Short Stories
Infinite L&G
I felt odd upon waking that morning. Something was amiss, off. I was alone and getting that old scared feeling creeping in again. I have been there before—a grim memory indeed, yet it was still fresh. It had made recent deep grooves in my left brain. I shrugged it off with a curious question: “What is my body wanting to do now?”
I sat down to read my email, scanning the print. OMG! Words made no sense to me. I had no cognition. No cognition! My brain was not working. The sign sprung up. My body had jumped on a barreling train, roaring down the track, moving fast.
I called my son. “Adam, get here. I must be having a stroke. Or something.”
I gathered my stuff, my purse, dragged a comb across my head. And waited upon the fresh hell ahead. My son is a beloved one. He truly cares for me. A man of strength, valor and integrity. I could count on him. No words when he opened the door. We both knew the drill. To the Emergency Room we sped.
Not the blinding rush with honking horn. That was the last time. That startling strong heart attack memory, just seven months ago. The chest-gripping intensity drove me to my knees. But that ride holds a tender moment as well. As I was moaning in pain, I saw Adam’s fingers glancing over the radio tabs until he found the classical station. He knew how I rested in that vibe. I do not recall the piece played, but it was indeed a masterpiece and a musical display of his tender concern.
Upon arrival at the Kaiser ER, I threw my body into the wheelchair. The weigh-in annoyed me. Was not my day ruined already? Why add a poundage reminder to it? My mind grew blank. I was where I could be helped. That allowed me a drizzle of hope. Overhead I heard the speaker blare: ‘Code Stroke – ER. Just a false alarm, I thought.
I glanced around, looking for the white coats. The well-manicured young doctor was absent --the ne who interrogated me at the onset of the last visit. I was flailing in pain when she appeared beside me. Then her questioning began, "When did the attack begin?"
“How would I know?” I screamed. "Time has stopped for me. Because I am dying. Ask my son." I stared at her straight in the eyes, glaring.
I was disappointed in her. I wish she not have taken my hand and said, “You are safe now, dear. You are going to be okay.”
Instead she stomped out of my ER cubicle never to be seen again.
But now deep into this episode, I saw those thoughts as not useful. I wanted to wheel myself into the torture cubicle and allow the unknown to unfold to a deep dive into what is.
Questions flew past as usual. I studied each nurse to distract myself from a growing panic. One had done a fabulous job with her eye makeup and spoke with a slight accent. I could not place it, which frustrated me. Her nursing skills shined as she directed the staff.
I grew restless. I wanted to leave, but uneasiness crept back into my confused mind. My thoughts lingered fuzzy--not mine. Like words floating inside a blurry constellation somewhere attempting to line up stars I once knew. But stars move slowly. Perhaps they are ordered by another writer somewhere.
Adam left. He works his own business and each hour is money. He would check back, he said. So now I was alone when the bolt hit...hard. I moved my mouth to talk. No words! My right arm and leg now buried in cement. They were gone. No feeling, heavy logs. I was gone. My right side was gone.
I screamed a muffled yell. "Arg-eee-oh--ee!" I never heard this sound before. It came from a darkened unknow hole, sounding like a wounded animal caught in a steel sharp-toothed trap howling in agony.
I squirmed to the edge of the stretcher. A creping self-edit of a life-ending scene flashed by. No escape. I screamed like a crazy person. Just knowing that fact doubled the pain. My wide eyes looked around mid-scream.
Where are they? Crickets. No one appeared. Was this a dream? Am I making this up? Then two nurses rushed in at last and dragged the insane woman back onto the stretcher.
At last two nurses rushed in and dragged the insane woman back onto the stretcher.
I yelled, “Help me.” They got it. In a flash I knew then to stop trying to talk, and went to prayer. Keep silent, gather yourself in. Then the mantra poured forth into my ears. Infinite love and gratitude over and over. My eyes glazed over with the chant.
Needles were shoved into both arms. A TV was wheeled in before me. A doctor’s face appeared. What the hell? He was the decision-maker for my life now, acting fast to direct a process that would only allow my brain ninety minutes before I lost those parts forever. Options were offered . In a voice that vibrated with, "Relax, you may die." He weighed it out for me. My son returned and began to cry as he soothed me, stroking my head.
“There is a clot-buster drug infusion. It will dissolve the clot on your brain." I agreed to it with a shaky nod.
The ambulance was called. Riverside Community Hospital most fortunately offered the distinction of being a specialized medical facility for stroke patients like me. Timing would be key from here on. I nodded. I had ninety minutes to be restored to full function or lose it all, becoming a cripple with someone feeding and dressing me. That grim scene rolled before me. Slowly from deep, deep inside, I pulled up what looked like my Akashic records. It revealed that this was a Test, one that I must pass.
The drivers arrived. One wore the demeanor of a high school math teacher. I thought he would be an interesting man to talk to, but since I cannot talk, he was off the hook. The streets of Riverside were tangled with lunch hour traffic. I heard the sirens wail. I was an emergency to all those people, perhaps making them late for a lunch date. Outside I could see the all the familiar trees and buildings blur by. I wanted them to speed. Now! Faster! Tears stung around my eyelids. Instinct told me to wipe them away with my dominant hand. They fell unattended. My hand tried its best to take away those tears, but it could not. I reminded my beautiful arm about the wonderful moments. Remember the good times, how you served me. Holding my baby for the first time, pinching the pie crust painting , writing.
I am a writer. Tears again.
I hold that love was the true healer. I sent love right there to my quiet leg, setting it to remembering the sprinting, the running, the kneeling. You never failed me before--never.
The stark sunlight hit my moist face like a blinding beam as the ambulance doors flung open. Why are they so calm? My brain was on a timer here.
The doctors were standing there ready for me when I arrived. I saw the angel's face first. He was the same doctor who saved me months before. Oh, thank you. Infinite love and gratitude. He morphed into my angel of mercy.
I begged him. “You remember me? Save me, please.” Words from inside an old dream.
The CT scan, the kind that simulates peeing all over yourself, radiated my aching brain. I sent it love as I trembled. I had hurt it so much, especially the left side. "Did you give up from overuse or abuse?"
But my brain could always think fast --acting seamlessly as my attachment to this reality, tenuous as it may now appear. Nevertheless, it sought now to save itself; as if it did not need not need my help, only my love. The thought wove through: I want to go on so I can be a writer, a woman, one who moves freely over the earth.
I grew still, silent, empty. I felt the probing wire searching for the long offending blood vessel. Traveling through intricacies of convoluted of convoluted roadways that tucked away the memories and the pain. The sweet areas that remember the fragrance of Vic's roses, the touch of my lover's skin, the sounds of my children and granddaughter's laughter, the taste of a raw carrot as I munch it hungrily..
All tucked neatly in the heavy folds. All true. And he dodged them all and found instead the alien clot. The part of me that went renegade, betraying me. But it too fled his miracle hand.
I needed a miracle that day. I got it. Today I can walk, I can talk. I can write. And I do all of that now with Infinite Love and Gratitude.
I sat down to read my email, scanning the print. OMG! Words made no sense to me. I had no cognition. No cognition! My brain was not working. The sign sprung up. My body had jumped on a barreling train, roaring down the track, moving fast.
I called my son. “Adam, get here. I must be having a stroke. Or something.”
I gathered my stuff, my purse, dragged a comb across my head. And waited upon the fresh hell ahead. My son is a beloved one. He truly cares for me. A man of strength, valor and integrity. I could count on him. No words when he opened the door. We both knew the drill. To the Emergency Room we sped.
Not the blinding rush with honking horn. That was the last time. That startling strong heart attack memory, just seven months ago. The chest-gripping intensity drove me to my knees. But that ride holds a tender moment as well. As I was moaning in pain, I saw Adam’s fingers glancing over the radio tabs until he found the classical station. He knew how I rested in that vibe. I do not recall the piece played, but it was indeed a masterpiece and a musical display of his tender concern.
Upon arrival at the Kaiser ER, I threw my body into the wheelchair. The weigh-in annoyed me. Was not my day ruined already? Why add a poundage reminder to it? My mind grew blank. I was where I could be helped. That allowed me a drizzle of hope. Overhead I heard the speaker blare: ‘Code Stroke – ER. Just a false alarm, I thought.
I glanced around, looking for the white coats. The well-manicured young doctor was absent --the ne who interrogated me at the onset of the last visit. I was flailing in pain when she appeared beside me. Then her questioning began, "When did the attack begin?"
“How would I know?” I screamed. "Time has stopped for me. Because I am dying. Ask my son." I stared at her straight in the eyes, glaring.
I was disappointed in her. I wish she not have taken my hand and said, “You are safe now, dear. You are going to be okay.”
Instead she stomped out of my ER cubicle never to be seen again.
But now deep into this episode, I saw those thoughts as not useful. I wanted to wheel myself into the torture cubicle and allow the unknown to unfold to a deep dive into what is.
Questions flew past as usual. I studied each nurse to distract myself from a growing panic. One had done a fabulous job with her eye makeup and spoke with a slight accent. I could not place it, which frustrated me. Her nursing skills shined as she directed the staff.
I grew restless. I wanted to leave, but uneasiness crept back into my confused mind. My thoughts lingered fuzzy--not mine. Like words floating inside a blurry constellation somewhere attempting to line up stars I once knew. But stars move slowly. Perhaps they are ordered by another writer somewhere.
Adam left. He works his own business and each hour is money. He would check back, he said. So now I was alone when the bolt hit...hard. I moved my mouth to talk. No words! My right arm and leg now buried in cement. They were gone. No feeling, heavy logs. I was gone. My right side was gone.
I screamed a muffled yell. "Arg-eee-oh--ee!" I never heard this sound before. It came from a darkened unknow hole, sounding like a wounded animal caught in a steel sharp-toothed trap howling in agony.
I squirmed to the edge of the stretcher. A creping self-edit of a life-ending scene flashed by. No escape. I screamed like a crazy person. Just knowing that fact doubled the pain. My wide eyes looked around mid-scream.
Where are they? Crickets. No one appeared. Was this a dream? Am I making this up? Then two nurses rushed in at last and dragged the insane woman back onto the stretcher.
At last two nurses rushed in and dragged the insane woman back onto the stretcher.
I yelled, “Help me.” They got it. In a flash I knew then to stop trying to talk, and went to prayer. Keep silent, gather yourself in. Then the mantra poured forth into my ears. Infinite love and gratitude over and over. My eyes glazed over with the chant.
Needles were shoved into both arms. A TV was wheeled in before me. A doctor’s face appeared. What the hell? He was the decision-maker for my life now, acting fast to direct a process that would only allow my brain ninety minutes before I lost those parts forever. Options were offered . In a voice that vibrated with, "Relax, you may die." He weighed it out for me. My son returned and began to cry as he soothed me, stroking my head.
“There is a clot-buster drug infusion. It will dissolve the clot on your brain." I agreed to it with a shaky nod.
The ambulance was called. Riverside Community Hospital most fortunately offered the distinction of being a specialized medical facility for stroke patients like me. Timing would be key from here on. I nodded. I had ninety minutes to be restored to full function or lose it all, becoming a cripple with someone feeding and dressing me. That grim scene rolled before me. Slowly from deep, deep inside, I pulled up what looked like my Akashic records. It revealed that this was a Test, one that I must pass.
The drivers arrived. One wore the demeanor of a high school math teacher. I thought he would be an interesting man to talk to, but since I cannot talk, he was off the hook. The streets of Riverside were tangled with lunch hour traffic. I heard the sirens wail. I was an emergency to all those people, perhaps making them late for a lunch date. Outside I could see the all the familiar trees and buildings blur by. I wanted them to speed. Now! Faster! Tears stung around my eyelids. Instinct told me to wipe them away with my dominant hand. They fell unattended. My hand tried its best to take away those tears, but it could not. I reminded my beautiful arm about the wonderful moments. Remember the good times, how you served me. Holding my baby for the first time, pinching the pie crust painting , writing.
I am a writer. Tears again.
I hold that love was the true healer. I sent love right there to my quiet leg, setting it to remembering the sprinting, the running, the kneeling. You never failed me before--never.
The stark sunlight hit my moist face like a blinding beam as the ambulance doors flung open. Why are they so calm? My brain was on a timer here.
The doctors were standing there ready for me when I arrived. I saw the angel's face first. He was the same doctor who saved me months before. Oh, thank you. Infinite love and gratitude. He morphed into my angel of mercy.
I begged him. “You remember me? Save me, please.” Words from inside an old dream.
The CT scan, the kind that simulates peeing all over yourself, radiated my aching brain. I sent it love as I trembled. I had hurt it so much, especially the left side. "Did you give up from overuse or abuse?"
But my brain could always think fast --acting seamlessly as my attachment to this reality, tenuous as it may now appear. Nevertheless, it sought now to save itself; as if it did not need not need my help, only my love. The thought wove through: I want to go on so I can be a writer, a woman, one who moves freely over the earth.
I grew still, silent, empty. I felt the probing wire searching for the long offending blood vessel. Traveling through intricacies of convoluted of convoluted roadways that tucked away the memories and the pain. The sweet areas that remember the fragrance of Vic's roses, the touch of my lover's skin, the sounds of my children and granddaughter's laughter, the taste of a raw carrot as I munch it hungrily..
All tucked neatly in the heavy folds. All true. And he dodged them all and found instead the alien clot. The part of me that went renegade, betraying me. But it too fled his miracle hand.
I needed a miracle that day. I got it. Today I can walk, I can talk. I can write. And I do all of that now with Infinite Love and Gratitude.
Promise Yourself
’ “Did you get them?” a voice called from upstairs.
Mrs. Loper closed the front door. She sighed deeply as she laid her packages on a chair. “Oh, no dear, I forgot.”
Karen scrambled down the stairs, her long black hair flying behind her as her face reddened with distress. Flashing her dark eyes, she blurted, “Oh, Mom, how could you forget?”
“Karen, I had a lot of items to buy. It just slipped my mind. Besides, you should not be smoking anyway.”
“Oh, no,” Karen moaned. She began to pace around the room. “I just finished my last pack, too.” She paused and looked up at her mother. Half-smiling, she said, “Well, maybe this would be a good time for me to quit, huh?”
Mrs. Loper’s eyes widened and brightened. She reached over and gave her daughter a hug and whispered, “It sure would be, honey.”
Karen shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she mulled over the idea. Her hands dug deep into her blue jeans’ pockets as if looking for something.
The front door opened. A dark-haired boy, about eleven years old, darted in.
“Wow! It sure is getting cold out there. I bet it’s gonna snow tonight. Hi, Karen. Hey, Mom, when’s supper?”
Mrs. Loper smiled at her son. “In about an hour, Roy,” she said hurrying toward the kitchen.
Roy studied his sister. “Why so glum chum?”
“Huh, what?” Karen turned quickly. “Oh, nothing, Roy. I’ve got a lot of homework to catch up on. See you later.”
She took the stairs two at a time. Roy shook his head as he heard the door slam.
Strolling into the kitchen, he asked, “What’s wrong with Sis?"
Mrs. Loper looked up from her potato peeling. “She’s trying to stop smoking. She ran out of cigarettes today and I forgot to buy some. So she is withdrawing. So let’s be patient, okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” Roy replied. “She’s tried that before, remember?”
“Yes, I do.” His mother murmured as the peelings curled around her wet fingers.
“Maybe Dad would be here now if he had quit sooner," he whispered.
Roy glanced quickly at his mother, then lowered his eyes to see the peelings fall silently to the floor.
The bedroom door slammed again. Karen’s voice trailed down the stairs. “Roy! Hey, Roy! Do you want to take a ride with me?”
“What for?” asked her brother.
“I thought we’d go downtown for some cigarettes.”
Her eyes met her mother’s. Karen broke the silence with a jingle of her car keys.
“Come on, Roy. We’ll be back in half an hour.”
The cold night air hit their faces as she opened the door.
Their mother called to them. “Karen, it may start snowing soon, maybe you’d better...”
“It’s alright, Mom. I have brand new snow tires, remember? We will be back before dinner.”
Karen and Roy jumped into the Volkswagen. The engine sputtered and died. She pumped the gas and started it again. They drove along without speaking. The slapping of the windshield wipers soon interrupted their quiet moods. It had begun to snow.
“I know what you’re thinking. My sister is hooked on cigarettes and can’t stop!”
Karen’s outburst brought her foot down harder on the gas pedal.
“Look,” she almost shouted. “This will be my last pack — I promise you.”
“Don’t promise me, promise yourself,” he retorted.
“I will.” she returned.
Roy began, “I guess it must be real hard to quit. Dad went through this too, trying to quit. I’m never gonna start smoking. What a prison house! Hey, could you turn up the heat? It’s getting real cold in here.”
Karen adjusted the heater and turned the wipers to high speed. The wet, large snowflakes pelted the windshield and blew a white sheet around the car.
“Karen! This is turning into a blizzard. Let’s turn back!”
“Oh, Roy, we’re only a half mile from the store. I’m not turning back now,” Karen snapped as she flicked on the radio. It blared out a heavy rock tune. The beat matched beat-by-beat that of the wipers as they slapped away the heavy layer of snow.
The tree appeared suddenly, its wide trunk now a dark black specter. Karen turned the wheel sharply and hit the brakes. The sound of scraping metal screeched into their ears before the car spun to a stop.
“Roy! Roy! I am so sorry,” Karen cried as she began to wipe his face with her scarf.
“I...I...I’m alright, really, Sis. Yeah. I am okay!” his voice registered surprise. He held the scarf to his head and looked outside. “Wow! We just sideswiped the tree. We are so lucky.”
Karen was crying out loud as she spoke. “Roy,” she stammered. I almost killed myself and you for a lousy cigarette.”
Tears flowed down her face. She wiped them away with the bloodied scarf.
“That’s it, Roy. I will never smoke again,” she stammered. “Not ever.”
“Hurray!” Roy shouted into the cold air. “Look, we have a ride home.”
Red flashing lights blinked into their car.
“We may be just in time for supper,” Roy exclaimed as he opened his door.
“Mom’s making my favorite potato soup.”
The kids dont get this
Mrs. Loper closed the front door. She sighed deeply as she laid her packages on a chair. “Oh, no dear, I forgot.”
Karen scrambled down the stairs, her long black hair flying behind her as her face reddened with distress. Flashing her dark eyes, she blurted, “Oh, Mom, how could you forget?”
“Karen, I had a lot of items to buy. It just slipped my mind. Besides, you should not be smoking anyway.”
“Oh, no,” Karen moaned. She began to pace around the room. “I just finished my last pack, too.” She paused and looked up at her mother. Half-smiling, she said, “Well, maybe this would be a good time for me to quit, huh?”
Mrs. Loper’s eyes widened and brightened. She reached over and gave her daughter a hug and whispered, “It sure would be, honey.”
Karen shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she mulled over the idea. Her hands dug deep into her blue jeans’ pockets as if looking for something.
The front door opened. A dark-haired boy, about eleven years old, darted in.
“Wow! It sure is getting cold out there. I bet it’s gonna snow tonight. Hi, Karen. Hey, Mom, when’s supper?”
Mrs. Loper smiled at her son. “In about an hour, Roy,” she said hurrying toward the kitchen.
Roy studied his sister. “Why so glum chum?”
“Huh, what?” Karen turned quickly. “Oh, nothing, Roy. I’ve got a lot of homework to catch up on. See you later.”
She took the stairs two at a time. Roy shook his head as he heard the door slam.
Strolling into the kitchen, he asked, “What’s wrong with Sis?"
Mrs. Loper looked up from her potato peeling. “She’s trying to stop smoking. She ran out of cigarettes today and I forgot to buy some. So she is withdrawing. So let’s be patient, okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” Roy replied. “She’s tried that before, remember?”
“Yes, I do.” His mother murmured as the peelings curled around her wet fingers.
“Maybe Dad would be here now if he had quit sooner," he whispered.
Roy glanced quickly at his mother, then lowered his eyes to see the peelings fall silently to the floor.
The bedroom door slammed again. Karen’s voice trailed down the stairs. “Roy! Hey, Roy! Do you want to take a ride with me?”
“What for?” asked her brother.
“I thought we’d go downtown for some cigarettes.”
Her eyes met her mother’s. Karen broke the silence with a jingle of her car keys.
“Come on, Roy. We’ll be back in half an hour.”
The cold night air hit their faces as she opened the door.
Their mother called to them. “Karen, it may start snowing soon, maybe you’d better...”
“It’s alright, Mom. I have brand new snow tires, remember? We will be back before dinner.”
Karen and Roy jumped into the Volkswagen. The engine sputtered and died. She pumped the gas and started it again. They drove along without speaking. The slapping of the windshield wipers soon interrupted their quiet moods. It had begun to snow.
“I know what you’re thinking. My sister is hooked on cigarettes and can’t stop!”
Karen’s outburst brought her foot down harder on the gas pedal.
“Look,” she almost shouted. “This will be my last pack — I promise you.”
“Don’t promise me, promise yourself,” he retorted.
“I will.” she returned.
Roy began, “I guess it must be real hard to quit. Dad went through this too, trying to quit. I’m never gonna start smoking. What a prison house! Hey, could you turn up the heat? It’s getting real cold in here.”
Karen adjusted the heater and turned the wipers to high speed. The wet, large snowflakes pelted the windshield and blew a white sheet around the car.
“Karen! This is turning into a blizzard. Let’s turn back!”
“Oh, Roy, we’re only a half mile from the store. I’m not turning back now,” Karen snapped as she flicked on the radio. It blared out a heavy rock tune. The beat matched beat-by-beat that of the wipers as they slapped away the heavy layer of snow.
The tree appeared suddenly, its wide trunk now a dark black specter. Karen turned the wheel sharply and hit the brakes. The sound of scraping metal screeched into their ears before the car spun to a stop.
“Roy! Roy! I am so sorry,” Karen cried as she began to wipe his face with her scarf.
“I...I...I’m alright, really, Sis. Yeah. I am okay!” his voice registered surprise. He held the scarf to his head and looked outside. “Wow! We just sideswiped the tree. We are so lucky.”
Karen was crying out loud as she spoke. “Roy,” she stammered. I almost killed myself and you for a lousy cigarette.”
Tears flowed down her face. She wiped them away with the bloodied scarf.
“That’s it, Roy. I will never smoke again,” she stammered. “Not ever.”
“Hurray!” Roy shouted into the cold air. “Look, we have a ride home.”
Red flashing lights blinked into their car.
“We may be just in time for supper,” Roy exclaimed as he opened his door.
“Mom’s making my favorite potato soup.”
The kids dont get this