Hormones or Heartburn

I love football.
I love the Beatles.
I love a good steak.
I love beer.
I love moonlit walks.
I love the sound of gurgling brook.
I love motorcycles.
I love convertibles.
I love your dress.
I love your hair.
I love a good movie.
I love my house.

I love you?

Many groups have through out the years discussed the prevalence of sex, violence and four letter words that we as a society must wade thru on a daily basis. Their primary concern has been that we will become hardened to such events and will be unable to separate the entertainment from the reality. Focusing on the negative effects that the over exposure to the poor choice of entertainment we make is a noble cause. However, I feel that we have been missing the forest in amongst the trees.

A far greater danger is the rampant over usage of the word love.

For so many people the word love has become a catchall phrase for everything in life that we are drawn to from our spouses, to our children, from our parents to our siblings, to every animate and inanimate object we desire.

How can our children begin to comprehend the importance of the word love when they hear it tossed around like baseball on the playground? Mom loves her job. Dad loves his new tool. Grandpa loves his new television. Grandma loves listening to Bing Crosby. Everybody loves something.

What are we teaching our children what the word love stands for when we say we love our spouse and meatloaf in practically the same sentence?

More than a few of my friends have had someone they were dating whisper I love you after only three or four dates. Now, the romantic in me still believes in love at first site but the realist stands back looks at the abundance of broken families and wonders if we take love and marriage seriously enough.

In reality whispering I love you so early in a relationship is usually a euphemism for what is really being thought and/or felt. I love you at that point can mean the sex was great, the conversation was great, your company was great. It seems that so often now people are confusing hormones or heartburn for something deeper and more beautiful.

I have found that even some married couples over use the word. One or both spouses are constantly saying I love you from the end of each and every phone conversation to every time they pass in the halls at home. A couple who is secure in their love and their marriage usually do not need to repeat I love you a thousand times a day. Actions through out the day speak volumes where words can eventually become empty.

My wish would be for the word love to be returned to a more lofty position or at least behind glass like a fire alarm. With a sign above that reads break glass in the case of true love.

Unheard Soul

All he ever wanted was for his voice to be heard. A shoulder to cry on. A partner to help tend his soul garden.

All around him people fluttered to and fro going about their daily chores as if they meant something in the big picture. No one stopped to share a sunset with him. No one was willing to spend an hour in the meadow watching the clouds pass by. No one had the time to discuss the concept of time or its effect on our built in perceptions.

In his confusion he longed for a confident. Someone who understood him beyond the flesh and blood of his body. Someone who was able to perceive the wonder filled spirit within.

He spoke to his minister, which was some comfort but rather than letting the conversation flow the minister kept returning to the salvation of his soul. He knew the man was just doing his job developing a spiritual road map to guide him but that was not what he was looking for.

He spoke to his psychologist. She was filled with compassion. She worked to guide him through the maze he had created and back onto a path of comfort. Forty-five minutes a week with a virtual stranger was not the answer though.

He was surrounded by family but the with their lack of involvement in his life they might has well have been strangers. So wrapped up in themselves they had no time for support. They failed to understand him. Leading lives without emotion they could not comprehend one who wrapped himself in emotions.

All he ever wanted was to be heard. To be understood and to be accepted. He never expected to live the life on an unheard soul.

Prayers

The war ended before it began. Before any battles were fought. Before any skirmishes were lost.

A mother watches, as her daughter becomes a woman before her eyes.

Eleven years old and she looks like she could pass for seventeen or eighteen. Innocent and unprepared for the world outside her front door she must step off the ledge into the oblivion of her teens.

A mother wonders. How can I protect someone who no longer listens to what I say? How am I to respond to each slammed door? How should I react each cry for privacy?

When I was her age my life was so different. My mother was distant and I ran the streets and alleys of my hometown with my friends. My naiveté was long gone. I could take care of myself. I understood the risks and I understood the cost.

A mother cry's herself to sleep each night. The silent tears of a single parent find no comfort; no shoulder is there to cry on.

I look at my daughter and I am surprised to find myself looking back at me. The same hair and the same body type. The same smile and the same brown eyes. I sense the confusion running rampant in her mind but how can I provide comfort when my own mind is facing the same floodwaters of confusion.

A mother hopes that once they establish common ground that they will be able to navigate the rapids of teen life together. It is a journey that no child should have to make alone but to many do.

I watch my daughter as she mopes around the house. A black cloud is almost visible above her head as she pouts and seemingly embraces the angst that dominates the lives of so many teenagers today. I want to hold her but she as built a maze of ice between us and navigating its corridors is much more difficult than I expected.

In the darkness a mother prays. Lord, I love my daughter so. It breaks my heart to see her fighting against the coming changes. Please provide me with the strength to be firm, the wisdom to guide her and the courage that I will need to stand by her side and support through the coming storm.

In the darkness a daughter prays. Lord, I love my mother. I am so scared. My body is changing and everything seems so different. Please give me the strength to know when to say no, the wisdom to listen to my mother and learn from her experiences and courage to discuss my life with her. Help me find a way through this maze and come to come out the other side with my mothers love for me intact.

Lungs in Crisis V

Day 188 – October 25, 2003: I finished the required treatment to eliminate the Thrush from my throat. There was little if no improvement in my cough or my breathing. Follow up with my pulmonologist is on schedule for the following week. Today was a disaster of epic proportions for someone like me with breathing difficulty. The mountains just north of my house were covered with flames for miles in every direction.

Looking outside my window one would have thought it was a mid-winter snowstorm if not for the calendar or my location in Southern California. The ground is covered by a quarter inch of ash. The air is thick with smoke and soot and my chest feels like a weightlifter is sitting on me.

Day 192 – October 29, 2003: A new member has joined the family of fish in the office of my pulmonologist. We discussed the various options and came to the mutual decision that it was time to be a bit more aggressive. He submitted a request to my insurance company for approval of a bronchoscopy so we could see exactly what was happening in my lungs.

Day 204 – November 10, 2003: In today's mail I found approval for both my bronchoscopy and my disability. My check including retroactive pay should be in the mail any day. I called the hospital and scheduled my procedure for November 20th, with preoperative testing scheduled for the 19th.

Day 212 – November 18, 2003: If I was Irish I would need to kiss the Blarney Stone to find some form of good luck. I woke up this morning with another fever. After visiting the doctor I found that I have another active bronchial infection. With an active infection and fever postponing the procedure until next month has become necessary. Time to reintroduce antibiotics to the process. Which will with my luck will develop another round of thrush. It is a vicious circle but my choices are limited at this point.

Day 213 – November 19, 2003: Discussions with the disability insurance company informed me that in January I will have to begin the process of applying for long term disability. One of the conditions of approval for the long-term disability is proof of application for social security disability. When this illness began in April I never thought that the holidays would roll around and I would still be off of work. Frustration is beginning to set in. My panic attacks have increased and depression has been knocking at my door. So far at least I have kept the hounds at bay. My psychologist referred me to a psychiatrist to ensure that I was taking the right doses of medication for my panic attacks. He switched me from the Paxil I was taking to Lexapro in an attempt to settle my nerves. Only time will tell but I am growing tired of the treadmill.

Fever

The fever induced ramblings of an overheated mind.

If Disneyland is the happiest place on earth than who holds the title for the saddest place on earth?

Will Kenneth Branagh ever direct another good movie or has he lost his muse?

If organized religion faded away what would the human race have to fight about?

How can there be justice for everyone when only the wealthy can buy it?

Does anyone remember how great Coca-Cola tasted before they began using corn sweeteners?

Will reality television ever reflect a normal persons reality?

Why would intelligent life bother to visit this planet?

If intelligent life did visit this planet why would they come in craft that stood out like a sore thumb?

Will Stephen King ever write another good book?

If John F. Kennedy had lived would George W. Bush be president today?

How do they remove carbohydrates from milk and could that process possibly be good for us?

Would more weight be lost if people read their diet books while going for walks rather than by following the diets themselves?

Is Victoria's Secret still a secret?

Why do people continue to rebuild mobile home parks after a tornado or hurricane destroys them?

Bitterness

Her heart felt bitterness took me by surprise. Especially coming from someone who was but fourteen years old. How had one so young developed such deep rooted cynicism?

On a warm autumn Monday I was babysitting for a neighbor and I had taken their two kids to the park. I sat on an isolated bench watching my charges blend in with a crowd of similar children chasing each other through the mazes of equipment that pass for playgrounds these days.

I noticed her across the way. Like me she had isolated herself on one of the many benches. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her expression had a wistful, far-away look to it. She appeared to be watching two smaller children attempting to build a sand castle in dry sand, which always turns out to be a futile effort.

Before long she began pacing the sidewalk that surrounded the playground. Hands buried in the pockets of a black, oversized windbreaker. Her shoulders bowed with the weight of her world. Her feet covered by tattered Van's sneakers shuffled through the scattered sand.

We made eye contact several times. A nod. A passing smile, a tentative hello.

I invited her to sit down. When she hesitated I promised I would not bite. I pointed out my two charges that by now were rolling around in the sand and laughing without a care in the world.

I introduced myself and after a moments hesitation she gave hers as Alexis.

We discussed the usual topics that strangers do when they are attempting to find common ground. Commonality was difficult to find considering our age differences.

Finally we settled on horror novels, which as it turned out we both had an affinity for. While she leaned toward Anne Rice I am a Stephen King fan myself. We compared Interview with a Vampire to Salem's Lot. We discussed The Stand and The Queen of the Damned.

Once she was more comfortable I began to pry a little being nosy by nature.

I asked her about school. She was a sophomore in high school. She did not enjoy school though she believed that she was dumb, slow and had a lousy memory.

I told her that I found that hard to believe considering the detail she was able to give in discussing her favorite books.

I asked her what she planned to do upon graduating from high school. Would she be going on to college?

Her reply floored me. Not only did she have no plans for college but she did not even believe she would finish high school. When pressed she just repeated that she was too dumb to graduate so why bother dreaming.
What about the future I asked? How will you survive without some basic skills?

Again she left me speechless. She assumed that when she was eighteen she would become a stripper. According to her they make good money and she would be able to support herself.

I tried to grasp the hopelessness that she felt at fourteen but I could not.

She said when she looks in the mirror all she sees is a nothing, a nobody, a loser. The only thing that kept her climbing out of bed in the morning was the love she received from her brother and sister who she was watching there in the park. If not for them, she said, her life would be empty and she believed she would be useless.

I attempted to improve her self-esteem. I told her that she carried herself well and was a good conversationalist especially when discussing topics she found interesting.

She smiled but there was no belief in her eyes. In her mind life was over for her. She was stuck in the quicksand of cynicism and no mere words were going to rescue her.

By this time the sun was beginning to set and her two charges were ready to head home as were mine.

She thanked me for listening and with slight but bitter smile she walked away.

Sea of Negativity

As a family they swam in a sea of negativity. Located just two blocks down and three blocks across from the sea of tranquility.

Mama lives for her soap operas. Every daylight hour, every soap live or in Memorex it does not matter to her. Her tables are cluttered with various publications that follow the personal and professional lives of her favorite characters.

When she is not watching mama does her best to create a living soap opera out of her own life. Tranquility does not even exist as a definition in her dictionary. Every little event must become its own mini drama.

Several years ago her son was diagnosed with a very curable type of cancer. Reason for concern yes, reason for obsession no. She thrived on discussing his illness with anyone who would listen.

"My son, you know my son? No. No matter. Wonderful boy has a terrible illness. Cancer. Doctors say he will be fine but what do they know. And the stress let me tell you about the stress I am under. Going to the doctors. Going to the hospital and back to the doctors. And does my ungrateful son appreciate me. No. Just today I visited his home and he asked me to leave. He said he was tired and needed to rest. Can you imagine asking your own mother to leave? I was only going to stay long enough to straighten the house, wash the dishes, and cook some meals for him. "

On and on she can go for hours just about the son.

Don't mention the husband or you will really get her started.

Married for forty-five years and she claims to have been happy once or twice but she does not quite remember the year. Her husband is no good she says. He cheats on her and moves out for months at a time. She loves him though and always takes him back. Never questions him. The more damage he does to the marriage the happier she is. Gives her something juicy to share with the girls between commercials.

Now the husband would say he strays because she is impossible to live with. Everything must be an issue. Nothing can be simple.

This complaint of course flows from the mouth of the king of complications. He never misses a short cut or a scam. He is first in the line to collect a freebie and cannot be found when a bill is due to be paid.

Each morning he springs from bed with big plans for making millions, each evening he goes to bed a day shorter and not a dollar wiser. He has alienated every close friend he ever had with his get rich schemes that have gone awry. He wanders into grocery stores and shop lifts for the thrill of it, despite the twenties he has stashed in his pocket.

This moment in time is never enough he is always searching the horizon for the rainbow he believes is his due complete with the pot of gold. Though while wallowing in the mire of his own creation he doesn't even have a pot to piss in.

The daughter lives her life as a woman scorned. Nose in the air she walks through life expecting prince charming to fall at her feet with pockets overflowing with rubies. She is oblivious to the attitude she projects and the scorn being tossed behind her back.

In her eyes it is her world and she is just allowing the rest of the human race to borrow her playground for a short while.

Like her father she believes in instant gratification and feels it is beneath her station to work for anything. Also like her father she believes that the opposite sex is just a tool for to use and toss away on some rubbish heap. Though unlike the father she has a little flame still burning in her soul that prevents her from doing so.

What she does though is somehow worse.

She met and married her first husband with in a week. She says it was so he could get his papers to stay here in the US. However, everyone knew the real reason. Ten years and two kids later they were divorced. Like everything else this family does they botched the divorce. Unable to agree on custody he kept the son and she kept the daughter. Unable to make her marriage or divorce work she has only succeeded in creating dysfunctional generation in a long line of dysfunctional generations.

One week after the divorce was final she married the boyfriend of the woman who had been taking care of their children. Again the excuse was that he needed his papers but of course everyone just kind of smiled and went about their business without question.

Now five years later that marriage to has imploded. This time she was smart enough not to have children. However even in the ruin of a doomed marriage she is waffling not sure if she should follow through or not.

The son having recovered from cancer floats on a sea of listlessness. He has been in college for twelve years and does not possess enough credits to graduate.

He has never married and he does not even possess a permanent address. Sometimes he can be found at his mothers. Other times at his sisters, never in one place for long he is too restless.

When the four of them are together you can cut the tension with a knife. The room is filled with negative energy. Their conversations, it has been noted, have the same affect on ones brain that the sound of nails on chalkboards does. Everyone speaks at once. No one listens. Foul language rules the table. If a comment slips out with a lack of negative connotations it is not from a lack of effort.

All in all these are people who are only happy when they embrace their own unhappiness. They grow and thrive in a sea of negativity.

i love you

She whispered I love you, through out the day.

When she woke up in the morning she whispered it to him while he slept.

On the phone through out the day she always whispered I love you before they hung up the phone.

Before kissing him good night she would whisper the words in his ear.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

He heard those three words pass her lips so often that they began to lose their meaning.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Not only was the meaning lost through repetition but also it was lost without action to support their meaning.

She was in love with being in love. She was in love with the phrase I love you.

She had no clue or understanding of what it meant to be in love.

Any love affair or marriage could survive the good times that they had shared. Long moonlit walks on the beach. Dancing till dawn in small-undiscovered nightclubs savoring the rhythm that they shared. Amusement park and county fairs, picnics and romantic dinners, candlelit baths and making love in front of the fire.

She lived for those moments. She believed in fairy tales and expected her life to be all rose petals and sonnets.

When it came to working their relationship is where she failed.

Differences of opinion were never settled only moved to the backburner. We will talk about it later. It's not that important. Lets sleep on it.

All good suggestion if used sparingly, used to often though and communication would develop serious roadblocks.

When his father became ill she distanced herself, offered no support, no comfort. She found projects to occupy herself leaving him alone by his father's side as his time on earth slowly slipped away.

She became jealous of his mother, of neighbors, even of his ex-wife. Anyone who might occupy a moment of his time, she claimed to trust him but her actions continued to prove that she doubted his love.

Over the years her family had faced several medical, financial and personal setbacks. Again she was to busy with school, work, friends and outings to be bothered with providing assistance.

At one time even he had become to ill to work and needed her assistance. She always forgot what he asked for. He picked up his own prescriptions. He drove himself to his own doctors. Once he even called her from the emergency room asking her to leave work early and sit with him but she couldn't be bothered.

Yes she continues to whisper I love you long into the night.

Yet the words have become silent her whispers are no longer heard.

Short

I began working my first job in 1974. Though my first day was almost my last day.

A new restaurant, The Cask and Cleaver, had opened in the area and one of my friends had applied for and been hired as a busboy. He let it be known through out the neighborhood that the restaurant still had positions available. It did not take much to convince me as my only income came from delivering papers before school, which was not a task I enjoyed.

Not to many days later I found myself filling out the application and speaking to one of the assistant managers. We discussed the remaining available position, which was for cleaning the restaurant in the morning and/or washing dishes in the evening. Most of the clean up crew did a little of both. I assured him that I was not picky and that I would be happy with anything they had to offer. The final decision however remained with the manager who was not in that day so he promised to get back to me.

About a week later I received a call from the same assistant manager who informed me that I the position was mine if I wanted it. I would start the following Monday and I would begin working for the grand sum of $1.75 per hour which seemed like quite a bit of money to me.

I reported to the restaurant at the appointed time and filled out the necessary paperwork while waiting for the assistant manager who had hired me.

Once the bureaucratic formalities were complete one of the other employees gave me a walk through of the dining room and kitchen while I waited. About half way through the tour we ran into the above assistant manager.

He took one look at me, stopped dead in his tracks and blurted out, "I did not remember you being so short when I interviewed you.

My tour guide burst out laughing and my face must have turned five different shades of red.

He immediately apologized for the comment but he went on to explain that my height (about five foot four at the time) might prevent me from completing all of my assigned duties.

He led me to the grill area where all of the steaks, chicken and lobster were prepared. He informed me that in order to remain in the position he had hired me for I must be able to reach the top/backside of grill. He was not being difficult, if I could not reach the entire grill I would not be able to clean it nor would I be able to remove the grease traps from above the grill.

As it turned out I just made the height limit by standing on my tippy toes.

I began work that day and went on to spend five happy years working for the Cask and Cleaver. In my time there I did a little of everything. Cleaning, washing dishes, preparing produce for the salad bars, bussing tables and even serving as a cooks assistant. My goal was to be a waiter but the law at the time required anyone who served alcohol to be twenty-one. I ended up leaving when I was nineteen to take a full time job with Bank of America.

Lungs in Crisis IV

Day 124 – August 22, 2003: Having run out of sick time and other employer provided benefits it was time to navigate the state bueracracy and apply for state disability. I had completed the necessary forms about two months prior and was still awaiting approval. Navigating their human less phone system for information was the equivalent of a day spent in purgatory. Pushing button after button eventually returned you to where you began none the wiser for your journey.

Therefore it became necessary to make a trip to the local office in hopes of finding if not a wizard at least finding someone who knew what they were talking about.

I believed that my bureaucratic nightmare had come to an end when I walked into the office and found no line waiting to be navigated. I was able to walk right up to the window and I was in seventh heaven believing that from here on end it would be a piece of cake.

Wrong.

After providing all of the required information from my name to my blood type I was informed that I did not qualify for benefits. After picking my jaw up from the floor I explained that I had been working for twenty some odd years and surely I qualified for something.

Wrong again.

The system only takes into account the most recent five years that you have worked. My most recent employment was with the City of Los Angeles and according to the EDD office the City of Los Angeles does not contribute to the system, hence no benefits.

Having already been off of work since April this came as a surprise to me. On several occasions I had spoken to people in the benefits office and no one had bothered to clue me in on this little piece of information.

Day 127 – August 25, 2003: Emboldened by the new information that I held in my possession I called the benefits office and asked the correct questions this time. I discovered that disability for the city was handled by a private insurance company, which also handled the cities long-term disability program. This was good to know, as the date I would have to apply for long-term disability was looming ever closer.

With number in hand I contacted the newest cog in my disability wheel and began the approval process. In order to complete the short-term disability process I would be sent a bundle of forms some of which I had to complete and some to be passed on to my various doctors.

The good news was that I would receive retroactive payment if and when I was approved. The bad news was that the bureaucratic highway was just beginning.

Day 155 - September 22, 2003: Back socializing with my fish friends apparently they were not planning on seeing Finding Nemo at least that was the impression I had.

My lung doctor was in possession of the results of my sinus x-ray, ct scan and sputum test.

The ct scan and the x-ray were both normal, which of course was a good thing.

The sputum test showed that I had thrush in my throat, which is a form of yeast infection you get from taking to many antibiotics. Which stands to reason since I had been on several antibiotics.

My doctor felt there was an outside chance that my problems might possibly have been caused by a long-term thrush infection. He prescribed a new medication that I would need to take for a month that we hoped would eliminate my problem once and for all.

Pride

My grandfather was a meticulous man, to the point that today some people might claim that he suffered from some form of Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder.

He was already retired when I was born. To keep busy he subdivided his property. He left the family home in front and had two more houses built in the back. He performed all of the maintenance that the two houses required.

In particular I remember the way he kept the lawns and gardens in pristine condition.

When he mowed a lawn, the grass was cut to a perfectly even height. Each weed he found attempting to put down roots was immediately removed. The grass along the fences, sidewalks and laundry lines was perfectly trimmed.

One of the rental houses had a rock and rose garden. Several rose bushes surrounded by a layer of white rock. Ten years after planting the roses and arranging the rocks the garden looked just as perfect. His secret: once a year he would remove and clean the rocks one section at a time. Before replacing the rocks he eliminated any weeds and put a sheet of fresh plastic down, the rocks were than laid out once again in the garden.

A tool used by him was never returned to garage dirty, each item was cleaned and placed in its proper location before he quit for the day.

His tool bench was kept in pristine condition. He had a collection of small boxes filled with screws, nuts and bolts. Each had its own box sorted by size and type. Another section contained a collection of washers. Each tool was arranged by type and than size.

Being a smoker he had several ashtrays, on his workbench, next to his chair on the porch, in the kitchen and one next to his recliner in the living room. Like everything else the ashtrays were cleaned immediately and returned to their location in pristine condition.

From the kitchen cabinets to his dresser drawers and his closet everything he owned was organized, folded, hung up or placed in its proper location. I can never remember walking in the house and finding dirty socks on the floor or empty cans on the counter. Dirty laundry was always in the hamper and his bed was always made before he left his room in the morning.

As the years passed I began to realize that without words he had been teaching me the meaning of pride in oneself and in ones work. He was raised in a world where pride in performance was the norm and not an exception. By his example he was attempting to pass that pride in performance on to another generation. Hoping to keep at least a part of the world the way he remembered it.

Today I cannot with all honesty say that I have lived my life by his example. In our to and fro world an organized life seems to be one of the ideals we have left behind. Clutter seems to be a natural byproduct of our time. I find that the hours of the day pass so quickly that I hardly have a chance to maintain much less get ahead.
I am sure though that if we were still alive he would have words of wisdom ready to share with me. He would remind me that peace of mind can be found in a home that is clean, organized and uncluttered.

So in his honor I think I will get off of the computer and go clean out a closet.

Monrovia Canyon

I was fortunate enough to spend the better part of my youth growing up in the foothills of Monrovia, California. Many days, especially in the summer, were spent wandering through the canyons and hilltops of our local mountains.

When we first moved to the neighborhood, neither my brother nor I knew anything about hiking, following a trail or about any of the dangers such as poison oak and rattlesnakes. The first weekend spent in our new house found us exploring a small hill that was located not to far away with an abandoned water tower on the top. Rather than follow a trail we hiked straight up the front through brush and weed until we reached about the ¾ mark. My brother who was in the lead slipped and knocked us both back down to the bottom of the hill. Our arms, legs and faces were torn and scratched by the fall. My brother got off easy though. As it turns out I have a severe allergy to poison oak while he can sit in the middle of the plant without contracting a rash. Me if I even look at poison oak I break out, so this was the first of many hours spent scratching my rashes.

For us kids the best part about growing up where we did was our streets proximity to the entrance of Monrovia Canyon.

The canyon is filled with wildlife, hundred year old oaks, streams and a beautiful waterfall.

Originally the canyon was settled by the Rankin family in the late 1800's. They had four children three who died in 1877 from an outbreak Typhoid Fever. In fact there is a memorial that marks their final resting place.

In the early 1900's a gentleman named Ben Overturff built a lodge that was a popular get away spot for about forty years. Mr. Overturff finally abandoned the lodge in the 1940's due to declining health. Today there is a trail that runs past the old lodge that is named in his honor.

None of the above history really mattered to us kids though. The canyon was our own personal playground. We blazed our own trails. We played army and hide and go seek. We chased squirrels and attempted to follow coyote tracks. Some mornings we were lucky enough to see deer wondering through the empty park. Raccoons scurried through the trees, while lizards and snakes could be found warming themselves in the summer sun.

One Thanksgiving while hiking with my cousin we attempted to climb the rock face of the waterfall, we made it about ¾ of the way up before slipping and falling into the water below. We were lucky in those days the water was deep enough to break a fall. Today with droughts and what not the water is rather shallow and we would have broken our bones instead.

As we I older I ran the trails as training for the cross-country team. Rather than moving all the time I began to take the time to sit under one of the old oaks with a good book or just to meditate. Listening to the running water was soothing and always left me with a clear head.

Of course once I discovered girls the canyon became a romantic place to visit for picnics and watching sunsets.

All in all Monrovia Canyon was and still is a great place to escape the stress of the urban environment and still be within ten minutes of home.

http://www.ci.monrovia.ca.us/city_hall/public_works/canyon_park/canyon_park.htm

Lungs in Crisis III

Day 102 – July 31, 2003: I made a return visit to my primary care doctor. We once again discussed the stubbornness of my favorite pulmonologist. For the time being I decided with her input that I would stay the course before starting over with a new pulmonologist.

My primary care doctor is the type of doctor who would have felt right at home making house calls one hundred years ago. When she treats you she treats the whole person and she has become rather concerned about my lack of improvement. One her own time she has been doing some research and recommended a new series of blood work that might help her to pin down the overall cause of my problem.

She also sat down with me and we had a serious discussion concerning my panic disorder. She understood that I was thrilled at the idea of visiting a psychologist but she felt that at this time it was probably for the best.

Seeing how concerned she was I gave in and promised her I would do some research and call some psychologists in the area and see if I could find someone that I was comfortable with.

Day 103 – August 1, 2003: Searching for a psychologist has proven to be rather more difficult than I expected. My first choice happened to be located in the same complex as my doctor was booked solid but she did put me on a waiting list and she promised to call when and if she had an opening.

The second name on my list had available appointments but he appeared to be rushed and I did not feel comfortable talking to him on the phone so I imagined talking to him would be more difficult in his office.

The next three names were all overbooked and promised to put me on their waiting lists.

By this time my frustration level was worse than my panic attacks so I made the decision to wait until I saw my doctor again and see if she had any recommendations.

Day 121 – August 19, 2003: Once again I found myself fraternizing with my two fish friends in my pulmonologists office. I feel rather out of place when I visit his office because the majority of his patients appear to have been around when the Wright Brothers flew at Kitty Hawk. However, considering the current working condition of my lungs I really have no choice so I gossip with the fish while waiting for my personal lung expert.

Once in his office we discuss my current condition and he listens to my lungs wheeze. He was rather surprised to find that I had still made no real improvement. This non-improvement finally spurred him into some belated action.

I was given a referral for a series of sinus x-rays, a ct scan of my lungs and a sputum test. For now he is also eliminating all of my inhalers and allergy medicines. The only medication he wants me to take is something called Benzonatate, which are capsules designed to reduce coughing in patients with lung problems.

Day 123 –August 21, 2003: Back for another visit with J my primary care doctor. We discussed the lung experts latest recommendations and we both agreed that thought the forward movement was small progress was being made. My blood work came back normal none of J's latest hunches paid off. Which overall is a good thing since some of the diseases involved would not have been fun to deal with.

As I was leaving I noticed a stack of cards with the name of the psychologist who had been my first choice. I mentioned to J that I had yet to be successful in finding a therapist. I showed her the card in my hand and explained that this had been the one I hoped to see but she was booked solid.

J gave me a big smile and explained that the psychologist also a J who I will call JG was a friend of hers and always held a spot open in case she had a referral. She told me to give JG another call and she was sure things would work out.

Upon leaving the office I did just that and left a message on JG's machine. Within minutes she called back and with a laugh told me that dropping J's name was the key to the door and that she would find a way to squeeze me in.

Coming up next the bureaucracy of disability and long-term disability claims.

A Mother's Love

My mother, God Bless her, is a wonderful woman. However there is one aspect of her personality that I had never quite understood until just recently. I rarely if ever have heard her say I love you.

Without question through out our lives she has shown us in every conceivable manner that she loves us. No matter the crisis she has always been there for my brother, sister and I. From broken down cars to letting us each move back home at least once. From helping us with the down payment on our first homes to bailing us out of every conceivable type of financial difficulty, no matter the problem she has been the sheltering port in each and every storm that we have faced.

This past weekend I was going through some of my grandmother's old papers looking for information that would help me with the family's genealogy. While doing so I came across a bundle of letters that my grandmother and grandfather had exchanged over a one month period in 1951 when she was visiting her family in Washington D.C.

Reading through the letters provided me with a remarkable window onto the past. What the kids (my mother and her brothers) were like. Names of relatives I have never met. Even what travel was like for people in the late forties and early fifties. Most importantly though in reading them I began to understand where my mothers difficulty with affection came from.

The letters my grandparents exchanged could have been mistaken for correspondence between casual friends. Nowhere in 99% of the letters would the reader have a clue to their relationship. Only in one letter does my grandfather say that he misses or loves my grandmother. She however does not mention love at all. Overall the writing was without emotion and very sterile.

After reading them I called my mother to tell her what I had found. I figured she would get a kick out of some of the stories mentioned within.

Once we finished reminiscing I off handedly mentioned that I was beginning to understand why she never said I love you or ever showed much affection.

She was briefly taken aback and in a very defensive manner explained that she showed us that she loved us all the time through her action.

I laughed and told her that her love for us was never in doubt it was just that I had always wondered why the words made her uncomfortable. I went on to explain about how impersonal I found her parents letters be.

Once she understood where I was coming from she explained that her parents especially her mother never said I love you and were never big on hugging and kissing. She said that her and her brothers were all the same when it came to emotions, that they all had a very hard time-sharing them.

Before hanging up I ensured her that we all knew that she loved us and that she was and continues to be a mother to be proud of.