For

For every peak you conquer
There must be a valley
For every bridge you cross
There must be a chasm
For every notable accomplishment
There must be trials and tribulations
For memorable moment
There must be boredom and inactivity
Without one
The other has no meaning
Without the other
The one would have no meaning
To truly walk as one with light
You must experience darkness
To once again
Soar with the angels
One must trod
The dusty roads of earth

I Miss

I miss the innocence of my youth, when the world was still a magical place, which filled the heart of this child with wonder.

I miss midnight mass on Christmas Eve. The church filled with smiling faces, carols sung off key but with great gusto and a story that was accepted by a young boy whose faith was still strong. I miss laying bed straining my ears hoping to hear the sound of sleigh bells dreaming of the north pole as I drifted off to sleep. I miss waking up Christmas morning and seeing the tree glow with the magic of the holiday, the floor covered with presents while I slept. I miss discovering an overflowing stocking hung from the fireplace with fruits and nuts cascading onto the floor. I miss the holiday air that was heavy with the smell of homemade cinnamon rolls, hot chocolate and the beginnings of a Christmas feast.

I miss the Disneyland I knew as a youth before I understood how the rides were created. When It's a Small World was not an annoying song but a magical journey around the world. I miss how the eyes of my younger self never noticed the strings or the cracks or the fading paint. When upon entering the world of Peter Pan I could actually believe I was soaring over the rooftops of London with Peter and Jane. When exploring Tom Sawyers Island meant I could lose myself in the stories of Tom, Huck and Becky. I miss riding the Adventures of Snow White and clinging to my mother because I was afraid the evil witch was going to snatch me from the car. Most of all I miss seeing the park through the eyes of innocence and not the cynical eyes I possess today.

I miss the awe I felt watching the Wizard of Oz once a year on network television. How we would plan the whole weekend around Sunday night. I miss losing myself in Oz, running down the yellow brick road with Dorothy and Toto, the Tinman, the Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion. I miss magic a movie like the Wizard of Oz could create. Videotapes and DVD's have removed some of the awe from moviemaking.

I miss the days when baseball cards were just cards to be traded and stuck between the spokes of our bicycles. When major leaguers took the time after every game to sign autographs for their youngest fans. Before collectors and speculators ruined that moment for the youth of today. I miss being able to recite the entire major league roster for the Dodger's, today with free agency and a win now attitude the players turn over so quickly no one stays around long enough to become a fan favorite.

I miss the first times most of all. The first time I read the Outsider's and how in one brief moment of enlightenment I saw how characters from a book could capture you heart, mind and soul. I remember the tears streaming down my face when Johnny died. Since that time I have read my old beat up copy of the Outsiders at least a hundred times. Each reading brings about different thoughts and emotions but no matter how many times I have read it nothing can replicate the joy of the first time.

I do miss the innocence of my youth but as I look around at my life today there is still magic and wonder around every corner. All it takes is a little pixie dust and the ability to put away my grown up cynicism and look at the world through the eyes of my inner child.

Mom-Date II

My mom had her PET scan and MRI performed yesterday. The results were better than expected under the circumstances. At this point it appears that the cancer has yet to manifest itself anywhere but in the skeletal structure. All of her organs appear to be clean which goes far to improving her long term prognosis.

Next on the agenda will be a bone biopsy to be performed next Wednsday. The delay is necessary because she needs to come off of her blood thinners so the biopsy will not lead to any complications.

Vermont

If the best of all worlds were possible I would be typing this in a converted barn on a small farm in Vermont.

My farm would be located at the end of a tree lined country road, just beyond a one hundred year old wooden covered bridge.

The land around the farm is primarily occupied by apple groves and surrounded by a low-lying ridge covered by maple groves.

An old ratty scarecrow protects a fallow field of corn and a patch of pumpkins, who lay dreaming Halloween dreams and awaiting the onslaught of town kids desperately searching for the perfect Jack-O-Lantern.

I would often find my senses overwhelmed by the smell of autumn, the ever-changing color of the leaves and the taste of fall in the air.

In the rafters of the old red barn lives a gray owl, he earns his keep hunting mice and whose eerie voice haunts the night sky. A fox family has a den somewhere in the north field and an old tomcat lives beneath the steps.

A woodpile stands at the ready beside the house, ready to provide warmth and comfort through out those long winter nights. When the stars have disappeared and first snowfall is just beyond the horizon.

A cracked and faded wooden swing hangs from the eaves above the front porch, where the chimes loudly singing announcing the coming storm.

In the living room is a hundred year old fireplace built from river stones. If I listen closely I can still hear the river sharing tales of its journey from the mountains on the way to the sea.

The kitchen has a big old Franklin Stove; smoke stained but still serviceable after all of these years. There are lots of nooks and crannies filled with knick-knacks and memorabilia. A wooden counter is located beneath the picture window embracing the view of my favorite brook.

At the top of the stairs are two bedrooms with matching four post beds, covered by homemade quilts and pillows filled with real goose feathers. Just right for supporting my weary head after a long days work.

The furnace has seen a lot of years; its pipes provide a symphony of hisses and sighs. That when I close my eyes carry me off to dreamland almost as well as my mother's lullabies did so many years ago.

In the morning, the rooster's crow announcing the arrival of the sun awakens me. I stretch under the quilt and wiggle my toasty toes. I open the window and find the air to be crisp and the breeze clean. Before I know it I begin to feel human once again.

The Grass is Rarely Greener

Once many years ago she had found herself warm and safe in the arms of love. Her life was like a romance novel. Her friends found the whole thing sickening. All she ever talked about was him.

How handsome he was.
How romantic he was.
How much she loved him.
How no man could ever replace him in her heart.

That is until one day she stumbled across an irritating little thing called doubt.

She was at the gym on a stair master climbing what felt like the foothills of Everest. She turned to her left and saw him.

He was not handsomer than her husband.

There was though something about him, something she could not quite put her finger on. She pretended to ignore him but she studied him out of the corner of her eye.

She watched him climb. Lost in a musical world being pumped in to his head by his walkman. There was just a glimmer of a smile on his lips and a bit of mischief in his eyes. She glanced down at the floor and when she turned back to him he was gone.

At home that evening she found herself tossing and turning unable to escape into sleep. She watched her husband sleep and tried to understand how a stranger on a stair climber could plant a seed of doubt into an otherwise perfect marriage.

The next day she returned to the gym with a bit of a bounce in her step. She found herself anticipating his arrival and wondering if she would have the nerve to say hello.

She was disappointed to find that he was not anywhere in the gym. She waited long past her normal quitting time but he never showed. After showering she headed next door to Starbucks to drown her disappointment in a double latte.

Lost in a daydream she almost missed his request. He asked to sit with her and she said yes with a trembling lilt to her voice.

It seemed from the first moment like that their meeting had been preordained by the gods. They laughed and talked for hours and without second guessing herself she soon found herself lost in his arms behind the doors of room thirteen at the local no tell motel.

She expected that when she drove away she would feel guilty about what she had done but surprisingly guilt never entered the picture.

He was everything her husband wasn't.

Where her husband was cautious he threw caution to the wind.
Where her husband was gentle he was passionate.
Where her husband was predictable he lived life by the moment.
Where her husband was careful there was a sense of danger about him.
Where her husband was a minivan he was a Ferrari.

Before long he asked her to leave her husband and live with him.

Without thought for her future she gave up her past and joined him in the present.

From a divorce that left a small but ignored voice whispering why in the back of her mind. She found herself in Vegas for a quick wedding and a new life.

Every moment was a moment from a fairy tale at least at first but she soon learned what was meant by the words: "The grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence."

Where her ex was steady her new husband jumped from career to career.
Where her ex was tender her new husband was rough.
Where her ex was reliable her new husband was always disappearing.
Where her ex was generous to a fault her new husband was a penny pincher and greedy to boot.
Where her ex loved her unconditionally her new husband was soon fooling around.

She wanted to leave but she had nowhere to go. No family and friends that had warned her that her new husband was too good to be true.

One night she drove by her old house intending to apologize to her ex for her stupidity. Who knows she thought maybe we could start again.

Her dreams were shattered when she saw him walking out of their house with a new woman who was obviously his wife and who was obviously carrying his child. He had a smile on his face and eyes only for his new bride.

As they drove away in their minivan she saw that someone else was living the life she could have had if she had only had faith in his love for her. If she had only seen that steady and patient were important qualities in a husband.

She watched until her ex and his new life disappeared into the glare of the setting sun. Never noticing the tears that fell like rain onto the silk of her new blouse.

Mom-Date

I will be posting periodic "mom-dates" to keep those concerned up to date on my mother's battle with cancer.

Today she received some good news and some bad news.

The bad news first: initial reports were that the bone cancer was in three spots, the hip, the lower spine and the skull. After consulting with the oncologist it appears that over 90% of her skeletal structure is affected by the cancer. With the cancer being so widespread it limits the use of radiation as a treatment until some later date.

The good news: though the cancer has spread through out the skeletal structure the oncologist is cautiously optimistic that it has not spread to any vital organs. Based on my mother's history he believes that the cancer is slow growing.

On Monday she will have a PET scan and an MRI. The oncologist will use the results of these two tests to determine the best location for a biopsy scheduled for Thursday. If it has not spread beyond the bone he will take a sample from on of the more afflicted areas of the skeletal structure. If other organs are involved he will take the biopsy from one them.

Her long-term prognosis depends a lot on the location. If the cancer is limited to the bones he believes that her chances are good for a minimum of five years with the current treatments that are available. If the cancer has spread beyond the bone than a lot will depend on where it is located and how much of the organ is involved.

Prophet

Bittersweet is the path of a prophet
A trail of tears
Dampens the dusty footprints
Left in their wake

Lonely is the path of a prophet
Many disciples
Without the discipline
Of true believers

Scorn paves the path of a prophet
Taunting voices
Empty hearts
Echo in their souls

Temptation lies upon the path of a prophet
Disregard belief
Embrace instant gratification
Forgo the heavenly reward

Difficult is the path of a prophet
Many obstacles
Darken the road
Distractions from embedded truths

Doubt clouds the path of a prophet
Who, what
Where and why
Lost in the mist of faith

Tender is the path of a prophet
Gentle hands
Cleanse dusty feet
Of original sin

Short is the path of the prophet
Crowds turn
Throwing stones
Passing judgment on us all

Time

Days pass into weeks and weeks pass into months and so on. Time continues to march despite all of the mini dramas we live through each and every day. We carry grudges, we harden our hearts, and we shut people out of our lives for the smallest of offenses. We place importance where it least belongs and we let the moments we should cherish pass through our fingers like a grains of sand. Then a moment from out of the blue shocks us to our core causing us to stop and take stock of our lives and the meaning we assign to the pettiness that surrounds us.

Today I was hit by one of those moments. Today I was forced to take stock of where I am, where I am going and what my future holds in store for me.

Today I found out that my mother has bone cancer. She has already survived two bouts of breast cancer and a major heart attack that laid waste to one third of her heart. She has always been a fighter but only God knows how much fight she has left in her.

I have spent the day wandering around in a fog. My stomach felt like I had swallowed a large boulder, my heart has moved beyond pain and my mind cries out for the day to begin again and for the comfort of my mother's bosom.

I am not ready to say good-by. I am not ready to stand-alone against the world. My mother has always been my rock. My port where I weathered each and every storm, she has stood by me through thick and thin her loyalty and love never wavering.

From my birth year to this my forty-fifth year she has been the one constant in my life, while friends and relations have come and gone she stood as a silent sentinel gently drying my tears and healing my wounds.

She alone must receive credit for any light I may have shared with the world, while any darkness I may have exhibited is my own responsibility.

I cannot predict what tomorrow may bring. Only God knows how much time she may have left. However much time there is will not be nearly enough to express to her my thanks and my undying love for each and every precious moment she has shared with me.

Princess Lost

Lemon rinds remained on the table, covered with fruit flies and a thin coating of green mold. A coffee cup, is stuck to its saucer by the dried rock like sugar crystals.

On the floor next to a broken down chair lies a yellowed newspaper bearing headlines about Florida and Gore. Beer and tequila bottles are scattered empty around the room.

In the corner on a three-legged table is a bowl filled with brackish water. On the surface float the bones of a goldfish that was left behind by its three-year-old owner.

The living room air is filled with dust motes moving to the rhythm of music unheard by human ears. Tigger, Kanga and Roo gather round a child's table awaiting the arrival of Pooh and a tea party that will never begin.

Curtains in the master bedroom move gently in a late afternoon breeze casting eerie shadows upon the walls and ceiling. Almost as if the former occupants had returned bemoaning the memories created here.

Garments are scattered about on the bed, the dressing table and clinging to old dry cleaner hangers in the closet. Empty dresser drawers bear witness to all that was left behind.

Pictures of Disney princesses adorn the walls of the other bedroom. Few toys though can be found, testimony to the absence of the child who once dreamt here.

On the bed lies a sobbing figure, curled into a ball a picture of a toddler clung to his chest. Unseeing eyes stare at the ceiling filled with tears empty of hope.

He can almost sense her here in this room but in his heart he knows she will never return. Gone are the promises of a future filled with tomorrows.

No wedding gowns. No grandchildren.

One choice made, it was the wrong choice. His mind lost in the grasp of an alcoholic haze he never saw her playing behind his car.

Now his wife was gone, his job was gone. All he had left was a tear soaked picture of his own Disney princess.

But For

But for another foot
I might have played basketball
But for a hundred pounds
I might have played football
But for a wicked curveball
I might have played baseball
But for a lack of speed
I might have been a runner
But for being tone deaf
I might have been a singer
But for a sense of rhythm
I might have been a dancer
But for actual talent
I might have been an actor
But for comprehending math
I might have been a physicist
But for comprehending language
I might have been a diplomat
But for my constant questioning
I might have been a priest
But for lessons learned
I might have been an alcoholic
But for acute seasickness
I might have been a sailor
But for an aversion toward guns
I might have been a soldier
But for hating to fly
I might have been a pilot
But for being city born
I might have been a farmer
But for a desire for personal time
I might have been a chef
But for all of the above
I might not be me

Shallow

Her heart was a place filled with quiet desperation. Shallow and empty a shell of what a heart should be. Someone, somewhere had extinguished the flames of passion leaving behind a pile of cold, damp ashes.

She never smiled, she never laughed. Never was she seen to lift a hand in compassion for a fellow traveler on this road called life. In solitary silence she trudged through life with a chip on her shoulder and a splinter festering in her soul.

For her the turn of quick phrase was a weapon that she wielded with the viciousness and confidence of a hired gun. Her words cut to the quick and left many a casualty wandering around dazed in a vain attempt to collect what remained of their wit.

People were just obstacles she had to overcome has she clung to the ladder of success. Through crook or through hook she did whatever it took to reach the top with no thought to the bodies she left strewn on the ground behind her.

Men never entered into the equation. She had neither the time nor the interest needed for the wining and dining of courtship. Besides she ensured with her attitude and demeanor that no sane man would dare approach her.

Sometimes though, in the darkness of early morning she would awaken with a strange feeling in her chest. Her pillow would be damp and her eyes red. She could just glimpse the retreating edge of a dream as it slipped over the cliff of consciousness. Part of her yearned to drift off into sleep, once more hoping to rejoin the story in progress.

Soon enough however, her more practical side would reign in what little sense of wonder and adventure that she still possessed and bring her back to the cold hard reality of her empty life.

Imagination?

Carved into the old maple tree were the words Michael loves Catherine. The letters had faded into the bark over time but if one looked close enough a roughly etched heart could be seen encircling the names and the year 1949.

I had hiked past this tree many times in my youth as I explored the trails of this old canyon. I guess I had always been moving to fast because until today I had never noticed the names carved into the tree.

My fertile imagination took me on a trip back in time and I began to explore the trail left by lives led my Michael and Catherine.

In 1949 Michael was sixteen and Catherine was fifteen. They had been neighbors and best friends for ten years. Until recently that was the extent of their relationship. However, in the summer of '49 they discovered the feelings they shared ran deeper than mere friendship and their love began to bloom.

They were married in 1952 just before Michael shipped off to basic training. He was shipped off to the Korean peninsula and returned a decorated veteran before they took an honest to goodness honeymoon.

Michael went into construction during the building boom of the fifties. He and some war buddies built a small but successful business specializing in more customized houses than the cookie cutter models the industry began turning out.

On the home front Catherine gave birth to three girls. One in 1954, followed by one in 1956, and finally one in 1958. The girls grew up happy and well loved. Every summer the family rented the same cottage on the lake along with several other couples.

The men would spend the days fishing and the evenings around a bon fire drinking Coors and swapping war stories. The children swam through out the day and chased each other through the woods long into the evening. The wives played Hearts and gossiped through out the warm afternoons.

Michael and Catherine married their three daughters off to wonderful husbands. One who took over the families' share of the construction business when Michael retired.

Now in their seventies Michael and Catherine were retired and enjoying the good life. Bouncing grandbabies on their knees and visiting parts of the world that they had only dreamed about seeing.

I shook my head and though to myself how off base my invented fantasy probably was from reality. They probably broke up that very same summer and never saw each other again.

I turned to go and something on the ground in front of the tree caught my eye. The weeds had been pulled and a various flowers had been planted and tended to. A small sign sat in amongst the various blooms.

I knelt down and saw that the sign read: To my beloved Catherine. Thank you for 55 years of more happiness than any man deserved. I miss you more each and every day. I love you.

Maybe my imagination was not so wild after all.

The Song Remains The Same Or Does It

I spent the past week walking a musical road through my past. Most of the trip was spent in the 70's. Listening to the singers and the songs that were the soundtrack of my life through high school and into college.

Like most journeys that involve a great deal of reminiscing there were surprises and there were disappointments. Songs that I remembered as being great did not stand the test of time, while songs that seemed to have passed me by were pleasant discoveries.

The following songs or artists stood out for various reasons: good and bad.

10CC: For most people including me 10CC is remembered for "The Things We Do For Love". However I was surprised to discover that they had several other songs that were very good including: "Dreadlock Holiday" and "The Wall Street Shuffle".

Barry Manilow: I was never a big Manilow fan but relistening to "Mandy" reminded me that while he may have been to mellow for my taste he was a very good lyricist.

Bee Gees: For a lot of music lovers the older work of the Bee Gees has been overlooked since the big hits of from "Saturday Night Fever". Songs such as "I Started a Joke" and "Massachusetts" have held up surprisingly well.

Blue Magic: I did not remember this band but they have a song "Sideshow" that is very good. It was on a best of the era compilation so I do not know if they have any other good songs but this is one I enjoyed discovering.

Bobby Sherman: When "Julie Do You Love Me" was a hit I like a million other boys just happened to have a crush on someone named Julie. This song has not held up as well in reality as it did in my memory. The lyric is repetitious and the melody is dull I guess when you are ten or eleven with a crush on someone the quality is not quite as important as the emotion the song generates.

Carly Simon & James Taylor: This former couple performed a duet of a song called "Mockingbird". Every once in awhile the melody of this song would become stuck in my head repeating endlessly, I have been looking for this song so I could rehear it since it seemed to have made such an impression. I should not have bothered. In reality this song grated on my nerves when I reheard it. I am not sure why it stuck with me all of these years but I have gotten the urge to hear it out of my system.

Coven/Bo Donaldson & The Heywoods: Both of these groups were basically one hit wonders. Coven with "One Tin Soldier" from The Legend of Billy Jack and Bo Donaldson with "Billy Don't Be a Hero". Neither song has stood the test of time. I was especially disappointed with "One Tin Soldier" I remember watching Billy Jack back than and having that song stuck in replay mode for weeks. Now as I relisten to it I find it trite and ineffectual.

Dave Loggins/Dave Mason: Dave Loggins performed "Please Come to Boston" and Dave Mason sang "We Just Disagree". Both were songs that have faded into memory but upon rediscovery I found that I remembered the lyrics and enjoyed singing along with both songs. By myself of course I would not make anyone listen to my singing voice on purpose.

Harry Chapin: In my mind he is one of the most underrated songwriters of the seventies. Each song that he wrote and recorded had a story to tell. From "Cats Cradle" to "Taxi" his lyrics could grab the listener and take them by their imagination into somebody else's life. Leaving them with a sense of awe when the journey was complete.

This list could go on forever but these are the songs or artists that stood out for some reason today.

Only Time Would Tell

Shadows of a dream haunt his waking moments. He remembers bits and pieces but fog obscures the details.

A twisted tree guards the gates of an abandoned sanitarium bits of broken glass reflect the lights of a distant city. Ragweed, ivy and overgrown rose bushes cling to the harden soil with the determination of an old time prairie farmer.

Inside hallways seem to twist and turn with a life of their own. Walls covered with artwork created by inhabitants long forgotten. Stairs climb into the darkness each step groaning like the bones of an old broke down mule.

A room from his past, out of place in these haunted halls. Childhood memories cling like spiders to the walls and ceiling. Dust from years past forms miniature mountains and canyons obscuring the carpet and burying the grape juice stain he had left behind so many years ago.

In the corner a bed abandoned stacks of Hardy Boy mysteries scattered upon the pillows and blankets. Yesterday's fingerprints formed from the remnants of ten cent Hershey bars. A flashlight working still after all these years points towards the closet of his nightmares.

However, as he draws closer the closet appears to fade into the distance.

Each and every evening the outcome was the same. The props and the scenery may change but in the end he would always find himself confronting this closet significance lost in the sands of time.

Why?

What was he repressing? Had he hid in the closet for some long forgotten reason? Had he been locked or trapped in the closet somehow?

The more he attempted to retrieve the memory the more the mists of time confused his sense of place.

Somehow, someday he would recapture the moment and attempt to open the door. His fear lay in the remembering. Would he be able to accept and face the contents of this abandoned closet? Or would the long repressed memories destroy the last threads of his sanity?

Only time would tell.

Paths

Standing on the edge of tomorrow. Lost in the mist of yesterday. Angered echoes dance across the mountaintops. Raging against memories embedded in the mind of a generation.

Stretched behind her lost in the distance of time are the signposts marking the genealogical trail created by her ancestors. More markers than she can count mark the repetition of mistakes from one decade to the next.

One alcoholic followed by another.

One drug addict begotten by another.

Drifters and con artists share their burden with ministers and priests.

No presidents.

No saints.

No kings.

No peasants.

As she searches the archives of her past she finds nothing remarkable surprised only by the commonness of her family tree and the utter lack of creativity.

Here a suicide there an accidental overdose. Down south was a dirt farmer and up north a handful of teamsters.

No doctors.

No lawyers.

No politicians.

No captains of industry.

She found frustration building on her horizon. Were her and her brothers doomed to repeat the utter ordinariness of their unremarkable past? Was dullness genetic or did they have what it took to break the bonds of centuries and build anew.

She cried and she prayed. She vowed that this would be the generation that built a new foundation for her futures selves to gaze upon with pride and with hope for their own future.

Why?

Standing on the brink of insanity. Walking the fine line between the padded room and the penthouse. The path is wrought with pitfalls and hazards. Safety is but a light at the end of a long and twisted tunnel.

Silent screams fill the mind chasing thoughts of hope away. Where is the freedom that was promised? Why is the house filled conflict and despair?

The air is silent. No answers are forthcoming, neither real nor imagined. Fingernails dig into the scars of madness left behind by a thousand demons on a thousand sleepless nights. Blankets and pillows have been twisted and torn beyond recognition.

Darkness with its chilly embrace has come to claim its prize. Medication has been forsaken and the clowns of despair laugh maniacally chasing bits of protoplasm across the ceiling.

In the corner the shredded remains of a straight jacket have been fashioned into a noose, a homemade doorway to the great beyond.

Creaking with the weight of its load the showerhead bends and turns casting shadows of the once alive upon the walls in the early morning light.

An echo of the passing soul can still be heard through out the dark corners of the galaxy:

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Lungs in Crisis VI

Day 214 – November 20, 2003: Before this onslaught on my lungs began I was fortunate enough never to have gone through an illness of any seriousness. The mental state necessary to deal with the debilitation of any illness over a long period of time is draining. To the best of my knowledge what I am dealing with is not even life threatening but at times it seems like I have reached the end of my last nerve.

My admiration for people who have spent their entire lives dealing with illness has grown in leaps and bounds over the past seven months. I cannot begin to imagine what that would be like even as I walk a small bit of the same path. If and when I get my own health back I will never ever take it for granted again.

Day 227 – December 3, 2003: Once again I spent the afternoon with my fish friend while waiting for my pulmonologist to see me. It appears that my most recent infection has cleared up and we will attempt to do the broncoscopy on December 17th. Hopefully I will remain in good health between now and than.

Day 234 – December 10, 2003: As my illness as progressed my panic attacks have continued to increase in frequency. Seldom does a day pass without a sudden and paralyzing onslaught of fear and disorientation. Xanex and now Lexapro have helped but nothing has allowed me to go more than a day panic free.

If something good can come out of all this though it was my doctor pushing me to begin seeing a psychologist. I was always resistant in the past. I assumed I would have nothing to talk about. That the time would drag and nothing what so ever would be accomplished. I could not have been more wrong.

My psychologist made me feel right at home from our first visit. She is warm, caring and compassionate. She has aided me in my understanding of panic disorder and its root causes. While in my case we have not been able to identify the initial trigger she has guided me into acceptance of my current state while providing me with hope for the future.

The biggest problem I face in treating my panic disorder is my breathing. One of the best ways to deal with a panic attack is deep breathing, which is near to impossible for me. So we have worked to develop other tools that help work through the attacks as they happen.

Most importantly though talking to her has opened a door into myself that I had never before investigated. I have learned so much about who I am and what makes me tick that I wish I had begun therapy years ago.

Day 239 – December 15, 2003: Cancellation of the procedure has become necessary once again. I woke up this morning with a fever and chest congestion. After visiting my doctor she saw that my throat was red and that I was already developing yellow mucus. I called the pulmonologist and he felt that with the holidays coming up we would need to wait until January. Not much I can do about it they cannot put me under with an infection and a fever so I will just have to wait and see what the new year brings.

Digital Desire

Somewhere on the east coast of America he sat in front of his computer. Music from the soundtrack of his life played in the background, classics and one hit wonders all songs that like a time machine recaptured his youth.

He was waiting for her, hoping she would be online tonight. He had not chatted with her in several days and he missed her something fierce.

She was on the west coast somewhere. Exactly where he was not sure, they both had agreed to keep their actual location secret, you never knew whom you were really talking to when you were on the web.

He knew that her home was near the ocean and that she often would talk about the reflection of the full moon dancing with the waves and dolphins. He did not know though if she was in California, Oregon or Washington.

She was married with three kids, all teenagers testing their wings in preparation for leaving the nest. Her husband spent, if she was to be believed, more time with his several mistresses than with her. She stayed for the children but planned on leaving when the last one sailed away.

He lived in the New England area and often told her how beautiful fall was there. Multi colored leaves dancing on the breeze.

He to was married but the passion the two of them had once shared had become cold as any New England winter on record. They often went days without talking passing each other like ghosts in the hallway.

For three years now they had chatted while playing dominoes in one of the many game rooms. They were evenly matched and played more to keep busy while chatting than out of a sense of competition.

They discussed their dreams, their hopes and their fears. They laughed and they sometimes cried.

Once she had offered to call him so they could talk live but he had cold feet. A year later he returned the offer but then it was, her with cold feet.

He often found his inbox filled with cards and notes from her, ranging from the serious to the silly. The notes usually contained a smiley face and a quick hello. He was not quite as prolific as her keeping up with her though proved difficult. He was just not as witty as she was.

He missed the nights when she was unavailable. With three teenagers she was often out late which put a crimp in their communication with the time difference and all. Many nights when she was ready to chat he was already in bed snoring away.

What surprised the both of them was how strong their feelings for each other had become. Based solely on words read on a monitor screen. Even with three thousand miles between them they had difficulty checking their nerves at the door. Each keystroke carried meaning intended and unintended.

Would they ever meet? Neither knew the answer to that question. They dreamt about it. They joked about it. But reality always brought them crashing down to earth. Many miles, three children and two spouses separated them. A distance that even the internet might be unable to bridge.