Waiting for my Sister

While Mom is in rehab and I only get to visit her about two hours a day, I spend my evenings at my sister's brother-in-law's house, using the wifi and enjoying cable tv that isn't all about Jesus or home shopping.

It's weird being here. There are so many signs of my sister, it feels like we've all been flung in different directions and I'm the first one home. When that used to happen when I was in  college, I would cook dinner. Only now, no one is coming home.

It's still so hard to admit she's gone. She's still here.  There's her lip gloss beside her favorite chair. I take a nap in it and realize the blanket still smells like her. My brother-in-law gives me clothes of hers for me and my mother. I bury my face in them, breathe her in and cry.

Her favorite candles and lotion are still in the bathroom. Magazines she was reading are still dog-earred and waiting for her to pick them up again. I find devotional  books for people with cancer. One of them was given to her by a friend who passed  a year and a half before Patsy. I flip through them to see what passages she may have read. Did she find comfort in those leaves? I can't tell...

Her angels - she started collecting them over 20 years ago, early in round one of her battle - are everywhere in this house.  

I find her suduko book and marvel at her ways. I love seeing her writing there. She finished her puzzles one by one, front to back, easy to hard. And even though the answers were in the back, she never looked. But she would X out a puzzle in frustration.

And I can see how her hand was less certain near the end of her work in this book. I can see her struggle...

Her medication is here, in front of me on the kitchen table. Suppositories for pain, pills for nausea, diarrhea, constipation, shortness of breath, anti anxiety and the endless collection of eye drops she required to soothe her eyes from her last round of chemo.

I know she is better off. I asked her to come visit me before she died and she has...twice. Most recently when, for a few minutes, I thought Mom was having a heart attack in the hospital. I'm at peace that she's not in pain any more.

But sitting here in her house, knowing we're all supposed to move on and feeling that I'm the only one who has not, it feels like I'm just waiting for my sister. Just waiting for her to get home.  I think I'm gonna wait a little while longer.

Dust to Dust

Velvet wrote an excellent post whereupon she considered her own funeral and inquired if any of her readers had ever done the same. Since I have, I'm blogging about that subject. I do urge you to read Velvet's post first, especially the 2nd paragraph!!!

Although I am the youngest in my tiny family of four, at the ripe old age of 47, I think I have pondered the thought of death far more than anyone. My mother, age 88, is by far the healthiest and the youngest of us all! As down as she gets sometimes, I don't think she really considers death very often... at least not her own. My sister, age 68, is on her third round of cancer and I am certain that she does not consider death. And my dear brother in law just doesn't speak of such things. He married into a family of three outspoken, hard headed and strong women...he doesn't get to speak much at all except to referee from time to time. This makes him qualified for Saint-hood in my book.

Sometimes I wonder if it's in my Piscean nature to analyze death. Those who are really into astrology say that a Pisces child is neither of this world or the next...but somewhere in between. I would say this is true.

 

 My Maggie May is the sparkle in the pink of this worry stone. 

One of the longest short stories I've ever written was about the subject of death and how many people that have been taken from me. Southern children are not shielded from death the way many of my California friends do with their kids. I remember going to funerals at quite a young age. I lost friends to the mishandling of firearms at ages 8, 15, and 19. I lost friends and relatives to cancers at ages 16, 18, and 28. I lost my father at 11 and my grandmother at 19.  Sometimes I feel I know more people on the other side than alive in this world. I live with lots of ghosts.

I am certain my father has visited me just as I am certain my aunt did right after she died. My uncle has been a presence in my life since his absence from this earth. Heck! I'm just as certain even my DOG came back for a visit! With all of that going on... death doesn't scare me. Pain, yes; but death? Nah!

My personal heroine, Maggie May

I do worry about what would happen to my dog and if I ever have enough dough to do a proper will, I want to make arrangements for her.

I want to be cremated. Part of me feels that I just don't want to take up one iota of space in this world of too much after I'm gone. I remember hearing that cancer continues to eat your flesh after you die and the mean bitchy part of me would want to slap that cancer in the face and say, "Fine, you may have killed me but I'm taking you with me!" Cremation is a sharp deviation from the way I was raised...forever at some too damp cemetery in a dang rainstorm.

My mother gets so upset that "no one visits Daddy" or her brother. Or that no one is taking flowers to them. Even as a child I would say to her, "Why? They're not there!" Still, I do confess to visiting my own father's grave site every time I'm in Hattiesburg. I've left flowers and flags and even Krispy Kreme's there. But I think that's more about me having so little time with him and that so many of the places we were together have been torn down. My father built Hillcrest Hall on the University of Southern Miss campus and I sometimes go in to touch the plaque that bears his name. I'm still surprised that I, the baby of my family, have changed my whole family's thoughts on cremation. Before, the thinking seemed to be that only the damned were cremated... Kinda like a pre-burn before Hell? But, I know Mom wants to be cremated and my sister has given it thought.

I have to say that as a beadmaker, I've gotten to incorporate cremains in glass for a handful of customers. It has been some of the most meaningful work I've ever done. I wouldn't mind leaving a few tablespoons of myself to certain loved ones for that purpose.

 

The Allie Heart - made with the ashes of one of my hiking buddies, Rottrover's Allie. 

But it's a weird thing growing up knowing that your entire family will probably die well before you and leave you all alone in this world. So that's another factor in my not wanting a grave. Who would visit? Would I even want someone standing there crying? Not so much!

But some part of me does long for a grave...because of a television show! I wasn't a big fan of Northern Exposure... I've seen maybe five episodes. But there was one scene that stands out for me. There was a teen named Ed whose good friend Ruthanne was turning 90. He was upset trying to find the perfect gift for her. So he took her hiking up an Alaskan mountainside where he presented her with a deed to a six foot by 3 foot rectangle of property. Yes, he had given her a grave! I was appalled and as I waited for the actress' reaction, I was most surprised. Ruthanne smiled at her gift and said to her young friend, "Why Ed, you've give me the most unique opportunity. May I have this dance?" The show closed with the two of them dancing on her grave.

I still have my dog, Maggie's ashes. She saved my life and I just feel I need her with me. Mabel, when her time comes, will most certainly want to be in her beloved creek but I know I will make myself a memento of her in glass. But when my time comes, I want to be scattered, with Mags, near some peaceful body of water. Which is why, when I find myself in such a place, I always dance a little jig...just in case.

On Grief

It's November and I am once again recommitting to blogging every day this month. I'm actually participating "officially" this year with NaBloPlMo.

Years ago, I belonged to a cooking group and it was my job to host on Halloween. Researching ideas for a menu, I ended up studying the holiday and was amazed to learn what I thought of as a pagan holiday actually has some deep religious connotations in many cultures, especially in Spain and Mexico.

It is believed the end of harvest signals the end of one year and the beginning of the next and, as we transition from one to the other, there is an opening between heaven and earth and souls are allowed to come back to visit their loved ones.

I've written about my own experience with spirits and I must admit, I find this thought comforting.

I guess that was on my mind this week when I read about the yearly women's conference hosted by our first lady for women to come together and... It always makes the news because of the speakers that they book.

This year, there was a panel on grief. It was lead by First Lady Maria Shriver - her mother had recently passed away; Elizabeth Edwards who lost a teenaged son, Wade; Susan St. James who also lost a young son, Teddy, in a plane crash; and Lisa Niemi, wife of Patrick Swayze.

A local reporter commented that a woman, trying to comfort St. James after the loss of her son, told her that she knew how she felt because she had just lost her dog.

Immediately, my heart is aching for this woman (and St. James)... and then I heard the reporter's snarky comments. Apparently this had put St. James off too.

I understand that people say dumb things at funerals and I'm not trying to compare the life of an animal to the life of a person. BUT... come on! Grief is grief.

The longest short story I've written to date is about all the deaths that I dealt with as a child - loved ones and good friends and even a parent lost at such a young age. Just off of the top of my head, I can think of eleven deaths that impacted my childhood.

And I've lost two dogs in my adult life... one was terribly tragic, the other terribly sudden.

I tell you this so that it is clear: I know a thing or two about grief.

Grief is ugly. It races into disbelieving ears and heads straight for the gut where it sucker-punches you and takes the breath right out of you. Your face contorts into the "ugly cry" only, because you have no breath, no sound escapes. Your chest burns, searching, gasping for air until you feel as if it is you who has died and, at the last possible moment, you suck in some air and let out a wail. There are angry tears, hurt tears, sad tears, tears of disbelief, tears of consolation, tears that fall even when you think there are no more. Your body wants to run and collapse all at the same time. And that's all in the first five minutes.

The next days are full of shock, tears, hugs, loving people, stupid people, nosey people, decisions and more tears. Sleep is elusive, then deep; then you wake up crying.

Months / Years go by and you find that Grief still is not done with you. A smell, a sound, a memory can take you right back to that ugly place.

And it is absolutely no different if you are given some warning that death is dancing on the doorstep of your heart. I was given this warning with both my grandmother and my uncle (a father-figure to me). While it did give me time to say goodbye, the emptiness, the pain, the ache of grief is no less with preparation.

I live alone and share all my time with a dog. I have issues... I don't let people in. But dogs - they get me. They are what I spend my time loving. My grief when my girls passed was devastating. And I would bet that is the case for that woman who tried to comfort Ms. St. James.

Grief chases all of us. It impacts us all. No one here gets out alive. I guess I just wish we were all a bit more patient and loving with one another, no matter what we choose to spend our time loving and allowing to love us.

A Pop from Pop

In October of 2000, my Maggie May had a hip replacement surgery. Knowing she would be freaked, I pulled my mattress onto the floor in front of my bedroom's fireplace to be able to sleep near her. This scenario frightened me a bit. I was always terrified of being crushed by a chimney in an earthquake.

During this time, I had just been searching and searching for some sense of peace or fulfillment in my life. I was reading the book Something More by Sarah Van Breathnach. There was a section of the book that declared that your subconscious true self knows your future. It instructed to concentrate / pray / meditate on a question about your future for three nights an you would get your answer on the fourth day.

Surprisingly, this worked! It's how I found my house! I had sold my house and desperately needed another. For three nights I prayed...Show me my next house. For three days, I drove around looking and looking for a new home. The fourth morning, I dreamed of my feet standing on saltillo tile looking at a kidney shaped pool with mountains in the distance.

I wrote this off to nonsense. I wanted saltillo tile in my kitchen...why would I see it outside? Who puts saltillo tile on a patio? It was Monday and I went to work knowing my buyer would walk away by the end of the day. While home at lunch to take care of Mags, my phone rang. It was my BFF. She couldn't talk. She was literally so excited, she couldn't even speak coherently. She handed the phone to her sister, my realtor.

"[BFF] thinks she's found your house!"

I called my boss and raced over here. I saw the house in a daze. I knew immediately I loved it. We wrote the offer on the hood of my jeep and as I got in to drive back to the studio, I started shaking... yep, saltillo tile on the patio! (And the kitchen!)

This process had worked with several other things going on in my life. It was a heady time. And so, I got the crazy idea I wanted a visit from my father who had passed 25 years ago. Every night I prayed. Every morning, I awoke with the certainty that this was the one thing that I couldn't make happen.

One particular night, I awoke around 2 a.m. I woke up in a pissy mood. I was angry at my father.

"Dammit, he didn't come again. I ask for one lousy thing in 25 years and he can't do that for me. That's OK. He never gave a damn about me..."

As my silent tirade went on in my head... I didn't want to wake Mags sleeping in her bed right next to mine... I was aware of a "pop" in the wall.

It was a sound I was familair with having grown up in construction and the deep South. Houses settle and they pop as they do.

The house popped again on the eastern wall. Then the north side, then south. All of a sudden there were popping noises all in the walls all over the house. They were loud and scary and I was suddenly afraid we were having a quake and I was sleeping in front of a fireplace. I sat up feeling for Maggie's heiny sling so I could get her out of the house. And then I realized... the house was NOT moving.

I sat there in the darkness feeling for movement and then decided it must be a dream. But if it's a dream why was Maggie sitting alert in her bed and twisting her head toward each new pop?

I was really starting to freak out thinking my house was about to fall down around me. The popping was nonstop and getting louder and louder. And then it occurred to me: Daddy was a contractor.

I shouted to be heard over all the commotion: O.K. O.K. I KNOW YOU'RE HERE. YOU DON'T HAVE TO TEAR MY HOUSE DOWN!

And it stopped.

As I calmed down, I sat there in my bed and said, "I just wanted to have a conversation not be scared out of my wits. I guess I just wanted to know you were still around and maybe looking out for me. I wanted you to know I miss you."

With that, there was one more pop.

It took me a while to even be able to talk about this and another year or so to tell my mother. I guess I thought it would shock or hurt her. Instead, she was hardly impressed.

"Oh, I see him all the time. He's always in the mirror, just off the corner of my eye. He watches me get dressed."

So that's where he's been all these years!

All Souls Day

Tomorrow, in addition to being my sister's 66th, is All Souls Day. The celebration of All Saints Day (Nov 1) and All Souls Day dates back thousands of years in various cultures.

It was believed that at the end of the year (which was marked by end of harvest - hence the month of October in modern times), there was an opening in the Universe that allowed the dearly departed to return for a visit.

I've posted openly about such sightings before. My hiking buddy has decided that, had I lived in Salem at the time of the witch trials with my red curls, loud opinions, strange eyes, and "visions," I would have surely been burned at the stake. But I honestly feel there is no other explanation for some of the things I've seen. And so, I've decided it is time for another "ghost story."

My father died when I was only eleven. His death put my world and life in a tail spin. I wanted to grow up to run his business. I desperately missed his kind and gentle way in my life.

Shortly after his death, his older brother, my Uncle Hugh, wrote to my mom and asked permission to be my pen pal. We exchanged letters for a few years when he again wrote my mom and requested that I come spend a week with him and his wife, Aunt Christine, at their home in Petal, MS.

I had a blissful time with these two senior citizens. They were smart and funny and in love (having married at the age of 68! They were newlyweds!). My uncle and I would spend hours working in his amazing garden, picking peaches and apples and cutting dozens and dozens of roses. When it got too hot, we would lay down under the scuppernong arbor, picking a handful for refreshment and be grateful for their shade.

My uncle stepped up to my emotional plate and fed my heart and soul. He wanted me to know what McElhaney men were like. I think he wanted me to know what it felt like to be loved and adored. And I do. I would have him in my life until he died in 1992 and was lucky enough to have spent his last day by his side.

When I bought my townhouse in 1988, I found a box on my porch shortly after moving in. It was from my uncle's favorite rose breeder. Inside was my favorite rose... the one that has a scent so amazing and distinctive, I can tell if one is in the room by smell alone... the heirloom. I've dug that bush up and moved it to every home I've owned since.

But it was the love of working the soil that was my uncle's real gift. And after he died, I could spend hours and hours working in my garden and as I would stand back and admire my handiwork, I would feel a gentle squeeze on my right shoulder.

At first, it startled me. I jumped back and looked all around me. There was no one there. After I calmed myself, I "knew" it was my uncle.

This scene would repeat many times over the years and I came to expect it. As my health declined, I stopped working in the garden and my uncle doesn't stop by anymore.

But he's not my only visitor. For many, many years after my dad died, I would find myself somewhere in that state between sleep and wakefulness. I could feel someone sit down on the edge of my bed and slowly, brush my curls off my face. It was a man's hand and I was certain it was my father. I would awaken and cry realizing it wasn't real.

The older I got, the less frequently this happened and then my father was really gone. That is, until I asked him to come back.

To be continued....

Maggie on my Mind

Ode to a Friend

by Holly Dare Copyright 2002

It has been a week and still I am in shock. The pain seems too much to bear. It is amazing to realize what huge part of my life Maggie is. It’s overwhelming to realize that life can change in an instant.

It all starts so innocently. Maggie has a huge cactus stuck in her front right paw. I run to her, taking off my sweatshirt as I sprint. I drop to my knees, wrapping my hand in the thick fabric and yank. She limps back to the Jeep.

I pull out the myriad of photos I have taken of her over the last six years. I love taking pictures… she loves posing: a match made in heaven. I laugh out loud at the ones with her goofy looks. Maggie has a tendency to get her upper lip hung up on her canines, causing her to look like a dog-clown. My favorites are of her smiling. Or the ones where she looks as if she’s bearing the weight of the world; she must be thinking of the year she spent in Rottweiler Rescue or the first year of her life, when no one loved her at all.

As I look at each photo, caressing them as if I can feel her fur, I can see myself reflected in her eyes. I wonder what I ever did to deserve such love and devotion.



As I drive her home for the first time, I turn to look at her in the backseat of the Celica. She looks frightened but she is smiling, happy to be going somewhere… anywhere. I let her in the back gate to snoop around the yard and then unlock the back door. She bounds in the laundry and makes a beeline for my four-poster. She looks around with satisfaction as if to say, “This’ll do quite nicely.”

“No girl, THAT is NOT your bed!” I tug her down and show her the crate I expect her to sleep in. That night, she struggles against getting in it. As I lock the door, I comment about how much training she has in store for her. Little did I realize it was me who would be trained in matter of months.

The limp gets worse as the days tick by. I take her to a vet near the house and we are given something for inflammation. We take our evening stroll. Maggie is excited to see the peacocks preening in the sun. She stops to rest. She did that the other day running with her friends. I have the sinking feeling that something is wrong.

I give her the medication before bedtime. The last time I gave her this pill, when she was three and suffering from displaysia, she slept so much. The pill will not have the same effect tonight. Every ten minutes, she groans and changes positions. Even when she gets in bed with me and I rub her tummy, she cannot get comfortable. She lumbers through the house barely placing weight on the front right paw and landing with a thud on her left. The raised foundation of the house vibrates with every step she takes. I get up at four and begin a cleaning frenzy. My mother and sister are coming for Mother’s Day.

Maggie needs OUT! I feel her tugging at my arm and my covers. She’s whining. I can’t wake up. She jumps on the bed and off again. I’m only vaguely aware of her. She’s whining and poking me with her nose. She goes to the sliding glass door and runs her head back and forth across the blinds causing the light from my neighbor’s backyard to stab violently into the room. She’s at my side, poking again. I…just can’t… wake up. In the few months we’ve been together, Maggie just touches the blinds with her nose and I am up. But not tonight. Again, she swings her head back and forth across the blinds and I finally realize she is sick. As I stand up, I can’t quite figure out where I am and I suddenly need to throw up. Head spinning, I bolt from the bed as she pukes on the carpet. I throw the blinds open and shove Maggie through the laundry room and into the cold January night. I’m running to the toilet when I smell it…the rotten eggshell odor of gas. I pull a phone outside and call the gas company.

After I give the gas lady my address, she instructs me, “Don’t turn anything on. Don’t turn anything off. Any spark could cause an explosion. You may be outside for a couple of hours so get your coat and get out of the house.”

“Yes Ma’m. Thank you.”

“You’re very lucky…You realize your dog saved your life don’t you?”

I hug Maggie close and promise her, “You have a home as long as I have a shopping cart, baby!”

Maggie is still struggling to find a comfortable position. I lie on the floor beside her and beg God to let me find the splinter in her foot. The paw is ice cold. I know I have to get Maggie to her regular vet.

I open the front closet to get her leash and she half stumbles, half runs to the front door, ever eager for a walk. “No honey, we’re going in the car.” She turns and limps out the back door. As I watch her, I realize Maggie is no longer holding up the paw. Her toenails are dragging along the concrete. Still, she jumps into the Jeep. Getting her down to go into the vet’s office is another matter. Maggie will not let me pick her up and ease her to the ground. Beverly, the Rottie Rescue lady, arrives and comes over to say hi.

She looks at Maggie’s dangling paw. “Oh, this is not good. I just put a three and a half year old down last week with bone cancer and it looked just like this.” I hate her for her abrupt honesty.

Beverly helps me get Maggie down and we go inside. The vet is in surgery and another Rottweiler has had a stroke, so we wait. I begin to bawl. Maggie May is my reason for living; she’s kept me going when nothing else would. She’s seen me through a bad love affair, career changes, a stressful move, not to mention a fire and a flood. Maggie has been my rock through so much that I truly believe she is an angel in a dog suit. I never knew I could love this much. Losing her is too painful to contemplate.

The vet finally sees us. He barely touches her shoulder and my normally docile, sweet baby tries to bite him. He sedates her and tells me to check in later. The news is not good. It is cancer in her shoulder bone.

“If it hasn’t spread, your only choice is to amputate. And then, in my experience, it comes back within 6 months in about 65% of the cases,” he says dryly. “You really need to see an oncologist before you make a decision.”

I drive her home in a fog of silent tears. I get her to step down backwards on a stool and she hobbles just inside the back gate and drops. She is dragging the top of the foot now. I line her six beds up from outside to inside so that Maggie can sort of fall from one to the next. I pull a mattress on the floor to be by her. The house is a blur of activity with the arrival of my mother and sister. Maggie stirs out of the anesthetic haze the second she hears her Granny’s voice. Neighbors and friends stop by to hold her and give her cookies.

Somewhere in all the chaos, I make a decision about the day ahead. I start to think back on the last few months and all the signs that something was wrong: The limp that was noticed by several friends yet remained oblivious to me; Maggie was so tired after walking and her breathing was… different; She rarely jumped on my bed anymore. I thought of how painful it would be for her to get in and out of the car and how much pain she is in now. And I knew I owed her more. She was my hero and heroines deserve to leave the world with dignity. And lots of love. And a little steak.

“MAGGIE MAY,” I yell. “Why in hell do you always have to lay here?” I am pointing at the flower bed underneath my bedroom window. She has dug a hole and buried a favorite miniature rosebush for what feels like the 87^th time. I continue my tirade as the poor dog scrunches herself up into a ball. “A year and a half and that rose has never bloomed and it never will if you don’t quit burying it in dirt! I’ll never understand why you have to lay here when you have a perfectly fine four bedroom house with six beds of your own, not to mention two queen size beds and ceiling fans galore to keep you cool!” She looks up at me with sad, sorry eyes and I feel like the fool that I know I look like.

The sedative wears off around 11. Even though we had fed her catfish and chicken broth, Maggie is quite upset at having been put to bed without her dinner. I fix her kibble, she eats and wants to do one of her favorite things: star gaze. She always loved to stare at the heavens. On this night, I sit near her and wish that love could somehow cure cancer.

We spend the night crying in pain. Hers is physical, mine is a heartache. I try my best to not let her see me cry so I smother my face in my pillow, keeping my hand on her behind. Around 5:30, I try to adjust the sock on her paw and she nips at my hand. I know she is not herself. The paw has managed to grow even colder.

Mother sits outside with Maggie, while I cook her a ribeye in garlic and butter. She wolfs it down. Then, a squirrel heads for the mulberry tree and its all you can eat Springtime buffet. Maggie forgets her pain and dashes to the trunk of the tree, remembers and drops onto her tummy, ever watchful of the squirrel.

Mother and I head into the house to eat breakfast, thinking Maggie would be busy with the squirrel. Maggie has other plans. Not one to miss a meal, she comes hobbling in the living room and lies down near the dining table. I give her a popover with berries and whipped cream and she is thrilled.

We take pictures of her and get her into the car. I can see in the rear-view mirror that she is smiling and my heart breaks all over again. The nurse asks me to muzzle her and the doctor takes her into the surgery room. He shaves her arm as I tell her what a good friend she is. He gets out the needle and I sing her the “Maggie May Song” - just a stupid ditty that I sing on our walks.

“She’s a beauty booty bee and a
Beauty booty bye.”

The needle enters and she jerks back. I take her head in my hands.

“And I love her all the day
and I love her all the time.”

I see a gray cloud forming over her eyes. I move in closer and continue singing.

“She’s a good old girl and her name is Maggie May
And I love her so much every day.”

Her breath is short. I say, “Thank you so much for all your love. I love you. You’re the best good girl. I love you.” I move even closer, “I love you!”

She lets out a deep, long breath. The vet removes the muzzle and I move to the other side as they lay her completely down. Her tongue is hanging down and I lift her head for one last kiss. I hold her for a moment and then smell her feet one last time, inhaling their earthy odor deep into my lungs.

I am sleepless and surfing. I find a canine cancer site. I am wondering if there is anything I should have done for Maggie. A woman writes of her dog not eating. It drags its body into the darkness of the garage during the day and then comes into the house during the black of night. I’m glad that I was not that selfish with my Mags.

I walk the mountain trail at Crescenta Valley Park alone and am awestruck by all the side trails I never noticed when I was there with Maggie. I know it is a sign of the proverbial window opening when a door gets slammed in your face.

Insomnia again. The house is so quiet – except for my tears. When I’m not crying, I pray for a sign. Just a sign. Any sign will do.

I gather up pictures and take them to an artist friend. She is going to paint Maggie’s portrait on a little valise that I will use as an urn.

The ashes arrive and I sob when I find her metal hip joint loose in the box. At least I know the contents of this box belong to my baby. Having her ashes makes my pain, my loss, even more real.

I can’t sleep. I pace the floors looking for her. I listen for her breathing, for the tinkle of her collar, the thunder of her feet on the deck when she was chasing a squirrel. I wonder where she is when I put on my tennis shoes. I roll over and close my eyes once more.

A baby girl with dark hair is holding my fingers as she tries to walk. She takes each step cautiously. Suddenly a squirrel runs across the yard and she lets go of my right hand to point at the squirrel and squeals in her little girl voice, “Skirrel!!” The squirrel startles and makes a run for the mulberry tree. “Skirel!!! SKIREL!!!!” Her delightful squeals jerk me awake.

I stumble out on the porch, tears falling on my nightgown, and sit on the step. I bury my face in my hands and wonder about my dream. Was that Mags? Was that my sign? If she’s a baby, who’s taking care of her and loving her?

I wrap my arms around my legs and rock my body back and forth. There, under the bedroom window, is a fully open yellow and pink miniature rose. A feeling of peace settles over me as I realize that God has shared one of His babies with me for six years. And now, she is His baby again. He is loving her.

Maggie May, June 25, 1994 - May 8, 2002

Sissy 's Promise

Carmon's comments on last night's post gave me the idea to tell you about the last time I saw my aunt.

My Aunt Louise was my other mother. She was not judgmental and always listened and simply adored me. She never had kids of her own but managed to have three nieces that she mothered... all of us were about 10 years apart in age and felt blessed by her presence in our lives.

Louise was the only girl of six kids and, as is typical in Southern families, was called "Sister" by her whole family and even my cousins. When I was born, my older sister, who was 22, had always wanted a baby sister to call her "Sister." After I was a year or so old, I couldn't quite work out how there could be two people named "Sister" so I re-christened my aunt "Sissy."

In December 2000, my aunt was not doing well. Her husband had died and my cousins put her in a nursing home. When I drove up from my mother's in Baton Rouge, I found that she had worsened and was in the hospital.

I go to her room; she's not there. I find her at the nurse's station, flirting. This would become one of the strangest visits we ever had.

One minute, Sissy was lucid: "Child, hand me my lipstick... that orderly is CUTE!"

The next she was reliving a traumatic time from my infancy. My father (Sissy's little brother) had a heart attack when I was six months old and was demanding someone bring me to him but the hospital had rules. Seeing me must have brought this memory back and she was rambling on and on: "I swear I didn't bring the baby. Tell them it wasn't me!"

She was back and forth like this all night. They brought her food and she could barely feed herself. So I took over. Afterwards, I was cleaning her up and she was back.

"Honey, I'm not long for this world...no, don't interrupt me. My time is coming and I'm O.K. with that. I miss your Uncle Henry and I really want to see him. And I want to see Jesus. But, you're my baby. I need you to be O.K. with it."

I fought back tears. "When it's your time, you just go. I'll be O.K."

We sat there holding hands for a minute and I got an idea.

"Sissy, would you do me a favor when your time comes?"

"Of course, honey. You name it!"

"Come see me! Come see my new house! I've always wanted you to visit me in California...please say you will."

Her eyes showed her confusion wondering how her feeble body could make the flight and then I saw the twinkle of recognition. She knew full well what I meant. She started nodding her head yes.

"All right, I will. If it's possible, I promise I will be there."

Visiting hours were over and I walked the hike to my car in the Mississippi sleet simply numb. I knew I would never see Sissy again.

I drove the few blocks to her house. My cousins had cleaned everything out. The only thing left was a plaque on the door - a little bit of cross stitch someone at church had given Sissy. It read, "Bless this House and All Who Enter." I took it and when I returned to California, I hung it inside, over my front door.

Sissy recovered and went back to the nursing home. She lasted another eleven months when we talked, I never said another word about her promise.

One night in November 2001, I was awakened by my doorbell... it was really annoying. Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong nonstop. I glanced at the clock: 3 a.m.

I ran to my door and opened it. There is stunning, bright, golden light stood my Sissy. Only she was young...younger than I had ever known her. She was about 24 and dressed to the nines as was her style. The manicure, the coiffure, the high heels and clothes were all high fashion and immaculate. And oddly enough, I could "feel" my Uncle behind her.

"You came! Come in, come in!"

She never spoke but seemed to communicate without words. She took a few steps into my house and turned, looked up and over her shoulder at my - her - plaque. I hung my head in shame at having stolen from her. She took my chin in her hand and just shook her head. I knew it didn't matter.

The three of us visited for about three hours and were in my garden having tea and looking at pictures, when my phone started to ring. I excused myself and said, "I'll be right back."

I dashed through the living room door and reached for the phone, only I was back in bed and reaching for the phone on the nightstand. Confused, I looked at the clock. 6 a.m.

It was my cousin. My heart sank.

"I've been waiting for it to be late enough to call you. Sister passed away three hours ago."

We talked for a bit but I couldn't get off the phone fast enough to run out to the garden. Gone was the bright light that had bathed us just minutes before, replaced by a grey California dawn. Sissy and my uncle were gone too.

And while this visit only reinforced other things I have seen regarding the hereafter, it made me feel so special. Sissy had been the glue in her family. She loved everyone so much. But it was me she came to see, even before Jesus! How many are lucky enough to have someone love us so much, they would cross time and space and 3000 miles just to keep a promise?

Hotline to God

I am a very spiritual person and hope this blog does not offend anyone. I am puzzled by atheists... I've seen so many things in my life that I just have absolutely no doubt God exists.

Setting that aside, I'm a practical person. If I live a good life and find out there is no heaven, oh well...I lived a good life and was good to others. But to not believe and then find out there is a heaven??

So my post One Good Turn had me thinking about other times I prayed and BOOM, it was answered.

One was rather simple. I was shooting a t.v. show. We were five weeks into a six week run...which meant I was tired. Lots of long hours. It was 6 a.m. and I was driving on the 101 fwy in heavy but fast traffic. Only I was so exhausted, I couldn't hold my head up. I was drifting in and out and realized I was going to hurt myself or someone else. After pinching myself, trying to sing loud and slapping my face, I could not seem to snap out of it. So, I prayed... God, I need to wake up NOW! And just that fast, I was WIDE awake.

The other story is far more impressive. The dog trainer I frequently hired has a party for producers and other industry friends every summer at their ranch in Lake Hughes, about an hour north of LA. I had driven up, had some barbeque, played with may favorite critters and started to head home. Rob, my host, reminded me to stop on the drive down the mountain and check out the views of the lakes (Hughes & Elizabeth).

I'm a sucker for a great view especially where water is involved. When I reached a turnout along the mountain road, I pulled over to the edge parked the car and, out of habit, locked it. I hadn't seen another car in the 20 minute drive from Rob's and there was nothing around... why lock the car???

And immediately I knew my keys were inside. I start having vision of being raped or killed and drug off into the wilderness. I was so upset, I was shaking. So I started to pray. It went something like this:

"God, I'm in a pickle here. And I'm terrified. I need you to send your angels to me. I need your protection and guidance. God, I'm going to have to flag someone down and there aren't too many cars on this road. So, I'm asking that the person I flag down be someone I'm comfortable with and can trust to help me and get me home. I love you and thank you."

My prayer had made me still and calmed me slightly. As soon as I stopped praying, I heard a car. I looked around for a stick or some kind of weapon just in case and decided sand in the eyes would be a good option if I felt threatened. I walked closer to the road to be seen and started waving my arms. My heart sank when I realized there were two men in the truck. I'm pretty feisty but wasn't sure I could handle two bad guys.

They rolled down the window and I explained what I had done. They chuckled and parked their car. The driver said he thought he had a coat hanger behind his seat. As the two men opened their doors, they were talking about a movie and I knew immediately they were in the business. I asked where they worked. It was a post production house in Burbank...one I used all the time. I quickly realized I had talked to the driver on the phone the day before! He was editing the sound on my last commercial!

My car door was quickly opened and I was on my way in minutes and marveling at how fast and how specifically my prayer was answered. (And by the way - that was the wrong turnout...no view of water, just more mountains!)

But, not all prayers are answered with such speed... there was one I prayed for 37+ years. Don't have much hope for that one!