Shadows of the Heart

Captured by cupids arrow she fell once again into the arms of a man.

The stars were aligned. The soundtrack was perfect.

Hours spent talking through the night. Discovering shared experiences. Comparing similar battle scars.

Days passed. Love went from an abstract thought to a viable possibility.

Her heart long frozen began to thaw. Her soul once again found itself in sync with another.

In each other's arms they rediscovered the lost songs of creation. Passion. Fear. Love. Heartache. Creation. Destruction. Infinity discovered in a finite moment.

Alone once again she questioned. Am I ready to love? Am I prepared to share my heart with another? Without expectations? Without preconceptions? Without promises?

She accepted that the past was the past. Mistakes made were only mistakes if she had failed to learn the provided lesson. That was the question. If she was incorrect, would she in the final analysis have the strength to walk away? Even if that meant leaving a possible soul mate behind.

In the experience would lie the proof.

Days and nights passed as one. Her heart alone for so long became intertwined with his. Their love reflected a future that she had dreamed impossible. She was beginning to believe in the impossible and in a journey shared with this wonderful man.

Disappointment and heartache however are like earthquakes unpredictable and damaging.

Outside the window the blue moon shown brightly upon the sleeping city.

On the couch she was swimming in his vision, lost in his scent. Alive impossibly alive.

Distraction came in the ringing of the phone. He excused himself and came back in a few minutes.

"Sorry about the interruption. Now where were we?"

Doubt begins to creep in.

"Who was it?"

"My ex. She wanted to ask me something. It was no big deal."

So he thinks. Doubt grows bigger.
"Are you sure?"

"What is this? Of course, I am sure. We broke up a while ago. We were close though and I was close to her family. We have tried to remain friends."

Doubt has been replaced by certainty.

"Have you been with her since you broke up?"

"A few times. Not since I met you though."

Back to doubt.

Lips meet and he scoops her small frame from the couch and carries her to the bedroom. Windows open. Moonlight streaming in. Their soundtrack the sounds of the night. Crickets and owls calling to each other. She is lost once again in his arms.

The phone brings her crashing back to reality.

This time he talks for fifteen or twenty minutes.

Doubt is back in a big way.

"Boy that was bad timing wasn't it?"

"Let me guess. It was your ex again."

She can tell by the look in his eye that it was.

Certainty settles in.

"I better go."

"Why? Just because she called a few times does not mean anything."

She pulls him to her chest and holds on for dear life.

"I'm sorry", she says. "I have played this role so many times that I know not only my lines but your lines by heart. I know the stage directions. I know the cues. I know when the audience will applaud and I know when they will cry."

He doesn't speak but she can feel his warm teardrops and she can hear his quiet sobs.

"Many great women have played this role. Some better than others. However the role of healing lover is a thankless one. Those of us who have made this part our own rarely receive a reward. No Oscar. No Emmy. No Tony. We pick up the pieces of the heart she broke. We become nurse, caretaker, lover, and best friend. It is our arms comforting you as the sorrow pours from your veins. It is our love that nurtures you until you are strong enough to face the world again. What is our reward? Our thanks? Nine times out of ten when you are well enough you either return to the bosom of the one who did this to you. Or you tell us you need some time alone before falling in love again. Next time we see you though, you have your arm wrapped around a beautiful blonde and you are clearly over any reservations where love is concerned."

His tears have stopped but he is unable to look her in the eye.

"Not this time. You gave my heart new life. You taught my soul a new dance. In my visions of the future I can see us growing old together. However, you have a shadow. The shadow of your most recent love. You may be over her. You may still love her. Not that it matters because you are not over her. If you were you would have still been lying with me in bed. You would have let the phone ring. Or let the machine pick it up. You chose to answer it which tells me you are still conflicted"

She was fighting back her own tears. Knowing the lessons was easy. Putting them to practical use was the hard part.

She stood up and gathered her things.

"Now walk me downstairs and kiss me goodbye. Time is on our side. However, now is not our time. Maybe someday when her shadow has been erased and the scars she created have healed we can try again. Not today. Not now. I have worked to hard to heal myself. To grow. To evolve. It would be the worst of sins to throw all I have learned away. This time I will be the one to walk. Does it hurt of course. Now do not take this wrong, but it actually feels good to be doing the right thing for me."

Her bus pulled up. She gave him a last warm lingering kiss and climbed aboard. Her tears did not begin until his shadow had faded into the distance. They did not stop until the bus driver tapped her on the shoulder and informed her that she must have missed her stop because they were at the end of the line.

Midnight Blues

They used to spend hours in the car. Driving through the foothills and canyons near their home. Windows down moon roof open and classic jazz on the stereo.

Some nights they drove until dawn. Discussing life. Discussing love. Following the paths opened by their hearts. Comfortable in what they had in common. Embracing the diversity of their differences.

Sometimes tears would mix with the sound of laughter. Sometimes their souls soared, entwined moving to the ancient music of the stars. Sometimes silence embraced them with the warmth of an old comforter.

The stars were their compass and love was their guide.

In the days leading up to the birth of their child there drives became shorter, closer to home.

Driving to Lamaze class one evening they happened upon a small field with a pregnant mare. They pulled over for a closer look. As they approached the fence the mare watched them with wary eyes, until finally she turned her back and continued grazing.

Returning to the car he placed his hand on the life growing inside her. Still amazed at the miracle that was developing before their eyes.

The mare became somewhat of a touchstone for them. They visited daily and she eventually became comfortable enough to walk up to the fence and nuzzle their hands. Sometimes they would bring sugar cubes or a carrot for her to nibble.

On the night she went into labor they drove by the field and saw that their mare had given birth herself since their last visit. A young colt was following his mother around the field. Soon they would be holding their own miracle in their arms.

A few days after the birth of the baby they brought him to see the mare and her colt. The two mothers admired each other's handiwork, proud parents through and through.

The drives continued but not as often with the reasonability of a new life they tended to stay home more. At least once a week though they would go visit the horses.

One Saturday morning they pulled their car over near the fence and were distraught to find their horses were gone. A realty sign announced the sale of the property and apparently the horses had left with the previous owners.

The empty field seemed to foretell future events. The honeymoon was over and reality began to sink in. What they once shared slowly became foreign to them. He began going to bed later. She began going to be at sunset.

Dreams and hopes were no longer shared. For reasons that neither one understand they were drifting apart. What they once held in common now seemed to drive a wedge between them.

He loved the outdoors. She wanted to go clubbing.

He still loved moonlit drives. She wanted to watch her soaps.

He wanted a home cooked meal. She began eating out of the microwave.

Even their beautiful boy who should have been the glue to make their bond permanent became a tool. He has too many toys. He doesn't have enough toys. He is to dirty. He's a boy he should be dirty. On and on it went.

Nobodies fault really. As it often happens when hormones are far ahead of maturity. The foundation of a relationship cannot always handle the strains of growth.

Eventually they had drifted so far apart that they agreed to disagree and they went their separate ways.

After the divorce their relationship actually improved. Without the weight of marriage they became friends again and partners in the raising of their son.

The world continued to turn and before long they each found love with another. Neither let their new marriage destroy the friendship that had grown from the seeds of their lost love.

One evening he was driving her and their son home from a Karate tournament they happened to pass by the field where their horse had lived. Pulling over they shared with him the story of her pregnancy, his birth and how they used to visit the horse.

To their dismay the farm was abandoned and the stable was choked with weeds. The beauty that had once occupied this piece of land had been lost and no one had come along to restore the lot to what it once was.

As they drove away he took her hand in his as if to say that unlike the owners of the stable we may have abandoned our marriage but we saved our friendship and we are building a future for our son.  

Lungs in Crisis II

Day 52 – June 11, 2003: I visited the pulmonologist with a bit of hope and a lot of trepidation. I was hoping for an easy answer or a quick solution. I feared something worse, possibly emphysema, which killed my grandfather or lung cancer, which killed both my father and stepfather.

Of course a visit to a new doctor brings with it a slew of duplicate forms that must be filled out in triplicate before you are allowed past security into the holy grail of medicine: the waiting room beyond the waiting room. You know the one that you are led to after your name is called and you are thinking to yourself the wait wasn't so bad. Then the nurse has you take a seat. She asks you a few questions, takes your vitals and then informs you that the doctor will see you soon. She than quickly leaves the room shutting the door behind her.

At this point the butterflies were fighting to escape my belly. My breathing, which of course was already bad seemed to be more labored than usual. My eyes roamed the small room taking in my surroundings. I always bring a book to these appointments but I was unable to find the concentration needed to get past the first page.

Finally after what seemed like hours the pulmonologist came in and introduced himself. We then began the usual round of twenty questions.

Why are you here?

What seems to be the problem?

What are your symptoms?

Do you have any allergies?

On and on the questions went which I answered to the best of my ability. He examined my ears, nose and throat. Asked me a few more questions and than came to a conclusion. He felt that my problem must be allergy related and he wanted me to take a series of allergy medicines and steroids.

I had already explained to him the difficulty I have with steroids due to ongoing battle with panic disorder. However, in his opinion the dose of steroids he was recommending would not be enough to cause a panic attack. I was not convinced but I did agree to give it a try.

He had his secretary schedule an appointment for July 9th and he sent me on my way prescriptions in hand.

Day 55 – June 14, 2003: When it comes to illness and medicine one should always listen to ones inner voice. I made the mistake of listening to my pulmonologist rather than my instinct when it came to the ingestion of steroids.

The evening of the 14th found me waiting in the emergency room of the local hospital fighting a losing battle with a severe panic attack. My blood pressure was through the roof. My entire body was shaking. My chest was constricted and I was sure this was the big one. On the other hand the small little logical part of my mind knew it was nothing more than a panic attack but logic is thrown out the window when primal instinct strikes.

When I finally saw the doctor she confirmed that I was having a panic attack and nothing more. She gave me a double dose of Xanex, recommended that I stay away from steroids and advised me to see my primary care doctor on Monday.

Once the Xanex kicked in and she saw that I was calming down she sent me on my merry way.

Day 58 – June 17, 2003: With cough in hand I returned to the hallowed halls of my primary care physician. I had not seen her since my visit with the pulmonologist so I shared the tale and explained about the steroids and my visit to the emergency room. She seconded the ER doctor's opinion and suggested that my body become a no steroid zone. However, she was concerned about the increased frequency of my panic attacks even without the influence of steroids. I was already taking Paxil but the dosage did not seem to be working as well. She thought it might be time to see a psychologist but being my usual stubborn self I resisted the recommendation.

Day 80 – July 9, 2003: I returned to the pulmonologist with no progress to show for the four weeks of treatment. I explained to him about the steroids but he just did not seem to understand. I had the feeling that he had never dealt with a patient who suffered from panic disorder. With my pet cough still following around and the wheezing of my lungs still obvious he recommended treatment plan B. A non-steroidal inhaler, a different brand of allergy medicine and a follow up visit in three weeks.

Day 101 – July 30, 2003: the 30th found me oh so happy to once again be sitting in the waiting room of my pulmonologist watching three tropical fish swim around an oversized tank. They were probably wondering what I was in for. Three more weeks had shown no change in my condition. Cough check. Wheezing check. Panic check. Sick and tired of being sick check. Another patient doctor conference and Mr. Lung Expert is still stuck on his allergy kick. His recommendation was one new non-steroidal inhaler, new allergy medicine and three weeks until I visit again.

At this point I am ready to call in reinforcements but everyone swears that he is the best in the area. So I take me prescriptions to the pharmacy and I begin to seriously consider searching out a witch doctor. Hell he couldn't do any worse than the pulmonologist has so far.

Thus ends Lungs In Crisis II

Nights

Nights were the worst.

With his room enveloped by darkness his imagination took over. Each sound became amplified. Each shadow became a creature from Stephen King's fertile imagination. Sleep came slowly if it ever came at all.

Death haunted his subconscious. Debates raged inside his head.

God exists.

There is no God.

The soul survives the body.

When you are dead, you become worm food nothing else.

These flashing thoughts would cause his stomach to form knots that Houdini himself could not escape. His breath would catch in his throat while his chest felt like he was attempting to breath on Jupiter.

Panic would ensue.

Off the bed he would pace the house. Upstairs, downstairs and back again, roaming the hallways of his existence searching for peace finding only empty space.

The television beckons and he sits on the floor legs crossed like he was seven years old again watching cartoons on Saturday morning. The channels dance across his vision random samples of the midnight world. Filled with exercise videos, music collections and the latest greatest slicing and dicing tools for the kitchen. Nothing catches his eye. Nothing offers comfort to his tortured soul.

He looks at the phone but there is no one to call. No one who understands his late night fears.

TV off he roams the halls once again. Not unlike Scrooge waiting for his next ghostly visitor. He stops before a shelf of old novels. His fingers trace along the titles but tonight even the written word fails to offer comfort.

Back upstairs he sits in his rocker staring out into the night. Watching the wind create new and wonderful patterns as leaves are blown around the yard.

Chaos.

Maybe.

He opens his closet and pulls a dusty box down from the top shelf. Removing the lid his eyes roam across the contents.

Photos of his parents.

Letters from old girlfriends.

His high school ring.

Bookmarks and diaries.

Dusty memories all.

Buried beneath the memorabilia an old friend. Pickles the last remnant of his innocent child hood. A calico cat given to him by his great-grandmother, stained, faded and missing an eye Pickles was for him comfort.

Gently he removes Pickles from his decades old bed and cradles him in his arms. The scents of childhood still inhabit the fur barely.

He shuffles back to his rocking chair and curls up with a sigh. With Pickles back he soon drifts off into a sleep uninterrupted by visions of darkness.

 

Pardon the Interruption

After a week spent in the balmy weather found in Bullhead City,
Arizona, the average daytime tempature was 120 degrees in the shade, I am happy to report that I have returned to a computer that I can actually use.
 
Beginning tomorrow I will be returning my blog to its regularly scheduled program.

Coming Soon To This Site: Lungs In Crisis II

A quick update for anyone who might have read part 1. I will not have access to my computer until Sunday. All my notes to continue on to part 2 are unavailable at this time. I will most likely post part 2 on Monday.

Yesterday's Shadow

Either my memory has packed up and set off on an around the world cruise without me or I have simply unremembered moments in my life that should stand out.

For the second time in recent months I was dumbfounded to find that a family incedent that I believed to have remembered clearly has actually developed its own version of Londons' famous fog.

In mid 1980 a friend of my father's called my grandmothers house to pass on some disturbing news.

At this point we had not heard from or about my father for at least ten years.

He told my grandmother that my father had developed inoperable cancer in his bones, lungs and brain. He was terminal and he did not have long to live.

Now is when my memory took a wrong turn from the memories of the rest of my family.

For the past twenty-four years I have carried a black spot of resentment toward my mother. I had until this past weekend never told her but in my soul I blamed her for me not being able to see my father before he passed.

For reasons unbeknownst to me I believed that I had been planning to drive to Northern California to see my father before he passed. I even remember having an agruement with my mother about why she would not let me go. In my heart I remembered being depressed and rebelious for weeks because of her actions.

Fast forward to the present day. I am riding with my mom on the way to her house out in the Arizona desert for a week of R&R. Somehow we came upon the subject of my father's death. Before I knew it my heart was in my throat and my stomach had been left behind somewhere near Ludlow on Interstate 40.

According to my mother (and later confirmed my brother and sister) my dad's friend did call and explain the gravity of my fathers situation. He suggested to my grandmother that if we wanted to have a chance to say goodby we better come quick.

At this point my grandmother brought it to my mothers attention. She said she would be willing to take the Greyhound with my brother and I to go and see him. My mom was reluctent at first but finally agreed to buy the bus tickets so we could go.

My sister was not interested in going. To this day she does not call our father dad when she speaks of him. She calls him by his name. She felt he had deserted her and that their was no reason for her to go traipsing across the state to see him.

It all however became a moot point. The friend of my father called back and explained that he had spoken to my father and that he did not want his childrens last memory of him to be what he had become. A human pin cushion with needles and tubes running through out his body.

So in the end we never made the trip. The bitterness I harbored towards my mothe was wasted. She was not at fault.

As we drove down I40 with the setting sun warming our backs I confessed the grudge I had held against her all of these years and apologized for somehow placing the blame on the parent who has stood by my side for my entire forty-four years.

Lungs in Crisis

Day 1 – April 21, 2003: It was the day after Easter and it began the same as every Monday does when you earn your paycheck chained to a desk just another drone in the orbit of planet bureaucracy. Rather than a starship of some kind my transportation was provided by the local transit system, which is the only way to travel if you are commuting to downtown Los Angeles. Rather than spend two hours each morning locked in a piece of barely moving tin on Interstate 10, I would nap for 45 minutes while the bus cruised at 65 mph in the specially designated bus lanes.
 
On this particular morning as I exited my bus in the historical heart of downtown Los Angeles I noticed a bit of scratchiness in my throat. No big deal I thought most probably it was caused by a bit of irritation from the exhaust emitted by the many busses spitting out passengers on the corner of Temple and Main.
 
My assumption concerning the cause of my bronchial irritation proved to be incorrect. My throat grew rawer by the moment and I developed a cough and slight fever. By the time my day drew to a close I was exhibiting all of the symptoms of a soon to be bad cold.
 
Day 2 – April 22, 2003: I woke up feeling quite a bit worse than I had the previous evening. I called the office and informed the chain of command that I would be on the DL for at least a few days. Now it was time to pull out the old rolodex and call my doctor to see exactly what trouble my body had gotten itself into this time. After a thorough exam my doctor's diagnoses was a rather bad case of bronchitis. This came as no surprise as I had suffered from bronchitis several times in the past. She gave me a prescription for some antibiotics and some cough syrup and told me to come back in a week. She also wrote a note to my boss excusing me from work until April 30th.
 
Day 9 – April 29, 2003: One week on the antibiotics and I have shown no improvement what so ever. If anything the congestion in my chest is worse I am beginning to sound like the little engine that could chugging up the steep hill. Except I was walking slowly on level ground. Another examination by my doctor showed that my bronchial tubes were still inflamed and a round of steroids would probably help reduce the swollen tissue.
 
 Only one problem, steroids and I do not play well together. Besides my current health issues, I also suffer from Panic Disorder. Steroids, at least in my case love to mess with my central nervous system, which usually results in multiple panic attacks. Needless to say my doctor and I were both leery about introducing any type of steroid into the mix but it appeared to be somewhat of a necessity, at least if I wanted to improve my breathing skills. Which seemed to be a good idea at the time. In order to leave me with a bit of sanity we went with an inhaler rather than the pill form of steroids.
 
Day 17 – May 7, 2003: I finished the steroids and the antibiotics with no noticeable improvement. On the other hand I am sure that residents of the Artic Circle were feeling the after effects of my week on steroids. By day six on steroids the only thing keeping me sane was my treasured Xanex prescription. I was so happy to have my Xanex that I was considering writing to Pope John Paul II and nominating its creator for sainthood. I am sure that those who had to put up with me would have seconded the nomination without question. I returned to my home away from home better known as my doctor's office so she could tell me what I already knew. There was still no improvement.  So begins the development of plan B, chest x-rays, blood work and a more powerful antibiotic. With my body in rebellion and no sign of the siege letting up anytime soon my doctor decided to play it safe and leave me off of work until June 2.
 
Day 18 – May 8, 2003: I spent the morning at the local hospital swimming upstream against the amount of paperwork required by the insurance company for a simple chest x-ray. Three hours later I was finally able to actually enter the x-ray waiting room where I was privileged enough to wait another hour before actually being x-rayed. On the other hand the blood work at a separate facility took all of ten minutes including blood drawing and form processing. Go figure.
 
Day 24 – May 14, 2003: My body remains in rebellion, I have a constant dry, unproductive cough that would have been fired by now for its lack of production. I have no more fever but I still feel less than my formal self. A sure sign that you have been sick to long is when the receptionist greets you by name before you have even signed in. Another round of poking and prodding and it appears that nothing has changed. Bronchial tubes inflame: check. Chronic cough: check. Shortness of breath: check. My blood work showed a slight elevation in the white blood cells, which is to be expected. The chest x-ray was normal so at least initially we can rule out pneumonia and tumors. Stumped my doctor decides it is time to bring in one of those mysterious specialists in this case the dreaded pulmonologist. Also, since she has experience in navigating the rocky waters of insurance referrals she wisely extends my disability to June 23.
 
Day 31 – May 21, 2003: I received my referral from the insurance company giving me their blessing and graciously allowing me to visit the pulmonologist of their choice. Of course calling his office required another lesson in patience. I am beginning to believe that insurance companies are God's modern day equivalent of the trials and tribulations of Job. God is just testing our faith in the system. When I was actually able to get through to the office of the pulmonologist I was informed that they were booked through the 11th of June. I begged, I pleaded, I whined and I even asked for some addresses of those ahead of me on the schedule so I could attempt some form of bribery. It was all to no avail though she sympathized with me she was unable to move me up on the appointment list. O' well you cannot blame a guy for trying.
 
Thus ends part one of Lungs in Crisis. 
  
 

Choices

Martin and Blake's friendship survived a twenty-one year roller coaster before jumping the tracks and coming to an inglorious finale. No one was to blame. It was just one of those things brought about by miscommunication, hurt feelings and two more friends were cast into the canyon of friendships past.

Why?

Why did this happen?

Their friendship had survived the test of time.

In 1979 a trip to Disneyland had ended in disaster. Martin and Blake had planned to go with their friend Krista and a friend of hers from out of town. Martin had assumed that the out of town friend was a blind date for him. When Krista came down with the flue he naturally assumed that Blake would be the "third wheel". What Martin was not aware of was that Blake and Krista's friend Lori had already met. A mutual attraction had already developed. All parties involved assumed that Martin was aware of the situation. He was not. Blake and Lori were lost in each other and oblivious to Martins feelings. They had a wonderful time and were unaware of Martin spending the night fighting back tears. He had been the third wheel one to many times and this time he was really hurt.

Once they had returned home. Martin called Blake and in no uncertain terms ended their friendship. Blake tried to apologize now that he was uncomfortably aware of the damage he had caused but Martin would have none of it. The two of them did not speak for several months. Until Blake heard through the grapevine that Martin had broken his ankle in a rock climbing accident. Blake swallowed his pride and called Martin to ask if there was anything he could do to help. Upon hearing from Blake, Martin realized that ending a friendship over a girl he had never dated was not very wise. He invited Blake over and they spoke long into the night repairing the damage to their bridge of friendship.

Several years passed and their journey through life went rather smoothly. They were always there for each other. No matter the time, day or night, it did not matter. All it took was the ring of the phone and one was always there to provide aid to the other.

Their friendship was interrupted once again when Blake got married. Martin was the best man at the ceremony and proud to be standing before the guests Blake's side. Martin and Rebecca, Blake's bride, however never got along. As their marriage progressed she slowly drove a wedge between Blake and all of his friends especially Martin. Blake was oblivious to the growing distance. He was happy. He was in love. Before long he had a son. His world was perfect or so he thought.

One day Blake sat down and took stock of his life. He began to realize that he was living a life that isolated from everyone except Rebecca. Not only that Rebecca's family hated him and did all they could to instigate problems between them. The worst part though was that Rebecca never came to his defense. Finally despite the love he had for his son Blake packed his bags, walked out the door and attempted to rebuild his life.
Most of his friends had moved on. Some were married. Others had moved out of the area. But not Martin he was still there and still as loyal as ever. He never said anything about what happened. Their friendship picked up right where it had left off hardly missing a beat.

Several times over the next few years it was Martin who was dependant on Blake to be there to pick up the pieces. For a while it seemed as if Martin had a permanent case of heartbreak. Just has Martin's heart would heal from one breakup he would fall in love again only to be kicked in the gut once more. Many nights Blake would awaken to the sound of Martin quietly knocking on the door in need for someone understanding to talk to. Blake would listen and Martin would cleanse his heart and soul of all the fear and pain he was carrying around.

In the mid-eighties Blake's father passed away after a long illness. He was having a hard time dealing with the loss but Martin felt he had the perfect solution, a blind date. Blake was not interested in dating he just wanted to wallow. Martin insisted though and before he knew it Blake was looking into the eyes of his future.

Blake was gun shy after his first disaster of a marriage so he did not allow himself to fall to hard to fast. It was obvious to everyone else though that when Blake met Kelly his bachelor lifestyle was over whether he realized it or not. Blake was able to postpone the inevitable but eventually he gave in to fate and they were married.

No one was happier for the new couple than Martin. Especially since he had been friends with Kelly before introducing her to Blake he knew she would not come between them.

Blake and Kelly's marriage was as smooth as silk. Martin and Blake's friendship seemed to have settled into a comfort zone that would last until they were two old men sitting in rocking chairs in front of some old age home.

Alas it was not to be.

Martin was also friends with Kelly's sister Teri. The four of them spent quite a bit of time together. In some circles it was assumed that eventually Teri and Martin would fall for each other, however the time never seemed to be right.

Several years after they were married Kelly's sister Teri developed a series of illnesses. Teri spent the next year being visited by a parade of doctors with various specialties. She had one surgery after another. As her various medical problems grew worse Teri withdrew into a shell. Before long she only wanted to be visited by her immediate family and no one else. It was part of her defense mechanisms in action. The less people visited the less she was required to face the seriousness of her situation.

There came a time when Teri's primary doctor gathered the family for a serious discussion. Teri had been diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma and he needed to discuss treatment options. Once the doctor left the room Teri asked her family including Blake to promise not to tell anyone. She would tell whom she wanted when she wanted. She specifically asked Blake not to mention one word of her illness to Martin.

Of course this put Blake between a rock and a hard place. Martin was his best friend and Teri was family now. However in his heart he felt Martin would understand. A promise is a promise and Blake had always prided himself on keeping his word.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Teri's mother accidentally let her diagnosis slip out when she ran into Martin and his mother at the grocery store. Martin immediately called Blake demanding an explanation. Blake was honest he had made and kept a promise. The same way he had kept promises for Martin over the years. He tried to explain to Martin that it was Teri's illness and that she had the right to disperse the news as she saw fit. It was all to no avail.

Blake and Martin began to drift apart. Issues that in the past would have been nothing became stumbling blocks. The final straw came when Blake was unable to attend the funeral of Martin's grandmother. The funeral conflicted with one of Teri's cancer appointments. Blake had become Teri's advocate for all of her treatments. No one in her family really understood all of the issues and were to emotionally upset still to discuss treatment in a professional manner.

Blake understood that by missing the funeral he was risking the end of his and Martin's friendship. It was a risk that he was prepared to take. He did not mean to be harsh in his opinion but Blake felt that this was a time where his family had to come first. So he missed the funeral.

The day of the funeral marked the end of their friendship. They spoke a few times afterward but it was never the same. They both had said things that they probably regretted and now the bridge was broken and most probably beyond repair.

Wedding Traditions

For the most part with this journal I have avoided politics. Discussing hotbed issues can be a no win situation for someone such as myself who has spent the past six months writing about my life experiences and creating various types of fiction and poetry. That being said with this piece I am going to dip my big toe into the waters of controversy not necessarily by voicing a hard formed opinion but providing some background material concerning the origins of some of societies wedding traditions. The following is not intended to be an end all discussion of traditions but more of a brief peek behind the curtain so maybe we can understand why we do what we do and also understand that marriage like most of our customs has continued to evolve over the centuries.

Best Men: Once mankind began to settle into villages and towns there would often times be a shortage of brides in a particular settlement. The "groom" and his "best man" would often visit a neighboring community with the intention of stealing a "bride". Once the happy couple returned to the "grooms" village the wedding would take place almost immediately. The "best man" or "men" would stand to the grooms right facing entrance of the church. This position allowed them to watch the grooms back in case the "brides" father attempted to interrupt the ceremony.

Bride and Grooms Position: The "bride" would stand to the left of the "groom" to keep his sword hand free. If trouble developed he could keep the "bride" behind him with his left hand while removing his sword with his right.

On a side note: because there was always a chance that the wedding ceremony would turn into a battle often times church alters had an arsenal of hand held weapons hidden beneath them.

Carrying the "Bride" over the Threshold: There are at least two version of the origin of this tradition. Version one states that the "bride" was carried over the threshold because of her position as a captive not a willing "bride". Version two holds that the tradition of carrying the bride over the threshold began because of a superstition that evil spirits would enter the couple's new home through the soles of the bride's feet. It has also been said that the carrying over the threshold was to prevent the bride from stepping left foot first into her new home which also would lead to bad luck.

Wedding Banns: Charlemagne who in AD 800 became the Holy Roman Empire is said to have originated the practice of publishing wedding banns. In the 8th century record keeping left a lot to be desired. Especially when it came to recording births and tracking the lineage of each child, since not every child's parentage was clear and because the amount of extramarital affairs that were happening it was not uncommon for half brothers and sisters to marry without realizing their relationship. To this end Charlemagne made it law through out his empire that a marriage must be announce at least a week before the actual event to allow for anyone who knew of a reason why the couple should not marry to come forth.

Groom not seeing the Bride: The tradition of it being bad luck for the groom to see the bride on their wedding day came about due to the wide spread existence of arranged marriages. To often it would happen that a groom who had never met the bride would see her before the wedding and not finding himself attracted to her would fail to appear for the ceremony. So the fathers of the bride forbade the prospective groom to see her until they met on the alter.

Throwing of the Garter and Bridal Bouquet: The wedding night was a huge party and at some point in the evening male attendants would help the bride and groom to undress. With the men fighting over the garter with the winner wearing it on his hat. Once the happy couple were undressed they would sit on the bed and the wedding party would throw stockings on at them. The person who was lucky enough to land a stocking on the happy couple would be the next to wed.

Throwing Shoes: In the past shoes were thrown at the bride to ensure a bounty of children. In many cultures feet were considered a powerful phallic symbol and throwing shoes was preferred over the throwing of wheat or rice.

Wedding Cake: Originally the wedding cake was nothing but a bit of wheat bread that was thrown at the bride to guarantee her fertility. The Romans began to bake small, rather sweet wheat cakes that were meant to be eaten. The guests however did not want to abandon tradition so rather than eat the cakes they threw them at the bride. Eventually the custom evolved to where the cake was crumbled over the couple's head and than they would eat some of the crumbs again to guarantee fertility. Our modern wedding cake evolved from the English tradition of stacking small biscuits and other baked goods. The higher the stack the more good fortune for the couple. Tradition says that a French chef while visiting London in the 1660's was shocked at the half-hazard way the baked goods were stacked. In response to what he had witnessed he developed the idea of a multi-tiered wedding cake rather than a half-hazard stack of baked goods.

Horn Honking and Wedding Bells: Our ancestors believed that loud noises would keep evil spirits away from the wedding. This evolved into wedding bells being rung at the church and later to horn honking when the wedding party leaves the church.

Honeymoon: One of the original reasons for a honeymoon goes back in time to the stealing of the bride. Once the wedding was complete the couple would disappear for a month or until the "brides" father stopped searching for her. When the couple returned the "bride" was usually pregnant and her family would than accept the marriage. The honey in honeymoon comes from the honeyed mead that was drunk at the reception. And of course as seen above the moon in honeymoon comes from the cycle of the moon that the couple would be away.

There are many other tradition both in the west and around the world. My reasoning for listing a few of them here is not to necessarily change someone's definition of marriage but just to point out that marriage like any other tradition that we celebrate has evolved and will continue to evolve regardless of what legal arguments we are having today.

Naked Reality

The hologram must be failing because he was beginning to see that what he believed to be reality was something else.

He did not bother trying to explain. People would assume he was crazy and lock him away someplace. The masses choose to see the emperor's new clothes though reality was running naked through the time/space continuum.

Not unlike an adult who can no longer suspend their belief while riding the Small World attraction at Disneyland. He can see the strings. The fantasy is lost. The record is stuck and repeating small, small, small over and over again.

The mundane moments pass the way of a summer breeze that ruffles the leaves of the maple in the front yard. Like the maple savors the spices of the wind, he tastes the moment but the cage remains empty and the watch remains unwound.

Time has no meaning. Clocks and calendars are useful for categorizing and filing away memories in a dusty attic where they are neglected and filled with cobwebs and dust mites saved for a rainy day that never comes.

He accepts the changes that his new reality has brought to his perception. He accepts the changes without fear and without prejudice.

Hot weather only reminds him that soon he will be cold.

Hunger is only a reminder that soon he will be fed.

Pain is accepted as a precursor to well being.

Tears are but a sign of the laughter that will soon follow.

The mini dramas of life are but rehearsals for the souls eventual evolving.

Death is but another door that must be opened or another road that must be traversed.

He sat watching the sunset on a deserted beach or was he watching the beginning of a sunrise that someone unknown to him was watching in Japan. Whatever the reality was did not change the beauty of the moment.

He took a handful of sand still warm to the touch from the suns passing and watched as the individual grains returned to their own reality.

Was he insane? He could not answer a question that was unanswerable. If he was that was the reality of this moment and he would ride the currents where they took him.

If he was not than maybe his perception had become just a bit sharper, his senses just a bit purer and his mind just a bit more aware of the knowledge that had always been there for the taking.

Truthfully, it did not matter if the emperor had new clothes or not. What mattered was what lesson if any the emperor had learned.

Laguna Beach

When my mother finds a good hair stylist she will follow them through hell and high water to keep partaking in their quality work.

Case in point. The stylist my mom used in the late sixties and early seventies was originally located just a few miles from where we lived in Arcadia. When his salon became a success he moved the whole operation to Laguna Beach which is about a ninety mile round trip from where we lived.

Did she search out a new stylist? No. She followed him to Laguna Beach which was just fine by us kids because of course waiting for your mother on the beach is much more exciting than waiting for your mother in a smelly old salon especially during the summer.

Laguna Beach for those of you who don't know is a rather pricey beach town located along Pacific Coast Highway between Newport Beach and San Clemente. Laguna's most famous attraction is the Pageant of the Masters, which takes place every summer. During the pageant performers replicate the paintings of masters by appearing in costume and posing forming a living copy of the artists canvas. Words cannot convey the beauty of this event. Viewing the pageant for the first time would be similar to ones first exposure to Shakespeare on stage or on the screen where the words begin to come alive for the audience.

Today Laguna Beach is trendy, fashionable, and a hotspot where quite a few Southern Californians attempt to park and eat on any given Saturday. While in the seventies it was popular its popularity did not compare to today.

On hair styling day we would drive down to the beach with our mother where upon arrival she would set us free for a few hours while she spent her time being pampered and spoiled.

My favorite spot then and today has to be the tide pools of which there are several. During low tide you can climb over miniature coral mountains until you are approximately one hundred yards from the sand.

The coral at low tide becomes a landing strip and a restaurant for various breads of sea birds especially gulls and pelicans. A careful observer will spot fish, crab, jellyfish and other small creatures living and hiding in the various pools.

Once my exploring nature was satisfied I would always pull up a piece of sand and lose myself in a good book, periodically people watching and adding a bit of suntan lotion to my reddening skin. Once in awhile I would hook up with some of the other kids on the beach and get in on a game of Frisbee or football. However, sooner or later I would find myself back on my towel lost in whatever that day's beach read was.

Today I may not make it to the beach as often and when I do I rarely go to Laguna, it is much to crowded, no matter where I am opening a good summer novel brings the smell of surf and sand back to overwhelm my senses.

Miss-Communication

Mike was oblivious to the life changing moment, which was about to happen. Sitting in his favorite rocker reading the paper and sipping iced tea his world was perfect or so he thought.

It was midnight. A humid July type of midnight when even with the windows open no air moved through the house and you found your clothes sticking to your skin as if you had just showered in them.

In the distance he could hear the song of the coyote's and the accompanying cricket orchestra. On the radio Art Bell was debating the existence of UFO's with Rob from Rochester.

The children were away at camp and Linda was asleep upstairs. For as long as Mike had known Linda she required a minimum of ten hours sleep per night, without it her mood swings matched the pressure changes in Oklahoma before a tornado. As for himself he was and always had been a light sleeper requiring no more than five or six hours per night.

Midnight had become his private hour. His time for unwinding from life's stresses time. Some nights he would escape with a good book. On other nights he would watch an old movie or maybe sit in the old porch swing and see how many shooting stars he could count. The activity was not important the time alone was.

Noticing that his iced tea glass was empty Mike wandered into the kitchen for a refill. He heard the floorboards upstairs squeaking, looking at the clock he assumed it was Linda coming down for a glass of water. Sure enough before he finished preparing his tea she shuffled sleepily into the kitchen.

"Can I get you some water, sweetheart?"

"I'm not thirsty I actually came down so we could talk Mike. We never seem to talk anymore so I waited until the girls were away at camp so we could have a private conversation."

Needing to talk was Linda's warning flag signaling that someone was in trouble and usually that someone was him. Suddenly Mike had a hollow feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. With budding trepidation he sat at the kitchen table waiting for Linda to drop her bombshell.

Without preamble she began; "Before the girls left for camp I discussed the possibility of us getting a divorce with them."

He was in deeper trouble than he thought. Where had the idea of divorce come from?

"Don't look so shocked Mike you know we have not been communicating well and for quite some time we have shared the same house while living separate lives."


Divorce, the girls and a lack of communication suddenly Mike did not feel so hot. "What shocks me Linda is not that the thought of a divorce crossed your mind . What shocks me is you being selfish enough to discuss something like that with the girls before they left for camp or for that matter discussing it with them at all. It would have been nice if we discussed it first and than if necessary share our feelings with the girls, not you arbitrarily and alone but us together."

"You see Mike this is why we never talk you are always making a mountain out of a molehill. We had a conversation, mother to daughters, no lawyers involved. I just thought they should know what I was feeling."

"That what it always comes down to Linda, what you feel, what you think, what you want, in your mind its your world and the rest of us are welcome to it. You are skipping a few steps in your little tirade here. Like communication, talking about our problems, our fears and our concerns."

"Mike what do you expect from me. I am at the end of my rope. I have not been happy for a while and I just wanted to discuss possibilities with our girls. I am not even sure what road the discussion would take but I thought it was only fair."

Even having spent the better part of his adult life attempting to translate Linda's thought pattern into reality was not helping him here. To her discussing divorce with their daughters was no different than debating, which flavor ice cream to select at Coldstones.

"Linda you are not playing fair. Not only did you talk to them behind my back but you waited until they were gone to tell me. Who knows what fears or confusion you planted with your little talk. Now there is nothing I can do for them until they return. You really do take the cake Linda, you really do."

"Don't talk to me about fair Michael Hammond. Is it fair that we spent four out of the last five years taking care of my mother? Is it fair that after all we did for her she still left the bulk of her estate to Annie? Is it fair that just when we got our life back you ruptured two discs in your back? Is any of that fair Mike? Well I am sick and tire of life being unfair and if your feelings get hurt along the way so what. I am looking at the backside of my thirties and I do not have much time left to have fun and if that means having fun with someone else than so be it."

"GOOD NIGHT MICHAEL!!!"

Mike sat shaking at the kitchen table. Her voice still echoed in his head even as he heard her footsteps stomping up the stairs.

What happened to the innocent and loving girl I married?

Where did all of her pent up poison come from?

What had he done to draw such wrath from her?

What am I going to do?

Those and other questions followed Mike outside where he sank into the porch swing. As he looked up at the stars he thought to himself, "The sky does not appear to be all that clear this evening." As his hand absent mindedly wiped the moisture from his tear filled eyes.

The Conversation

Dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, black shoes and not tie he cut a rather dapper figure. He was probably eighty years old but he could have passed for sixty as he walked down the street.

He sat speaking to her, comfortable in his folding chair with an umbrella to keep most of the afternoon sun from his parchment like skin.

"Dora retired last week from the bank. They gave her a luncheon at one of those fancy resteraunts. She had prime rib and champagne. All of her kids were there and the Chairman of the Board even sent along a letter with a plaque."

"Little David will be starting kindergarten in the fall. He was so cute. On the final day of preschool they had a little graduation ceremony. When it was over he jumped into my lap. Talking a mile a minute. Did you see me grandpa. I graduated. Than for no reason at all he began crying. When I asked him what was wrong he said he didn't want to graduate, he wanted to stay at preschool with all of his friends."

"Harriet Trotter passed last week. She was eighty-seven. She had not been the same since Gregory passed last year."

"I saw the heart doctor today. He said that my ticker is in great shape and that barring accidents I might see one hundred."

And on he went. Discussing with her the weather, the Dodger's, world events and family gossip.

After an hour or so he arose from his seat and with some effort knelt on the grass. He cleaned away the dried grass and a few weeds that were growing near her gravestone. He placed a bouquet of yellow roses in some water and left them there for her.

He folded his chair and his umbrella and blew a final kiss toward his young bride. Walking slowly he made his way to his car.

If anyone had asked he would have smiled and said: "Genie and I were married for fifty years. The last two she was no longer able to speak because of the Alzheimer's that was eating away her brain. I guess I spent so many years talking to her I am just not comfortable enough to have much of a conversation with anyone else.

Spirit of Independance Day's Past

From the age of seven to the age of twelve my 4th of July's were spent at the Elks Lodge to which my parents belonged. The lodge was located directly across the street from a county part and a fireworks stand where we always purchased our evening entertainment.

Through out the day all of us kids could be found in the park-playing hide and go seek, ditch, football and Frisbee. We climbed trees and avoided the older kids with firecrackers at all costs. They enjoyed nothing better than dropping a lit package behind some unsuspecting pre-teen.

When the afternoon began to wane we returned by twos and threes to the lodge parking lot where a huge BBQ feast was in the process of being prepared. There were always dogs, burgers, ribs and steaks with all the fixings.

Once everyone had filled their stomachs to their hearts content all the kids would gather in a rope off area that had been set up just for us. With a few adults as chaperones we would light off all of our sparklers, blazing flowers and fountains. Some of the littler ones would cry but for the most part one and all enjoyed the spectacle.

By the time we finished it was time for the main event. One of the local groups put on a huge fireworks show every year and the lodge parking lot was a perfect viewing location with no fuss and no muss. With folding chairs and blankets adults and children alike were dazzled by the fire filled sky.

Unfortunately my twelfth year was the last year that the firework display was put on. The sponsoring group paid for each years show from the proceeds collected from firework sales the previous year. The stand was robbed at closing in the final year and they chose to no longer put on the shows.

From my twelfth year to the current year my 4th of July memories have been a hodgepodge of various events with no real tradition to bind each year to the next.

Several 4ths were spent at the Long Beach Marina watching the firework display from the shore. The best part of the event was that all of the rockets were launched from a barge in the middle of the harbor so there was not a bad seat in the house. The downside was the crowds, the parking and the innumerable amount of drunks; at least back then the marina was definitely not a place for young children.

One year the fireworks I witnessed were from the back seat of a buddy's car as we returned from a visit to Sacramento. There is not much time for savoring the experience while doing eighty on Interstate 5.

Another year a group of us watched fireworks from a turn off along Highway 2 in the San Gabriel Mountains. Instead of one show we saw several dozen shows scattered about the valley below us.

Over a period of four or five years a group of us would park at or near the Rose Bowl to watch their yearly firework extravaganza. The area outside the bowl became a temporary community with everyone's children intermingling and families sharing fried chicken and beer. The last few years however the parking fee has become rather high reducing the ability for most families to afford it.

My worst 4th of July happened seven years ago. Upon returning home from the Rose Bowl I found a message on my machine informing me that my mother had suffered a major heart attack. She lives near Laughlin, Nevada and her habit of visiting the various casinos is the only thing that saved her life. She lives alone and if she had been home she would have surely died. While sitting at a slot machine she began to feel ill and began walking towards the door where she collapsed. The paramedics were able to stabilize her and from the local hospital she was airlifted to Phoenix where she had a stint inserted into one of her arteries.

Over the past few years the 4ths have begun to run together. Without a traditional event it almost seems like just another day. Maybe next year I will spend the 4th in Philadelphia, New York or Washington D.C. and see if I can jumpstart my enjoyment of Independence Day.

Embarrassing Moments

Today a group of us were discussing our most embarrassing moments and/or nicknames, since I have one of each I figured I would share my embarrassment with the net and post the stories.

My most embarrassing nickname came about because of my little sister A. I was four years old when she was born and around six when she began to speak. Like most children there were words she could say with ease and words she could not pronounce for years.

One of those words was spaghetti, which always came out of her mouth as psghetti.

The word however that appeared to give her the most difficulty was my name, Darrell. No matter how hard she tried she just could not manage to pronounce my name correctly. After awhile she just gave up trying and came up with her own name for me.

Dodo.

From the first time Dodo passed her lips it stuck. Even as she grew and was finally able to pronounce my name correctly she would still call me Dodo. To this day forty some years later when I call her the first thing out of her mouth is: "Hi Dodo."

I once asked her where the nickname came from and she had no idea. I asked my mother who also had no idea. Then along came the internet and a world of useless trivia was suddenly at my fingertips. After some researching I believe that I solved the mysterious origin of the Dodo nickname.

Apparently from 1965 to 1970 there was a cartoon here in the US called Dodo: The Kid from Outer Space. When I mentioned it to my mom and showed her an episode that has been uploaded to the web she remembered me watching it all the time with my baby sister. So not being able to say Darrell she picked up Dodo from the cartoon.

DODO - THE KID FROM OUTER SPACE
"DoDo, the Kid from Outer Space,
DoDo can go, go any place,
With propellers on his heels,
Antennas on his ears,
He's the science-fiction pixie
from a strange atomic race,
DoDo, the Kid from Outer Space.
DODO!!!"

If anyone is interested they can go to ">http://www.toontracker.com and look up Dodo and other cartoons from our childhood.

One of my more embarrassing moments happened when I was in seventh grade. I was rather innocent and did not know much about the birds and the bees. Some of the boys who were supposedly more knowledgeable than I. They were talking about men and women sleeping together. Which of course in my naiveté I assumed meant sleeping together and nothing else.

Coincidently several families from the lodge my parents belonged to had spent the previous weekend at the Salton Sea which is an inland salt water lake in if I remember correctly the Mohave desert.

Anyhow the parents had separate rooms and they rented one room for all of us kids. Since the girls outnumbered the boys I ended up sleeping with two of the girls and thought nothing of it.

That is until school on Monday when all the in boys were talking about the opposite sexes sleeping together. Rarely did I find myself in discussion with this group of kids but upon hearing their topic I had to contribute my two cents.

Big mistake.

When I told them I spent the weekend sleeping with two girls they began to ask me all kinds of embarrassing questions about what happened. When all of my responses were negative and I explained that all we did was sleep you could have heard a pin drop. Than they all started laughing as they walked away.

It did not take me long to figure out where I had gone wrong. But it took several weeks for me to remove my foot from my mouth.

Wondering

The sheets of his bed were tangled about his ankles. His pillows had been fluffed and punched to the point that they were useless for support. An empty glass lay on the bedside table its former contents forming a small lake on the floor.

He stared at the ceiling. His eyes were red and swollen from a lack of sleep or from crying it was difficult to tell the difference. His hair was a tangle of gray and blond and his face was covered with several days of unshaven stubble.

Sleep had not visited his room for several days and the air was musty with the scent of unwashed flesh. In the background a television hissed with the poorly written soap that was trying much to hard to be hip. He was oblivious though to the television and to his surroundings. At this point in time he was captured in a prison of depression with no hope for parole.

Simply put time would run out on his life before the calendar changed from September to October. The cause was unimportant. There was no hope and there was no treatment. All the doctors could offer were various drugs that before to long would leave him in a medicated stupor unaware of the passing of time until he slipped off into that long dark night.

Refusing the medicals staffs offer of medication he walked away from his life and drove off into the desert until he had found himself here in this small backwater town renting a room who's only previous occupants were a family of cockroaches.

He was 33 years old; he had no family, no close friends and now no life. In his mind he had always been planning for tomorrow. Tomorrow I will get married. Tomorrow I will have a career. Tomorrow I will see the world. His dreams had been filled with a thousand tomorrows but now his tomorrows added up to less than a month.

Regrets he had quite a few but the one that haunted him most was that when he took his last breath there would be nothing left behind to show that he had even lived. Sure in some dusty file cabinet in some small town there was a birth certificate and who ever passed for a coroner in this town would file a death certificate but that was it. Two pieces of faded parchment added up to the sum of one mans life.

He had done nothing to leave his mark. No mediocre artwork in some second hand store. No half written novel in a safety deposit box. No charity work. Nothing to show for this gift of life he had been given.

What tore at him the most was never having been a father. Never having witnessed the birth of his very own son or daughter. Never held the hand of a beautiful woman while they gazed in amazement at the little miracle they had created together.

Who was he kidding, ten years ago when the opportunity for fatherhood had presented itself his indecisiveness had allowed the chance to slip through his fingers. What right did he have complain about missed opportunities, he at least have been given the opportunity to live.

Her name was Victoria and for him at least it had been love at first sight. She was beautiful, funny, warm, passionate and full of life. They had worked in the same office building but in different departments.

Before long he was finding excuses to walk by her desk and just to say hello or to exchange a smile in passing. He was somewhat intimidated by her and could not gather the courage to directly ask her out. One Monday however they were discussing that night's football game and without planning to he ended making a bet on the games outcome. If his team won he would buy her dinner, if her team won she would buy dinner.

His team won.

The following night found them walking hand in hand through the sand on one of Southern California's many beaches. Their conversations flowed easily and the silent moments were warm and comfortable. To his surprise as the sunset she reached up to him and gently kissed his lips.

When she saw his look of astonishment she explained that she did not want to wait as long for their first kiss as she had for him to ask her out.

So began a long love affair with a woman that in all honesty had been his soul mate that is if there was such a thing.

They spent most of their free time together. Drives along the coast. Trips to Vegas. Long nights at one of their homes watching old Bogie and Bacall films. Everything was perfect.

He knew that she was waiting for him to propose but she knew that he was gun shy having been briefly married several years before. So she bided her time and waited for him to be comfortable with the idea. And she waited. And waited. And waited.

He was afraid of marriage and scared to death of the long-term commitment. He went so far as to buy an engagement ring but he never gave it to her. That is until it was to late.

One night she showed up at his door with pizza, beer and a somewhat timid look on her face. She barely spoke over dinner and sat quietly on the couch not really responding to him or the television.

Finally he got the hint and her turned off the television, he took her hand in his and asked her what was the matter. He almost hit the floor when she blurted out that she was pregnant.

A thousand and one thoughts and emotions went through his head all demanding individual attention.
I'm going to be a father.

Am I ready to be a father?

I'm going to ask Victoria to marry me.

Am I ready to get married?

He must have sat in stunned silence for to long because she finally asked him if he had anything to say. Instead of boldly asking her to marry him, he stuttered and floundered for the right words to say. When he finally asked it came out halfhearted and uncertain. Her eyes filled with tears and she left without saying goodbye.

He tried to make things right, but to be honest he did not try hard enough. He was scared of marriage, scared of parenthood and most of all afraid of all the responsibility. While the right words kept tumbling out of his mouth they both knew his heart wasn't in it.

When she brought up abortion he did not stand up and fight he muttered something about it being her decision and when she made it he drove her to the clinic.

The last time they ever spoke was on the way home from the clinic. The tears flowed and through her sobs she wanted to know what his problem was, why didn't you fight for us, for our baby. He had no words of comfort. He said nothing.

As she climbed out of the car she looked back at him with pain filled eyes and whispered: "Truth, all it would have taken is you speaking the truth with passion and meaning. I know you love me and you would have loved our child but you did not have the strength to say it and mean it. Now our baby is gone and so is our love."

The price he had paid for a lack of courage and commitment. Instead of sharing the last moments of a wonderful life with those he loved. He was instead lying on a sweat stained mattress in a seedy motel wondering what might have been.