I reflect and wonder how on earth did we do it?

I returned to work a month before the wedding, but by August I was ready for a vacation.  It is hard work providing for the family Gerry left me.  And so, for the first time in 22 years, I was going on a vacation without my husband.  It felt weird to plan such an event.  This change was new and awkward to me.  Two of my daughters, Debi and JerriAnne, chose an Alaska Cruise.  They were as excited as I was to go.  I had dreamed of a cruise for years, But Gerry would never discuss it because he suffered from motion sickness whenever he was on a big boat in open water.

Our decision to take that cruise introduced me to new, and unexpected changes.  They say that sometimes when you are least expecting blessings in your life that is exactly when they arrive.  This was my case.  On the very first day of the cruise, even before the ship pulled out of the harbor in Vancouver, B.C., I met a young man who would bring that change about.  In retrospect, looking back to my very first day on the campus of Brigham Young University as a Freshman in September of 1957, I met another young man who would bring about many changes in my life.  That was the day I met Gerry Henderson.  Perhaps "first days" are an omen for me.

It was on this day, August 22, 1981, a bright, beautiful day, that I met my future.  My two daughters and I were beyond excited; and after stowing our luggage in our cabin, we scurried up to the forward deck to watch the ship pull out.  We secured a perfect place next to the rail, which was not easy because the space was filling up fast.  With cameras at the ready, we began to take our first keepsake pictures.

"May I share a portion of your railing?'  This question came from a dark haired, young man, who was trying to find some space at the railing.  I could see that he was anxious to take some photos, as well.  I think it was the camera hanging around his neck that gave it away.

"Of course!  I think there is still some room," I said.  We exchanged introductions and chatted while we enjoyed the movement of the ship and snapped nearly an entire roll of pictures.

It was an innocent enough meeting.  We were two people, unknowingly drawn together as if some giant magnet had pulled on us.  Dean Mickelson was his name.  I learned that he had booked this cruise to bring his parents for a nice vacation.  I thought what a thoughtful thing for a son to do.  I learned that he was a Pharmacist who lived in Taos, New Mexico --a town I had never heard of.  He learned that I was a recent widow with five children and that I was traveling with two of my daughters.  His next comment floored me.

"That answers my question.  I thought you three were sisters."  Needless-to-say, I was flattered and just laughed.

Throughout the cruise, Dean and I kept bumping into each other.  We spent time getting acquainted, talking, playing games, sitting on deck chairs in the sun, dancing, and strolling the decks together in the daytime and in the moonlight.

When the cruise was over, we went our separate ways.  We exchanged addresses, but I really didn't have any thoughts one way or the other that I would ever see this young man again.  There were just too many negative signals hovering over us.  He was 14 years my junior, for one thing.  That seemed like an insurmountable difference in age.  His parents definitely did not think he should be spending any time at all with "that older woman with five children."  And my own daughters were not particularly impressed.

My vacation  was extended another week, so we could take our boat to Lake Powell.  The girls and I had a great time.  When we arrived home, tired and ready to rest, I was greeted by a beautiful bouquet of flowers.  The attached card said they were from Dean, and he included his phone number.  He also included a note thanking me for an incredible time on the "Love Boat."  I was stunned.  It was a message out of nowhere, and it took me by surprise.  The first thing I did was to pick up the phone, call him at his work, and say, "Thank you."  That was the beginning.  No one could have predicted that Dean and I would ever fall in love--especially not me.

But as the months passed, and the correspondence increased, phone calls, cards and letters with invitations to "come to Taos and see what this mountain tri-culture community is all about," I found myself deeply immersed into a sea of new experiences.  I decided to take Dean up on the invitation to visit his mountain.  I managed to get a few days off of work in September and flew to Albuquerque to see what was so special about his little corner of the world. 

I fell in love with the place.  And I was beginning to get a little giddy about the man I was growing more and more fond of.  Before I left Taos, he had finished his wrestling match with himself and made up his mind to ask me to spend the rest of my life with him.  I was stunned by how fast this "friendship" was moving.  I was having a bit of a wrestling match within myself, as well.

Dean wrote me a song entitled "Lori's Theme" which softened my heart and caused tears to flow as he played it on the piano.  He gave me a beautifully crafted, simple necklace that was a single number "1" with little diamonds set in the center of it.  I was so touched by all of this that I told him it would be an honor to be his wife.  My lonely life was over and a new change was about to take place.

Long distance courtships are painful, and at the same time, with nearly daily letters and phone calls, terribly exciting and expensive.  Dean and I began to share inner thoughts and feelings, getting into the core of one another.  We had so many questions that needed to be resolved, so much to learn about each other, that when one question was answered, another would raise its head.

I never dreamed I could fall in love again, in fact, I never, ever planned to.  I began to wonder if I was being unfaithful to my dead husband's memory--or was I being fair to my children?  To say I was torn apart at times was an understatement.  There were days when it was torture.  I found, through letters, that I was not alone in this dilemma.  Dean was having see-saw feelings himself.

The road we were traveling was full of potholes.  Dean's parents continued to disapprove of this summer/spring relationship and my children did not hold anything back when they voiced their concerns.   "What are you thinking, Mom?"  "You're crazy, Mom!"  It was not an easy choice for either of us as doubts began to creep into our daily thoughts and exchanges of concerns.  At one point, we got so discouraged that it looked as though we would call the whole thing off.

Prayer began to play a major role in the soup in which we found ourselves.  From New Mexico to California, the prayer routes were extremely busy with both of us and our families praying for answers.  Over time, the Lord did not let us down.  He provided answers.

My first glimmer of hope came from my own father.  He pulled me aside one day and told me the story of one of his widowed Aunts whose husband had passed away when she was very young.  He said that she never remarried, and it saddened him to watch her live out her life in misery and hardship and loneliness.  He did not want this scenario to play out in his daughter's life.  He reminded me that children would grow up and begin to leave home, and that would leave me quite alone.  He told me the decision would ultimately be mine, but he assured me that I had his and my mother's blessing.

I had the answer to my prayer, and I shared this with Dean.  It took him a little longer to listen to what the spirit was telling him.  Then, late one night, I received a phone call.  Dean had called to reassure me that he had made up his mind.  He was not going to allow anyone or anything to come between us.  He had overcome his doubts.  And so, with new determination, we moved forward with our plans.

With so many changes in my life in such a short period of time, my head was swimming.  Dean and I were married in a lovely church ceremony in Taos, New Mexico on April 25, 1982.  We made our home in New Mexico, and with Heather, nearly 10, became a family of three..  Eventually we built a home and on June 14, 1984, brought a strong, healthy baby boy into our lives.

I've changed my mind a dozen or more times and been led to new experiences that have challenged me and allowed me to grow; my body has changed from the skinny youth of years gone by to an aging one with aches and pains and a few extra pounds; I've changed my address so many times that I have lost count, but in the process, I have gained new friends and experiences along the way; I've changed my hair color and styles more times that I can remember; and I've changed my name twice and experienced the love and devotion of two amazing men in my life.

Chances are there will be other changes in my life, but because I have been introduced to so many, when the next one and the next one and the next one comes, I will embrace them and flow through the change.  If there is only one thing I have learned in my life of change, it is that it does absolutely no good to fight against it, because once change has moved in, it has already taken up residence and will stay. 

Just a Pebble in The Sand...

It was just a small stone, lacking any intrinsic value, but it caught my eye lying there in the sand one day on my central Oregon coast.  I picked it up and slowly turned it over in my hand.  It was smooth and felt warm and I imagined it had been sitting there a long time, just waiting for me to come along.  It was just a simple gray piece of rock, probably broken off eons ago from a great boulder far, far away and endured a long journey to our shore, shaped and reshaped by the water and sand along the way.

I put the stone in my pocket and carried it home, wondering what it would tell me if only it could.  In my mind, I imagined it telling me this story:

She didn't mean to make the elements so angry!  She was just a little particle clinging to her great boulder mother high up in the mountains when the earth began shaking something fierce.  One giant shake and a piece broke off from the mother boulder and crashed to the earth below, carrying her with it and breaking into many other small pieces, and tossing the shard to one side with the force.

"What's happening, mother?  I don't understand!" the little shard cried as she tumbled and turned over and over again falling farther and farther from her mother.

"It is the way of the earth, my child," her mother called to her.  "This is your journey.  Follow your path."  Those were the last words that small shard heard from her mother.

Over and over, the fragment of rock rolled and fell, knocking off some of her sharp edges on the way.  At last, she came to a stop near the bottom of the mountain.  And there she came to rest for a season.

After the shaking of the earth, the rains came.  They fell softly, at first, but increased into a torrent, beating the shard unmercifully.  Many animals, running for shelter, stepped on the little rock, some of the sharp hooves breaking fragments from her edges.  She felt diminished and very alone.  Nothing was the same in her world.  The rain formed rivulets that coalesced into a stream that picked up the stone and tumbled it over and over down the mountain, depositing it at last down at the bottom of the river bed in the valley.  Where once she had been rough, now she was smoothing out.

For the moment the stone, more rounded pebble than sharp shard was afraid and wondered if this was the end of her journey.  She kept hearing her mother's words calling out to her, "This is your journey.  Follow your path."  She gained strength from her mother's words and soon began to like this new place where she had settled.  Other stones joined her there and so she felt less alone.  It's not so bad when you have company, she thought.  Someone to share your journey, your fears, your joys.  In this gathering of friends, she slept.  And while she slept, a change came over the earth.  Snowflakes fell softly on her and her new friends and began to cover the whole earth.  And everything slept.

In the spring, the earth began to warm and the snow melted.  The safe river bed swelled with water which overflowed its banks, picking up the little stone and some of her friends in its headlong rush to the sea, tossing and tumbling them over and over along the way.  "This is your journey.  Follow your path" played continuously in her head, but she wasn't sure she liked this new path with its great rapids, dashing her against huge boulders, and hurling her over waterfalls.  Farther and farther down the river she went.  Farther and farther from her mother.  It seemed to go on forever.

At long last, the stone was tossed out of the river into the great ocean.  Oh, my, thought the stone as the powerful waves rolled her this way and that until at long last she washed up on the shore where I found her.

Holding the pebble now that was so smooth it felt like a marble in my hand, I contemplate my own journey in life.  I left my home--my mother--where I was nurtured and fed and clothed at 17 and journeyed out into the big world to find my way, to follow my path.

Like the little stone that started losing some of its sharp edges as it tumbled along so I too, in facing the tough trials of life, had some of my sharp edges knocked off.  I lost my beloved husband of 22 years to a massive coronary that threw me down a steep mountainside of loneliness, while helping to smooth out some of my rough edges.  I have been lucky and I have been successful, and I have come through the bumps and harshness of experiences with far fewer sharp edges, just as the stone experienced.

Rains came into my life, when I lost my dad suddenly in an automobile accident; it threw me into torrential streams of despair but, again, it too further refined me.  Sometimes I made choices, which continued to test me and push me onward, forever smoothing out the rough edges of my life.  Eventually I was deposited on my own shore where for now I am content to stay.  Hopefully, I have come out of these experiences with a wisdom that will see me through whatever trials I am called on to face.

When I took my pebble home, I set up my tumbler to get ready to give the stone a final polish.  Patiently I wait for her to achieve the final luster just as those who love me wait for me to attain my last bit of polish.

Like the stone, the process to refine my life has been a slow one, but it's not a process that can be rushed if you seek the best outcome.  I cannot be in a hurry if I want to achieve my goals.  And in this final process, more and more of my worldly "edges" will be polished and smoothed and the result will be nothing short of a miracle.

Knowing the polishing process, I am aware I have a very long way to go.  And so, like the stone on her journey, I keep telling myself, "This is[my]journey.  Follow [my] path."

Re-tired...

Ga-plop, ga-plop, ga-plop.  That is the sound a tire makes when it suddenly goes flat.  It is also the sound your heart makes when you contemplate life after work.  And that is the sound my husband and I heard on our way home from an amazing week-end at a country music festival last year.

The Bi-Mart Willamette Country Music Festival in Brownsville, Oregon is one of the many opportunities afforded by our state, for local folks to enjoy great entertainment.  During the festival, we filled up on my favorite Country singers, such as Alan Jackson, who was joined by others throughout the day.  After the show, we spent the night at the Phoenix Inn in Albany, Oregon and were still basking in the glow of our happy time next morning when we headed home.  We'd been on the road about half an hour when we heard that ga-plop sound and knew right away that we had a flat tire.  And it was Sunday.  Where would we find help anywhere on a Sunday?  Plus it was hot--92 degrees, and humid--not the best environment for two Senior Citizens

I finally remembered we were members of AAA and gave them a call.  A man would be out, they said, as soon as possible.  That was not good enough for my husband.  He started pulling everything out of the trunk and set up two lawn chairs.  Now what, I thought, knowing my husband could be a stubborn man.

As I was sitting in one of the lawn chairs, contemplating our situation with a cool drink in my hand, my mind wandered to my recent retirement.  In March I made the decision to retire--for the second time.  I remember the first one vividly.  It was another March, but in 2003.  I was 63-years-old and felt like I could continue working another 10 years physically, but I was going blind.  After 26 years as a nurse, I couldn't see to do my job properly.  On the great road of my life, it was indeed a flat tire.

I was brought back to the present by a nice young couple cycling by.  The young man asked my husband if we needed any help.  I told him AAA was coming, but my words were ignored.  My husband said, "Sure.  I'm trying to figure out this jack."

At that, the young man took over.  He got the jack placed properly, lifted the car, took off the flat tire and put on the spare.  It only took him about 20 minutes.  Meanwhile, I decided I better call AAA and cancel the truck.  I was told by that helpful young man, "No problem, ma'am.  The truck is on a call to an accident on the freeway.  He wouldn't be there for quite a while, anyway."

We figured we were home free, so we thanked the young man with two cool drinks for he and his wife, and took off to get the poor flat tire fixed.  The Firestone Tire worker informed us that the tire had five nails in it and was unfixable.  We had to buy a new tire!  And, the frosting on this cake was that we had to buy two tires in order to get even wear on one axle of the car.  To this day, I don't know if it was just a sales pitch, but at the time it sounded logical.

While sitting in the waiting room, my mind again wandered back to my first retirement.  I muddled through that one the best I could.  I didn't like it.  It didn't suit me.  I took up hobbies, started walking a lot and spent the next two years trying to patch my "flat tire" by having one eye surgery after another.  Like the flat tire on our car, I sought out the best doctors for my eyes.  Despite three surgeries on my right eye, I ultimately lost vision and was quite disappointed.  Like the tire, that eye was unfixable.  On the other hand, I had two surgeries on my left eye and an amazing surgeon managed to save my vision.  He was like the young man who helped my husband with our flat tire.

It took me four years and a lot of patience after those surgeries to retrain my brain to ignore the sightless right eye and concentrate on the vision I had in the good one.  Sometimes it was nothing but frustration.  I discovered in the process, however, that the brain is an amazing organ.  We don't use it nearly often enough, nor do we use all of it.  But, when we do and we really work at it, as those who helped us with our wounded tire, the things we can accomplish are phenomenal.

Those memories brought a smile to my face in the far away waiting room of the tire store.  I felt this remarkable peace come over me.  I couldn't figure out why (amidst all of this chaos) I could possibly feel so calm?

Finally, "re-tired," with all of our stuff packed neatly in the trunk (again), we resumed our journey west.  It was now 3 o'clock in the afternoon and we were hungry.  We found a nice little café where we could unwind from our chaotic day. 

We had to scratch some sight-seeing activities on the way home, but the ride gave me the opportunity to recall how, at the age of 68, I had made the decision to get back to work.  My flat had been fixed the best it could and I was road worthy again.

That was four years ago and in those years I had worked myself back up the ladder and into a position as an Intensive Care Nurse in our small community hospital.  I have given my all and thoroughly enjoyed the ride, but when I celebrated my 72nd birthday, I realized the old machine is slowing down.  I was tired.  This time, however when I retired from my full-time position, it was because I was ready.  It was time to "re-tire."

I Will Not Forget

There are many who will not agree with me, but "9/11" has made an imprint on my heart.  It is more than a date on a long-ago calendar.  It is a reminder that no matter how safe and free you feel at any given moment in time, someone or something out there is poised in the wings ready to zap your complacency in an instant, and life as you know it will never be the same.

There are some who say we are "over-reacting" and we need to "just let it go" and "get on with our lives."  Tell that to the 3,000 plus families who woke up on that morning and watched an historic event that would mark for them the worst day of their lives.  In an instant that loved one they kissed good-bye just a few hours ago is now just a memory; and that kiss or whatever words were exchanged is emblazoned in their hearts forevermore.  As the day unfolded, the images of two burning buildings crashing in a heap to the ground were deeply engraved in their memory banks, and nothing will ever erase them.

This tragic event brought to my mind another one that occurred many years ago.  I was but a toddler, barely two years old when Japanese aircraft dropped hundreds of bombs on Pearl Harbor and the military bases in Hawaii.  I don't remember the event, but I do remember my mom and dad glued to their chairs in front of the radio listening to news of what this meant for the country they dearly loved.  I remember "black outs" vividly, because we had to blacken all of our windows, turn off all of our lights and huddle together in darkness.

I didn't like the dark.  I remember my dad donning his white Air Raid Warden helmet and going out in that darkness.  I was afraid for him.  Where was he going?  Would he come back?  We could hear planes flying overhead and that was frightening, because we didn't know whether they were ours or whether they belonged to an enemy.

We lived just two blocks from Douglas Aircraft Company where DC bombers were built.  Our house stood barely one block from the end of the runway of the Santa Monica Airport.  Numerous airplanes took off over our house at all hours of the day and night.  I learned later that the entire aircraft plant's roof was camouflaged to look like a typical neighborhood, complete with a park.  From the air, enemy planes wouldn't suspect what was really underneath all of that camouflage.  Those were scary times for a two-year-old.

My parents would never forget that day, December 7, 1941, nor would the survivors who were in Pearl Harbor or stationed on one of the military bases nearby.  No one said to them, "You're over-reacting."  No one said, "Get over it and get on with your life."

On September 11, 2001, I wrote:

     "After the first moments of disbelief, and the sickening feeling of reality has set in...
      After the numbness wears off, and we see and feel again...
      After time has begun to move forward and we pick up our broken hearts...
      We will awaken on a new day, and we will never be the same again."

One year later, I wrote:

     "God help us treasure our freedoms and meet each new day with resolve.
      And help us protect and defend our country, firm in the commitment to be better Americans."

In 2008, my husband and I had the privilege of performing in a musical program entitled "Requiem 9-11" in Lincoln City, Oregon.  It was written by Dr. Robert Herman who was in New York City on that infamous day.  He is passionate about his music and about the feelings still with him from that day.  It was a humbling experience to be a part of such an event.

     "In my heart, I don't believe there is a single American alive today, that does not pause and reflect on their individual memories of that day.  Where were you?  Do you remember what you were doing?  I do, as though it were yesterday!  I have not forgotten."  (From my journal 9/11/2008)

     "We have many events in history that deserve our consideration in memory.  It is for all those who have given their lives for the cause of freedom throughout history that presses me forward in my own little fight for freedom.  Some say we should end this mindless war--well, aren't all wars mindless?  Wars are the culmination of an ongoing battle between right and wrong that began long before the human family ever peopled this earth.  As long as I have some fight left in me, I will continue to stand for the right and defend those who would choose righteous living."  (From my journal 9/11/2009)

I bow my head on this day, as I have for the past twelve years, and in a moment of silence I remember those who gave their lives.  I remember their families and loved ones and pray for healing.  I don't ever want to "get over it."  I don't ever want to forget.  Each time there is a heinous act carried out against freedom, it awakens a new resolve in me to do more to preserve it.  It awakens a new awareness that we can and should do better.

No!  I will not forget!

The Dreaded Night Shift...

"I can do this.  I've raised six children and I have experience with long, sleepless nights."  These were the thoughts I entertained when I received my first job offer to work the night shift at our local hospital.  That was twenty-six years ago and I still sleep late into the morning and come alive at night.

According to research, there are somewhere between nine and fifteen million people in this country who work the night shift.  That is an astounding number.  Their value in our society lies in the fact that the areas where they work simply cannot shut down.  These night workers can be found in hospitals, on ambulance crews, in police and fire departments, managing the desks in hotels and motels, and even working in big industries.  For the most part, these folks are doing what all night workers do--adjusting to life working in artificial light and doing their best to sleep in darkened rooms during the day.

I found a number of studies relating to our circadian clock and some of the findings are quite interesting.  In one study, for instance, conducted by the Salk Institute for Biological Studies, the discovery of a "clock-gene" that is linked to our natural twenty-four hour cycle is very sensitive and expresses itself in a variety of ways to light.  (I had no idea there was a "clock gene.")  This twenty-four hour cycle, called the circadian clock, is what tells our bodies when it is time to sleep and when it is time to wake up.  It tells us we should be awake when it is light and sleeping when it is dark.

Working the night shift plays havoc with these circadian rhythms.  The chemicals in our bodies were designed to keep us awake during the daylight hours and asleep when the sun goes down.

Other researchers are tying night workers to a multitude of diseases such as breast cancer.  This dreaded condition has been linked to the use of artificial light.  Further, there are studies that have found a relationship between heart disease, bone fractures, gastrointestinal, mood, and neurological disorders in night shift workers.  Diabetes and obesity have also been noted to be a result of working the dreaded night shift.

In an article by Brandon Keim, "Night Shift Makes Metabolism Go Haywire," it was suggested that even on your days off, you should keep the night shift schedule to keep your circadian rhythm, settled.  There are very few people who want to do that.  Most of us want to get back to "normal" schedules on our days off for a variety of reasons.  When I was still working, I felt very fortunate to be able to maintain a normal schedule on my days off.  After an eight day stretch with two days off in the middle--my weekend, if you will--I would have a six day stretch off to catch up and return to a normal rhythm.  This worked quite well for me.

From Lisa Percy's website "Night Owl Café," I gleaned the following suggestions to help night workers get the sleep they need.

     1.  Sleep in a darkened room.  This will fool your body into thinking it is night.  Some people    choose to wear a sleeping mask and darken their windows to create the illusion that it really is night.
     2.  Limit inside and outside noise.  Most of the world is awake during the day and life goes on for them as usual.  Get yourself a good pair of ear plugs and some signs to hang on your door.
     3.  Turn the ringer off on your phone or unplug it.  Most callers, especially the pesky telemarketers don't know you're a day sleeper.  Let your answering machine take your messages in another part of the house.
     4.  Inform as many people as possible that you are a day sleeper to keep telephone calls or home doorbells to a minimum.
     5.  Avoid caffeine at least three to five hours before you settle in for your sleep.

I managed to be productive on the job at night for twenty-five years, and could still get the sleep my body needed during the day.  I am one of those who used to come home, change clothes and climb right into bed, falling asleep within fifteen minutes.  My own circadian rhythm usually wakes me up after five hours of sleep.  That gave me a few daylight hours to see the sunshine and do a few chores around the house.  I then could get a one to two hour nap before getting ready to start it all over again.

Because I worked 12-hour shifts, my days were made up of sleep, eat and work.  I ate a fairly nutritious diet, walked on the beach when it wasn't raining, and my husband and I enjoyed a variety of activities whenever we shared a day off together.

I am retired now because I found my energy level was decreasing and my pace was beginning to slow.  In the spring of last year, I hung up my stethoscope, retired my scrubs and am spending the rest of my days finding out what it's like being awake in the daylight hours every day of the week.  It has been quite an adjustment.

Am I sorry I took that very first night shift job?  Not for a single minute.  I guess I am one of the few who can say I was cut out of the night owl mold.  I realize there aren't many who can say that, but for me it has worked out very well. 

I can honestly say, I have never considered my experiences as a night shift nurse as "dreaded."

Flashback...

She stood in front of the kitchen window staring at the stranger at the edge of the water.  He was looking out at the turbulent sea, so his back was all she saw.  There was something familiar about this man that sent shivers down her spine.  A flood of memories washed over her like the giant waves crashing on the sand.

Her name was Monika Simonson and she had rented the beach house on the northern coast of California for the summer.  She was a 62-year-old recently retired widow, who was in need of some time to adjust and get her bearings for the next phase of her life.  As she watched the stranger, she was reminded of another time and another encounter.

It was an ordinary spring day in 1965 when she first met Erik.  It wasn't planned; it wasn't even executed well; it just happened.  Sometimes, she liked to think of it as fate.  She was 22 years old, single, and was working the late shift at a diner to help pay the bills and get her through school.  It was closing time, so she and Lisa, the other waitress, were busy cleaning up.

He strolled through the door with a newspaper tucked under his arm and sat down on one of the stools at the counter.  "Coffee.  Black."  He wasn't telling anyone in particular.  He just called out his order.  He opened the paper to the want ads and buried his face behind it.

Without looking up, Monika filled a cup, placed it on the counter in front of him, laid a menu next to it, and returned to her routines.

Lisa nudged her shoulder and said, "Did you get a look at that?"

Monika had no idea what Lisa was talking about.  She looked up from her work, first at Lisa and then at the stranger.  For the first time, she noticed how gorgeous he was!  She judged him to be about six feet four inches tall, of slender build, with dark hair and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.  She suddenly became self-conscious, which surprised her.  All she could manage to say was, "Wow!"

She hoped he didn't notice her nervousness or her flushed cheeks when she returned to ask if there was anything else he needed.

"Yeah!  A job!  Know anybody hiring?"  Monika sensed a tone of stress in his voice.

She looked at him for a moment and replied, "Actually, I do.  Can you cook?"

"Oh, I can make a mean hamburger!  Why?"

"Jack is looking for a short-order cook.  Our last one walked out last week, so we can use the help.  He'll be in to work in the morning if you'd like to talk to him."

He looked at her with disbelief.  "I might do that.  Thanks.  And thanks for the coffee.  That's all I really wanted.  You've been very helpful."

He paid for his coffee, left her a tip, and walked out the door.

Monika watched him until he was out of sight.  "Wow!" she said again.

Lisa teased her with both her remarks and her look.  "You better watch out girl!  That one could break your heart!"

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Erik came back the next day, was hired on the spot and turned out to be a good asset for the diner.  He really could make a "mean hamburger!"

Over the next few weeks, Monika found herself flirting with Erik and he seemed to enjoy it.  At first, it was innocent, but one day after work, as Monika was about to leave, Erik met her at the back door, blocked her exit, leaned down and planted a kiss right on her mouth!  And what did she do?  She surprised herself and kissed him back.  She was so embarrassed by the whole thing that she ducked under his arm, opened the door and left the building.

That was the beginning.  From that moment in the diner something grabbed her heart and slammed it against a brick wall.  She didn't mean for it to happen.  She really didn't want a relationship at this time in her life.  She was working her way through school and had big plans to become a doctor.  A serious relationship just might put skids on those plans.  There was a battle churning inside her.  She would just have to let him know that she wasn't interested in anything permanent.  Oh, but he was so perfect.  He seemed to be everything she ever wanted in a man.  First she would have to convince herself.

After work one night, Monika worked up the courage to tell Erik that this just couldn't go on.  She sat down next to him at the counter, he put his arm around her shoulders without looking at her, and said, "I need to talk to you."  She looked at him in disbelief.  No, this wasn't the way she had planned it, she was the one who needed to talk to him.

"OK, I'm here.  What did you need to talk about?" she asked, almost afraid to hear what would follow.  There was something different about him.

"I've been giving our past few months a lot of thought, Monika, and...(he paused as if to find the right words to say)...well, I get the feeling that our relationship is just getting way too serious.  I'm just not the serious kind of guy  Maybe we should just stop seeing each other."

Did I hear what I think I heard?  Did he just say we should end this?  Monika was dumbfounded!  No, this is not how it was supposed to go!  "I don't know what to say, Erik.  How is not seeing each other going to be possible when we work side by side every day?"

"Yeah, that's the other part of it.  I gave Jack my notice last week, and tonight was my last night."

For some strange reason, tears began to flow down Monika's face.  "That's it?  Just like that--that's it?"

Erik didn't say anything more.  He just leaned over, kissed her gently on her cheek, got up and walked out the front door and out of her life forever.

Monika just stared at his back in disbelief for the longest time, until she heard a voice say, "Don't say I didn't warn you."  It was Lisa.  Monika got up, threw her arms around Lisa's neck and watched Erik get into his car and drive away.  She squeezed her eyes tight, hoping she was squeezing the last of her tears away.

When she had regained some composure, she said to Lisa, "I know you warned me, and a part of me wishes I would have listened to you.  A part of me wants to hate him, but the other part of me says, even though I had already planned to end it, myself, I can honestly say, not for the world would I have missed that one!"

All Lisa could say was, "He must have been quite a ride!"

"Oh, yeah!  He was all of that and more!"

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That was the last time Monika saw Erik.  But, she kept a soft spot in her heart for him.  He had brought into Monika's life the ability to love.  And he showed her how it felt to be loved in return.  She knew he wasn't "Mr. Right," but her heart and soul were full of him and when he walked out that door, a piece of her heart walked out with him.  She kept asking herself, if I loved him so much, why didn't I fight harder to make him stay?  And why does it hurt so much?

Now, as she studied the back of the stranger standing on the beach, tears collected in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.  Those memories were a lifetime ago, and yet she could still shed tears.  The stranger turned around to face her, as if he knew somebody was watching him.  He looked directly at her.  She held her breath.  He smiled and slowly walked away.  It wasn't Erik, of course, but something inside of her wished it could have been.  She blinked.  A tear fell down her cheek.  She wiped it away, and said softly to his disappearing back, "Thank you!"