Remembering Ernie

The pain in my heart breaks the cycle of coherent thought in my brain. But to write this, I'll try to overcome one to achieve the other.

On June 2, 2000, two sweet Yorkie babies came into our lives. Ten weeks old and weighing around two pounds each, they had no difficulty wrapping themselves around our hearts. One boy. One girl. Brother and sister. Litter mates. Fluff and sweet puppy breath and boundless love.

The previous week, my Yorkie girl of 14 years -- Cami -- had slipped the ties of body and earth, her muzzle nestled against my neck. I felt her last breath, then she was gone. Although I suspected in the few weeks prior to her passing that her end was near, I couldn't know that everything would happen so quickly. Yet it did. And I was devastated.

My husband and I had once said, "No more dogs," when she passed, but the void left demanded to be filled. So exactly one week after she left us, we visited a pet store and found three sweet Yorkies clamboring over themselves to claim our love. All from the same litter, they told us. Two boys and one girl. I chose one of the boys. My second daughter chose the little girl and said she was too sweet not to take home. Besides, we all reasoned, it was selfish to have a lone dog for those times we left home, if only for a few hours. The two Yorkies could keep one another company. That's how we came home with Lucy and Ernie.

I had forgotten what it was like to have puppies around -- chewing anything their jaws fit around, peeing indiscriminately on the carpet, training (or rather, trying to). Having two increased the difficulty of them learning their own names. Most of the time we just called them "Babies!" or "Puppies!" and they responded. Besides being carpet-ruining, peeing machines, they both possessed sweet spirits so innocent that I couldn't stay angry for long.

Lucy is on the right, always so silkie and silver. Ernie's coat shone thick and dark, until about a year before he passed when his fur noticeably thinned.

March of 2011 we noticed a large lump on Lucy's chest. The vet removed it -- cancer, he said, adding that it would come back within a year, and she probably had 18 months to two years at most. The following February, her front legs gave out suddenly on a Saturday afternoon and she suffered seizures off and on. We took her to the emergency vet the next morning. Without xrays, most likely a brain tumor, the vet said, adding the seizures would come more often and increase in severity. Best to put her to sleep, she said with the utmost sympathy. As those trusting brown Eeyore eyes looked into mine, I couldn't make that decision. I couldn't have those eyes staring up at me as we chose to end her life. We took her home. The vet was right, of course. The seizures continued. Five hours later we returned to the vet's. Lucy was mid-seizure when the drugs entered her body and ended the suffering.

I was bereft. May of 2011 I had been forced to retire by my body betraying me with disease. Lucy was my stalwart companion, rarely leaving my side, demanding cuddles and falling asleep across my chest numerous times. She earned her title of ultimate lap dog. Ernie loved me, but he was everybody's buddy. Lucy's especially. Where she was, you found him too. After her death, I not only coped with my own loss, but his grief as well. For the next three to four days, he trotted from room to room throughout the house and searched for her. When he couldn't find her anywhere, he demanded to go outside and roam the yard. Picking up on her pee scent sent him running around, sure he could find her. Eventually, he realized only his humans were left so he'd make the best of it. And I was glad I had one remaining Yorkie furbaby to love and cuddle.

When not calling him by his given name, we'd refer to him as E-Boy, Buddy, Little Guy, Good Boy, or simply Puppers.

At the age of twelve, and minus his sister, Ernie became a paradox -- the quintessential old man with his fixed ways and habits, yet a puppy too, leaping from ottoman to chair to couch with the vigor and strength of one many years younger. Squirrel chasing tapered off, not for lack of desire, but for cataracts slowly diminishing his sight. His hearing also slowly went by the wayside, though he never totally lost it.

As to habits, he rose when he wanted, snuggling into our bed's warmth until good and ready to leave it. To go outside and tend to his business, he rattled the vertical blinds by ramming his head into them, then backing away and staring down the nearest human. Or he simply stared. As in, stood a few feet away and stared at you until you got up and asked what he wanted.

We lovingly and jokingly referred to this as "The Pose." As in, "Ernie's in The Pose." Not sure why he did this, but he looked darn cute when he did.

My husband and I traveled to the Midwest in May of this year, taking Ernie with us. My lap was his perch for the trip. Along with his yellow blankie, of course.

When my husband fixed his own daily lunch of a sandwich and chips, he slipped bits of meat, cheese, and chips to E-Boy. Soon, we prepared a little lunch all his own of cut-up lunchmeat-of-the-day and a few bites of cheese. Ernie's inner clock focused on 11:30 am for lunch, so if Jim wasn't in the kitchen at that time, the little guy started bugging us with a low woof in case we forgot just what time it was. Around 4:00 pm, we fed him an additional treat. His inner clock soon attuned itself to that as well, resulting in the same woof reminder. Dry food remained in a bowl for him to eat whenever. Two in the morning seemed to be his preferred munching time.

Ernie usually woke us around 3:00 a.m. to go out to pee, then settled back in until 7:00 a.m. or thereabouts. Jim was the middle-of-the-night guy; I was the morning person. I quickly learned that in the morning, Ernie would pee in the grass, then come back onto the lanai and trot all the way around the pool only to go right back out and poo. If I brought him into the house right after his pee, Jim or I would find the stinky tootsie roll soon after. Ernie trained me well.

In the evening around 9:00 pm, our furbaby decided it was bedtime. If we weren't in bed, he jumped onto the sofa beside one of us and scratched a paw against one of our arms. This became his signal for "Cover me up because I'm ready to go to sleep." We'd grab a small yellow blanket and do just that as he laid down the length of a person's thigh and proceed to go to sleep. If I was in bed, the same scratching motion meant he wanted under the covers, where he positioned himself against my body and slept.

Not long before his passing.

About two years old. Full grown, though still very much a puppy.

Throughout the day, Ernie either laid in his special doggie bed beside my desk as I wrote on the computer, or he laid by Jim on the sofa--usually on the same little yellow blanket mentioned earlier. Occasionally, Jim would cover him up. Ernie was definitely a Florida dog and despised the cold. We had a doggie sweater and sweatshirt for him. In November he'd begin shivering from the "chillier" temps, so the sweater went on. Either sweater or sweatshirt covered him until February or March. In that same vein, if a spot of sun shone on the carpet or elsewhere, he did his best to take advantage of the warmth.

I placed his bed in the sun one morning. Of course he promptly got in and laid down.

Although we always had problems with Ernie building up matter from his eyes, the right eye had more trouble. Last Thursday I noticed a swelling under that eye and promptly called the vet. The next morning the vet said he could have an abscess from a tooth and showed me the heavy tartar. They could clean his teeth that day so I left him there. At 4 o'clock I picked him up, awake and alert. Plus his breath smelled wonderful.

The next morning, he was also fine. During the afternoon, Ernie seemed to have some difficulty breathing, as if laboring, and he slept more than usual. By the evening, he struggled to breathe, so my husband and I rushed him to the emergency vet. Radiographs showed a very enlarged heart -- the result of chronic heart failure, the vet said. His lungs were also perfused with cloudiness, though she couldn't say from what. I asked her pointedly if his condition was treatable. Her answer? "We can make him comfortable." Translation: Treatable? No.

My husband and I made the difficult decision to put him to sleep. I told him to call our daughter and see if she wanted to be present. Yes, she said, I'm on my way.

They took us to the same room where we watched Lucy's life slip away while I held her 2-1/2 years prior. A vet tech brought Ernie, a light blue blanket wrapped around him. An oxygen tank sat nearby as Jim held the end of the tube near to Ernie's nose so he could breathe decently. We both told our little guy how very much we loved him and how much joy he had brought to our family for all those years. Carly arrived and spent time holding him too and saying her goodbyes. We let the vet know we were ready. But how ready are you ever? I wasn't. The thought of losing him killed me. But it also killed me to see him suffer struggling to breathe. I held this sweet tiny companion as the vet administered the medications. Carly thought she was going to be sick and dashed out of the room. Within a minute dear Ernie was gone, my sobs filling the air. It was after midnight Sunday morning, September 7th, 2014.

Later, Jim and Carly told me the vet's eyes were filled with tears. She hugged each of us, and left so we could say our final goodbyes. Eventually, the vet came back. We cradled Ernie's body as we handed him over to her. Along with his little yellow blanket. We told her to make sure they wrapped him in that blanket before they put him in the little box that would carry him to our home.

We buried him later that day in our backyard, just beyond the pool screen so I can feel close to him when I'm out there. Yet I know it's only his little failed mortal body lying under the dirt. His spirit has gone elsewhere. And that is what I miss the most.

A terrible gaping hole rips into my own spirit. So much of my day centered around him or doing things with him in mind. My brain knows that each of us is on this earth for a set period of time, and that one day I will see him again. My heart throws up a wall at the knowledge of his absence. Time will ease the hurt. I know that too. It's the profound pain in the here and now I must deal with. But I hold the thought in my heart that once again he romps with his sister, or they're simply laying down together enjoying the eternal sun while they wait for those humans who loved them so very much on this earth.

Simple Orange Scones

 

For those of you who blog stalk, this post is out of the ordinary for me. But since I love to bake and create culinary delights, it's not so far fetched that I would share this here. And being asked twice by two very dear women ... How could I refuse?

 

Not sure what possessed me but for the past week or two I have been craving scones--rich, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth-and-then-some scones.They don't exactly fit in with my turned-over-a-new-leaf-gotta-lose-this-weight diet. So you can understand my hesitation to fulfill the craving. Yesterday I gave in. What can I say, sometimes I'm weak. I sought out the highest starred scone recipe on the website allrecipes.com. Then I added my own little twist. The result is below:

 

And here is the recipe:

 

SIMPLE ORANGE SCONES

 

- 2 cups all-purpose flour                 - 8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, frozen*

- 1/3 cup sugar                                    - 2 teaspoons finely grated orange rind

- 1 teaspoon baking powder             - 1/2 cup sour cream                               

- 1/4 teaspoon baking soda              - 1 large egg

- 1/2 teaspoon salt

 

1. Adjust oven rack to lower-middle position and preheat oven to 400 degrees.

 

2. In a medium bowl, and using a fork, mix flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Grate butter into flour mixture on the large holes of a box grater. Use the fork to work in butter (mixture should resemble coarse meal), then stir in orange rind.

 

3. In a small bowl, whisk sour cream and egg until smooth.

 

4. Using the fork again (or a slender rubber spatula, which is what I used after scraping the sour cream mixture out of its bowl), stir sour cream mixture into flour mixture until large dough clumps form. The dough will be sticky in places and there may not seem to be enough liquid at first, but as you press, the dough will come together.

 

5. Place on a lightly floured surface and pat into a 7- to 8-inch circle about 3/4-inch thick. Sprinkle with 1 teaspoon of sugar. Use a sharp knife to cut into 8 triangles; place on a cookie sheet [preferably lined with parchment paper--I personally used my Pampered Chef cookie stone (no parchment) & it was perfect], about 1 inch apart. Bake until golden, about 15 to 17 minutes. Cool for 5 minutes, then drizzle icing over each scone.

 

ICING

 

- 1 cup powdered sugar                  

- 1/2 teaspoon vanilla                                        

- 1 teaspoon finely grated orange rind

- Hand squeeze juice from one large section of a fresh orange

 

1. In a small bowl, mix all ingredients to the desired consistency for spreading. Using a fork or knife, drizzle/spread icing over each scone.

 

* I froze my butter for 1-1/2 hours and it grated up easily with the metal box grater. I could have used the grater of my food processor (which would have been way faster), but didn't want the clean up afterward.

 



Pitch ... Part Deux

My last post about the SDSU conference and experiences stretched out a tad long. I didn't mean for it to take on its own novella proportions--sorry about that. But upon sleepy reflection last night while snuggled warm under the covers with six-pound Yorkie Ernie by my side, I realized I forgot to mention a few other interesting tidbits.

At one point in my post, I explained my concern about my project being a viable commercial entity, or was I just a legend in my own mind. I asked this question (when I remembered to ask) of two editors and one agent. Each time I asked, eyes grew large and head reared back just a tad before she answered, "Absolutely! Of course! There's an excellent market for this project." Score! And what a relief! Imagine having poured your heart, soul, and untold hours into something only to learn it would never see the light of day beyond your own desk top. I can't believe I didn't mention this particular outcome in yesterday's post, because it was huge for me to get this feedback. Only goes to show that writing late at night and my brain do not mix sometimes, last night being one of them.

During one of the breakout sessions (personally, I like to call them 50-minute educational mini-seminars, because "breakout session" suggests to me that I'll be actively participating) that I attended, three newly-published authors sat together on a panel and discussed their experiences of being, well, newly published and all that that entailed. One of these authors happened to be the actor Eriq Lasalle. As in the guy who portrayed a handsome doctor in the television show E.R. This man was so down-to-earth and gracious. And huge. Not sure how tall he is, but did I mention that he's HUGE! I'm five feet nine inches, and as I left the seminar and passed by him, I had to look up, so I'm guessing he's a good six feet five inches or thereabouts. And funny, and down-to-earth. Did I mention those, too? What was kind of cool was him talking about attending the conference to learn and further his craft. Cool guy.

My last anecdote for this post involves my final pitch appointment with an agent. She was one of those who seemed surprised that I questioned whether my project held marketable potential. And she also asked if I foresaw sequel potential with my character and her story. Both good signs, right? Maybe it was all in my imagination, but I felt that Laurie and I got along famously. It probably had more to do with her being slap happy that I was her final appointment after a long two days of listening to pitches. Whatever. We chatted like old friends--to a point. I always have to be aware that these folks are here for the business and I mustn't take advantage or be overly familiar, which is easy to do when they're as friendly as she was. Anyway, as we were finishing up, I remembered that she knew Liz (another story, probably best left untold), so I mentioned I had attended an online seminar the previous week in which Liz reviewed my work. I'm not sure how all of that translated in Laurie's head because the next thing I know, she's saying that when I query and submit my work, don't just query one agent at a time--send my stuff to multiple agents, herself included. And if one of those agents comes back with an offer to represent, or an editor comes back with an offer to purchase, be sure to let all the other people (who I queried) know so that they have the opportunity to present their own offers. She then presented her card and told me when I was ready that she'd like to read the first ten pages of my work. All of this I also took to be a good sign, because if she hadn't liked my pitch or story, she wouldn't have said any of what she did.

Which brings me to my last good news of this post -- all of the agents and editors requested the first ten pages of my work when I had completed my project. When you've done as much querying as I have and not heard back, it's encouraging to know that you're finally doing something right along the way.

Pitch, And I Don't Mean Baseball

Last Thursday I flew out to San Diego, California, to attend the 30th annual San Diego State University (SDSU) Writers Conference. Funny thing was, I didn't even know this event existed until I participated in an online writers seminar the previous week. My designated literary agent in the online seminar--Elizabeth Kracht with the Kimberley Cameron Group--told me about the SDSU and other writers conferences, her point being to get my aspiring novelist self to a writers conference ASAP, and that SDSU was one of the best.

I asked Liz (by the end of the online seminar, we were on a first name basis, not that I'm presumptuous or anything; and did I mention that I asked her to friend me on Facebook and we're following one another on Twitter, but that's networking for you), uh, yeah, so I asked Liz what made this conference so great, and she answered that there were many, many agents and editors attending. Besides learning more about working on a novel during some extremely informational breakout sessions, a major purpose at a conference like this is to get one-on-one face to face with these publishing gatekeepers and pitch your project. My project is a work of paranormal fiction. The hope is that eventually my work will be good enough and strong enough to catch and hold the attention of an agent or editor, so much so that I'm offered representation leading to a bid to purchase.

We take a break from our regularly-scheduled programming to explain the difference between agents and editors .... Editors work for the publishing houses and directly buy an author's project, whether it be fiction or non-fiction. In my case, fiction. Very fiction. As in, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, with an emphasis on dead. Because there are dead people in my novel. But I digress .... So the editor makes a monetary offer to the author (very simplified here) to purchase the book. An agent, on the other hand, represents the author to the publishing houses (via the editors) and works out the purchase deal on the author's behalf. Many times, an author will get an offer from an editor and will then retain an agent to represent him or her to do the deal. Other times, the author will deal directly with the editor and do the deal herself. I like to admit up front that I don't know what I don't know so would most likely retain the services of an agent to look out for my best interests and explain the merry road of publishing as we traipse together through the advantages while avoiding the pitfalls. We return you now to your regularly-scheduled program ...

So all along I've felt that I have an excellent story, one that will appeal to many ages, and most likely, a predominantly female audience. I had a few problems, though. One, I wasn't exactly sure where to begin my story. This element is crucial. It determines if someone continues reading past the first page or two and is sucked in enough to stay up all night and lose sleep and skip meals because the reader just has to find out how the story ends. But if you can't hold the reader beyond the first sentence or paragraph or more, you're sunk. Like I said--crucial.

My next set of problems included the arrival in the story of various characters, the total story arc, and what genre, exactly, did my book fall into. And was I just kidding myself, or did my project have viable commercial appeal? To provide help and give answers to these dilemmas, enter the agents and editors. They have mighty fine, publishing-experienced brains and they were there for my kindly picking. Don't get me wrong, you have to pay for the appointments to see these people (above and beyond what you pay for the conference itself), but to say it was well worth it doesn't begin to describe how priceless these appointments were.

After introductions and brief pleasantries were exchanged (very brief, mind you, as I only had ten minutes with each person, and you'd be shocked how quickly that ten minutes flies by), I gave my "elevator pitch." This is the 20- to 30-second window of opportunity spiel designed to grab the attention of someone who can make this project happen. Everyone loved my elevator pitch and leaned forward for more. A good sign.

I proceeded to describe the project, and each agent or editor asked the following: When do the ghosts show up? Oh, a ways into the story, I said ... no good, said the agents/editors; bring them in sooner or you'll upset your readers. Who lives and who dies at the end of the story? they asked. I know it might sound stupid, but I wasn't sure. Together we discussed the possibilities, and the pros and cons of each scenario. They all asked if I foresaw sequel possibilities. Another good sign. I took it to mean that they liked the story and main character well enough to bring forth more books. My book involves a major surprising twist dealing with one of the secondary characters--they all loved that surprise aspect. One editor said she'd love to read a book about that character.

One little whoopsie on my part dealt with the CEO of an ebook publishing company, who--I learned after I had already made the appointment with her--only published romance books. The book could be realistic, historical, science fiction, paranormal, whatever, as long as it had romance in it. Mine contained no romance. At first, this person and her editor leaned back and threw their hands up in the air. "No romance?" they said in unison. "Then we're not the publisher for you." I'm not sure exactly what transpired then, because they either liked me and my pitch, or they especially liked my story line, but the next words out of the CEO's mouth were, "But if you're willing to work romance into the story line, the possibilities are endless." She then enumerated various scenarios that would put the romance in, then embellished with further paranormal elements and tied the two together. When the little bell rang that our ten minutes was up, both the CEO and the editor were still talking about the possibilities for the story. Whew! I came away from the table elated that they hadn't shut me down and instead did quite the opposite!

My one last comment on the editors and agents I spoke with during that hour .... I could not believe how friendly, accommodating, down-to-earth, helpful, and genuine all of them were. Every last one. If you knew some of their clients, I think you'd be surprised. One of the editors even told me, "You're my only appointment. We can sit here and talk as long as you'd like." Unfortunately, I had another appointment immediately after meeting with her. Before I had arrived at the conference, I honestly had expected them to be arrogant and aloof. What a refreshing, pleasant surprise on my part that they were the antithesis of my expectations.

So that was a small part of my weekend. How was yours?!?

Beauty All Around

Today is an anomaly of beautiful Florida weather--it's chilly, breezy, solid cloud cover, spits of rain here and there. In one word: yucky. It's the kind of day I'll brew some herbal tea and sip it with hands clasped around the cup's warmth. Fortunately for those of us who live here? This, too, shall pass. And it usually does quite quickly. In the meantime, here I sit blogging away to bring my own bit of Florida sunshine to an otherwise gloomy day.

In June we moved into a nice rental house. It's only a couple of miles from where we used to live so there wasn't too much adjustment on everyone's part from moving. Not sure how long we'll be here or where we'll go next, but in the meantime, it's a very nice house. One of my favorite things here are the three flowering shrubs at the back of the property. One is a double hibiscus, and I'm not sure what the names of the other two are. I do know that they're pretty. And the fuchsia red flowering shrub loves to attract butterflies. Each shrub in its own way provides numerous opportunities for beautiful photographs. These photos, in turn, give me inspiration for paintings.

Who wouldn't be inspired by this? I love the way the light falls on the distant wing.

One important lesson I've learned about taking photos and painting works of art is that it's all about light and shadows; i.e., the contrast. It's what separates an okay picture from one that is so stunning you can't take your eyes off of it. In paintings, the artist can manipulate this aspect. Photos? Not so much. Either the sun is shining or it isn't. And I'm not that talented of an artist to know how to manipulate my painting by knowing exactly where the sun is and where the shadows would therefor fall. So I rely heavily on my photos.

I can't wait to paint this one, especially to capture the glow inside the trumpet of the flower on the right.

I love to study the flowers themselves, too--how the petals come together, the sepals and stamens. When I load the photos onto my computer, I love how I can blow up the tiniest flower to see all the intricate details. I wonder if this is how God sees His creations?

This photo makes me feel kinda like I'm looking through butterfly's eyes, and its view as it readies itself to land and draw nectar.

Sometimes, simple leaves are just as beautiful, too ... the way parts of them are exposed to the light while other parts play hide and seek in the shadows. Below is a watercolor that I painted based on several photos I had taken of crape myrtle leaves. This piece also was accepted into a local art show. It's now hanging on the wall of my family room where I can see it everyday.

Below are three flowers from the same bush, the red double hibiscus that I mentioned at the beginning of this blog post. It amazes me how different it looks when it's placed against three separate backgrounds. As an artist, I'll probably do three paintings just to capture these differences. I love the play of shadows that intensifies the red, but I also love how you can see the make up of the flower depending on how you're viewing it, especially the intricacies of the petals in the second photo.

A funny story about the double hibiscus ... squirrels love them. To eat. It must be the most delicious treat to the little nutters because if I want to take photos of a blooming hibiscus, I have to get out there, fast. If I don't, the flower's remnants--and not much, I might add--will be on the ground. I have a photo somewhere of a squirrel sitting on top of our pool cage tearing through one of these flowers like it's the squirrel's last meal on earth. He had ripped the flower from the bush and then high-tailed up on top of the screen so he could enjoy the meal uninterrupted. Talk about al fresco dining.

I don't know what part of the world you live in, but I hope you've enjoyed seeing a bit of the beauty we're blessed with here in Florida all year round. My day has certainly brightened just looking at these photos once more. The last photo is my version of Florida yellow sun personified. If the clouds have won over the day, maybe the sun got the last laugh in pouring some of its yellow brilliance into flowers down here on earth.

They're Real, They Exist, Just Listen

A few years ago I realized I had a gift. Yet when I shared this realization with others, most were skeptical and some folks outright scoffed. Very few actually believed. Cue the line from the movie The Sixth Sense: I see dead people. Only that's not true because I don't see them, I hear them. And feel their presence. My oldest daughter and one of my nephews sees them and hears them. Not me. But, oh, do I ever hear them!

I won't pretend to know exactly how it works on the other side, when someone dies, but it's not set up how most people were taught to believe. When I've asked others what they think heaven is, or where it is, they really have no clear-cut answer. Let's rip up the after-death myth right here about the floating-around-on-clouds and playing-the-harp thing. It makes for good cartoons but that's about it. When a person dies, there isn't an automatic go straight to heaven or hell, either, except for those very evil. I don't want to get into that aspect, though. So I'll address the heaven part.

In order to understand why I--and others--can hear and communicate with those who have passed on, first you have to understand where the deceased are and what they are. Our bodies are a shell to house our spirits while living here on earth. It's a very significant "shell," but that's a topic better left for another discussion. Just know that when the deceased leave their bodies and go to the other side, they are still the same people who left their bodies. Love, devotion, hope, dreams, nasty attitudes, negativity, benevolence or lack thereof--any good or bad traits they possessed while alive remain with them after "death." Now, having said this, they can change once they're over there. They have the opportunity of being taught the values and truths that they didn't get while on the earth. They can accept or reject these teachings, just like they could while "alive." Free will doesn't end.

How do I know what I just stated? Dead people have told me with statements like, "I'm learning so much!" and "There's so much to learn!" I hear the excitement in their voices and feel it in their presence. That lets me know we can become better over there if we so desire, and that we don't learn everything all at once upon death, like some living people believe. I've also talked to those that I didn't especially care for while they were alive, and sometimes they have changed into magnificent beings who I can't wait to get to know when I arrive on the other side. Other times, they still harbor the same not-so-niceness they possessed while alive, and I cut those conversations short. Just know that if someone cared for you deeply during his or her life, they care just as much--if not more--on the other side, and will do for you whatever they can.

There is a common thread each time I talk to a dead person. This common thread is purpose. These conversations are never idle chatter. The purpose may be: strengthening my belief in an afterlife (though that's been a moot point for several years now), me helping a live person to have hope and believe in an afterlife, comfort (for myself or another), concern (for me or another), requests, ... the list goes on, but there is always purpose. When the purpose concerns myself, I've been extremely grateful for what they are able to teach me. When it concerns others who are alive, the situation becomes a little more dicey for me, as the deceased person usually wants me to get a message to a loved one. I always have the option to accept or reject what they want me to do, which is my free will in action. And I tell the deceased person that they have to accept that the living person may not believe the message or where it came from. I've had results go both ways.

Several years ago, a deceased young woman came to me and asked me to give a message to her mother. Now understand, I had never met the woman's mother before, yet I knew that this mother would recognize my name and know who I was. It took me a day or so to track down the mother's whereabouts and get her phone number. Can you imagine how much I was shaking when I made that call? As a mother myself, I couldn't imagine receiving a call such as that. I prayed earnestly that I would say the right things so this mother didn't hang up on me, but most of all, that she would know the message I was bringing to her from her deceased daughter was true, and meant to give her hope and comfort her grief. I'll not include the message here to protect the sacred privacy of all involved, but the deceased called her mother, Mommy, when she gave the message to me, and told me to repeat the message word for word. When I called that mother and explained who I was and my reason for the call, she was at least willing to hear me out. After I gave her the message, she broke down, sobbing. She said she absolutely knew the message was from her daughter because, even as a grown woman, her daughter still called her Mommy. Then she related some things that had happened to her recently to let her know that her daughter was near and watching over her. My phone call completed that knowledge.

Another call I made didn't turn out so great. It was a message from a deceased husband to his wife. The wife had known me well for many years and respected me. When I told her the reason for my phone call, she was skeptical at the very least even though I said key phrases and words that she and her husband had spoken in private conversations that she had repeated to no one. This aspect of our conversation caught her by surprise and made her stop to think. Yet because of previously-held (erroneous) beliefs, she ultimately didn't believe me. If you think about it, if it wasn't true, why would I have made the call and held myself out there to look like a fool? I even said as much. And her late husband's message was one of confirmation of the beauty of heaven, love, and hope. He also said he'd been trying to talk to her--and others as well--but no one could hear him. He was thrilled that I could hear him. Can you imagine no one being able to hear you when you had something so important to share?

My particular gift does not work like the Long Island Medium, either, though every once in a great while I hear the deceased make comments, which I don't share, or I get an incredibly strong feeling that a person's deceased loved one is near. At times, I experience the feelings of a deceased person as if those feelings were my very own. Those feelings vary from the most intense joy to the lowest low and everything in between.

Bottom line is: it doesn't matter to me whether someone believes or not that I communicate with the dead. Did you get that? I don't care whether you believe me or not. I don't care if you think this entire post is a bunch of tripe, or hocus pocus fodder, or whatever. It's real and it's been proven to me time and again that it's real. Honestly, I've had enough experiences to fill a book. It's also not easy to listen to the dead and experience their feelings; in fact, it's draining. But if by listening to them and delivering their messages I can then help the living, if I can ease someone's pain or grief even the tiniest bit, it's worth it to me. When a person does believe, it's an unimaginably amazing experience for both of us. It's as if the truth sinks into them in the most undeniable way. On the flip side, if a gift that precious is thrown aside by others in unbelief, then don't be surprised when the unbeliever struggles more than he or she should. It's up to each of us to decide where we stand on the matter.

Perspective

I practiced dentistry for 23 years. Most dentists stay with it longer than that, but health challenges forced me to retire and pursue other outlets. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I've been thrilled to be able to paint and write (passions for me for several years now) since my full-time "retirement". And I love being able to swim in my pool anytime I want when the sun is actually out, not after I return home from a long day at work and Florida thunderstorms spring up, curtailing any chance to dip in the pool. So I've learned to count my blessings and enjoy everything that I can.

During my practice of dentistry, I loved to perform surgeries. I especially loved to experience first-hand the body's ability to heal. What I didn't love about surgery is the mess you can get into quickly if you're not absolutely careful. Even when you're extremely diligent and perform every step according to protocol, you can get in trouble quickly.

The biggest problem was excessive bleeding. Patients weren't always forthright on their medical histories and didn't think it important to let me know they were on a daily regimen of aspirin to thin the blood. Until the blood wouldn't stop flowing from a seemingly benign surgery. "Oh, yeah!" they'd say. "I take a baby aspirin, only one a day. I didn't think it mattered." Guess what--it matters.

Awakening people after putting them under could also be scary. Sometimes, they just "forgot" to tell me that they took a little anti-anxiety medication on their own. Or that they had a former drug or alcohol addiction, all of which affects the ability for them to wake up easily after I've pumped other drugs into their system. These times were the most scary, when I couldn't get someone to respond. I took appropriate measures and everything always worked out okay, but for those couple of minutes, there were more prayers going up from my operatory than 1000 Muslims could offer at prayer call. It was literally a matter of life and death. Trust me, I do not miss those episodes.

That's why I don't get too stressed about anything in my life now. If a painting doesn't work out how I wanted it to, or doesn't get accepted into a show the way I'd hoped, or a novel isn't coming together and I have no idea where to go next in the storyline -- mmph, none of it is life or death. It's simply a puzzle to be worked out. Nothing more, nothing less. A puzzle. A challenge on life's roadway to wherever. So what if a piece of paper gets ruined? It's only paper, and if I paid attention, I probably learned a very good lesson in what not to do next time. When I spend hours upon hours crafting a novel, only to be told by an editor that 45% of it was deadwood that needed to be chopped, then I learned a lesson in that, too. But none of it was a matter of life or death. None of it.

I'm a much happier person now, not holding someone's life in my hands. Well, actually God holds their life in His hands, so I always did my best to be an active partner in those scenarios and plead with Him not to let that person slip into a coma or die. I'm so glad He never let that happen.

Next time you get highly upset about something, ask yourself--will the outcome mean life or death? If not, don't sweat it. Just do your best and it'll all fall into place.