The Positive Thinking Thread,Post your Quotes,Good Deeds,Life Stories etc

@lonernz...That really was quite beautiful. I enjoyed the "enoughs" and its all quite true and appropriate.

Your post brought back bitter-sweet memories of my mom's death. We're both looking into each others eyes both knowing she would die at any moment "I love you ma" were such special words at that moment but even though she couldn't speak, she got a smile on her face and mouthed the words "I love you too".

But you know, at least I got to say "I love you ma" and she heard me. SO many people don't get that chance and wish to god they'd had been able to say it at least once. I'm thankful for that moment.

My Dad turned 100 in June, I know I'll go nuts when that day comes despite his age and wisdom. The man has seen it all ... imagine seeing the first car amidst horse and buggies or hear this roar in the sky overhead just prior to the first airplane LOL! Dad has seen it all and has the greatest stories to tell! You know what still amazes him the most...of all things? ...The Ballpoint Pen. With all the inventions he's seen from the car, to the plane to the first television, what amazes him the most is the ballpoint pen LOL! The fact that it just writes on and on for hundreds of pages without having to dip it in a well of ink still amazes him LOL!

 

the write of this is a guy call bob perth in the first writting its a father saying good bye to his dauther. Ill post the first writting when I find it.Hes done a couple of writtings like this.Ill post the link to his site soon ,glad you liked it .

 

my bad the guys name is bob perks.





"I wish you enough!"©
By Bob Perks
Contact Bob
I never really thought that I'd spend as much time in airports as I do. I don't know why. I always wanted to be famous and that would mean lots of travel. But I'm not famous, yet I do see more than my share of airports.

I love them and I hate them. I love them because of the people I get to watch. But they are also the same reason why I hate airports. It all comes down to "hello" and "goodbye."I must have mentioned this a few times while writing my stories for you.

I have great difficulties with saying goodbye. Even as I write this I am experiencing that pounding sensation in my heart. If I am watching such a scene in a movie I am affected so much that I need to sit up and take a few deep breaths. So when faced with a challenge in my life I have been known to go to our local airport and watch people say goodbye. I figure nothing that is happening to me at the time could be as bad as having to say goodbye.

Watching people cling to each other, crying, and holding each other in that last embrace makes me appreciate what I have even more. Seeing them finally pull apart, extending their arms until the tips of their fingers are the last to let go, is an image that stays forefront in my mind throughout the day.

On one of my recent business trips, when I arrived at the counter to check in, the woman said, "How are you today?" I replied, "I am missing my wife already and I haven't even said goodbye."

She then looked at my ticket and began to ask, "How long will you...Oh, my God. You will only be gone three days!" We all laughed. My problem was I still had to say goodbye.

But I learn from goodbye moments, too.

Recently I overheard a father and daughter in their last moments together. They had announced her departure and standing near the security gate, they hugged and he said, "I love you. I wish you enough." She in turn said, "Daddy, our life together has been more than enough. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough, too, Daddy."

They kissed and she left. He walked over toward the window where I was seated. Standing there I could see he wanted and needed to cry. I tried not to intrude on his privacy, but he welcomed me in by asking, "Did you ever say goodbye to someone knowing it would be forever?"

"Yes, I have," I replied. Saying that brought back memories I had of expressing my love and appreciation for all my Dad had done for me. Recognizing that his days were limited, I took the time to tell him face to face how much he meant to me.

So I knew what this man experiencing.

"Forgive me for asking, but why is this a forever goodbye?" I asked.

"I am old and she lives much too far away. I have challenges ahead and the reality is, the next trip back would be for my funeral," he said.

"When you were saying goodbye I heard you say, "I wish you enough." May I ask what that means?"

He began to smile. "That's a wish that has been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to everyone." He paused for a moment and looking up as if trying to remember it in detail, he smiled even more."When we said 'I wish you enough,' we were wanting the other person to have a life filled with just enough good things to sustain them," he continued and then turning toward me he shared the following as if he
were reciting it from memory.

"I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much
bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish enough "Hello's" to get you through the final "Goodbye."

He then began to sob and walked away.

My friends, I wish you enough!
by
Bob Perks





My friends, I wish you enough!
Bob Perks
Bob@BobPerks.com




;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;


I wish you enough.
I wish you enough love in your heart, and enough communion with your soul.
I wish you enough light to illuminate your lessons, and enough dark to integrate your wisdom.
I wish you enough giving to open your heart, and enough receiving to bring you home.
I wish you enough commerce to enrich your bank account, and enough service to enrich your life.
I wish you enough activity to sharpen your mind and strengthen your body, and enough rest to bring you peace.
I wish you enough sunshine to warm your face and to cheer your heart.
I wish you enough gentle wind to lift your hair and your dreams.
I wish you enough friendship to remind you that you are not alone, and enough solitude to remember your center.
I wish you enough rain to nourish your garden and to cleanse your spirit.
I wish you enough storms to clear away the old and make room for the new.
I wish you enough mist to bring you into the here and now and to remind you of your own magic.
I wish you enough dirt to grow your herbs and flowers and to keep your feet firmly on the ground.
I wish you enough clouds in the sky to inspire you to reach beyond them.
I wish you enough birds in flight to delight your eyes, and enough birdsong to serenade your ears.
I wish you enough kisses and cuddles with children and animals to bring you simple joy.
I wish you enough earth to sustain the roots of your trees and the roots of your intentions.
I wish you enough starlight to inspire your imagination, and enough moonlight to stir your soul.
I wish you enough.

-- rev. jen willis, 2005


hope you like .

 

great post guys!!! this thread is very good reeding

 

I also enjoy reading this thread. If I get something useful in an email or out of something I read I will be sure to post it.

 

Do You Smell That?

Her husband, David, held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.

That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Cesarean to deliver the couple's new daughter, Dana Lu Blessing.

At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature.

Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs. "I don't think she's going to make it," he said, as kindly as he could. "There's only a 10 percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one."

Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived.

She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on.

"No! No!" was all Diana could say.

She and David, with their five-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away. But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana.

Because Dana's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially raw, the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.

There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger.

But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there.

At last, when Dana turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time.

And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.

Five years later, Dana was a petite, but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She showed no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she was everything a little girl could be and more. But that happy ending is far from the end of her story.

One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Dana was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing.

As always, Dana was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent . Hugging her arms across her chest, little Dana asked, "Do you smell that"?

Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain."

Dana closed her eyes and again asked, "Do you smell that"?

Once again, her mother replied, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."

Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."

Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana happily hopped down to play with the other children.

Before the rain, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.

During those long days and nights of the first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.

--Unknown

 

The Magic Bat

Harry is every coach's dream kid. He shows up for every practice early, stays late and is enthusiastic. Harry is also every coach's nightmare. He has neither the instinct nor the physical talent for the game.

I stepped in as a stand-in coach for my son's Little League team when the regular coach got married. Somehow he thought a honeymoon took precedence over next Tuesday's game. How can you blame him? Our team hadn't won in more than two years.

As I accepted the fill-in spot, I promised myself that I would show no disappointment if we lost. That was the least I could do. The best I could do was give a good heart to the effort.

I met Harry at the first practice. A small, thin, awkward kid, his best throw was about five feet, which made the choice of fielding position difficult. And he was scared. Every time he came to bat, he would glance at the pitcher, lean the bat on his shoulder, close his eyes and wait until the misery of three pitches was over. Then he'd trudge back to the dugout. It was painful to watch.

I met Harry before Tuesday's game, took him aside and worked with him on keeping his eyes open. He tried, but it's tough to overcome the habit of fear. We were about to play a team that had beat us 22-1 the last time. It didn't seem a fortunate moment for a breakthrough. Then I thought, why not?

I went to the dugout, got a different bat and returned to our practice area. "Harry," I said, "I want you to use this bat. It's the one for you. It's a magic bat. All you have to do is swing and it will hit the ball."

Harry seemed skeptical, but he said he would try. I hoped I wasn't complicating an already tough problem for Harry, but I wanted to try to help.

Our team was trailing from the first inning. No surprise in that, but we had some loyal parents in the stands to give constant encouragement to the kids.

On Harry's first at bat, I noticed he wasn't using his special bat, but I didn't step in. He struck out, as usual, and I decided to let it ride.

We were able to score from time to time. In the last inning, we were behind by only three runs. I was thinking about a "respectable outcome" speech to give the kids while packing up the gear. As the home team, we were last up. We alternated for five batters between singles with players safely on base and strikeouts. We had bases loaded and two outs. Only then did I notice that Harry was our last chance.

Surveying the field from my spot by first base, I saw the left fielder sprawl on the grass as Harry came from the dugout. He obviously expected no action. The right fielder was bothering some butterfly that was flitting about. The shortstop had moved well in, I suppose anticipating the possibility of a miraculous bunt. Clearly, the opposing players were already tasting the double-scoop ice cream cones they would go for after the victory.

Harry limped up to the batter's box. I noticed he had his usual bat. I called a time out, ran up to him and whispered, "Harry, this is the time for the magic bat. Give it a try. Just keep your eyes open and swing."

He looked at me in disbelief, but he said he'd try. He walked off for the special bat as I trotted back to first base.

First pitch, strike one. Harry didn't swing, but he kept his eyes open. I pumped my fist and gave it a little swing, encouraging him to swing. He smiled, got into his awkward stance and waited. He swung, eyes open, but missed. Strike two. That was the first real swing Harry had ever taken. Who cared if we won the game? I considered Harry a winner already.

The other coach yelled to his pitcher, "Fire one past him and end this thing!" I grimaced.

The pitcher threw a straight fastball and Harry swung. The magic bat did its trick. It found the ball, which flew over the shortstop's head.

Pandemonium erupted in the stands, in the dugouts, on the bases. I was cheering Harry to run to first as fast as he could. It seemed like an eternity. The left fielder called to the center fielder to get it. "You're closer!"

I kept cheering the runners. We had one in at home and three guys pouring it on from first to second, second to third, third to home. The second baseman yelled for the center fielder to get the ball to him. Excitedly, he obeyed, but the ball skipped across the grass and passed by the second baseman toward the right-field line. My job as coach was simple at this point. "Run, guys, run," I yelled.

Another guy scored. By this time, the entire team had joined the cheering, "Go, Harry, go Harry!" This was surely the longest distance Harry had ever run. He was panting as he headed for third and another guy crossed home. The right fielder's throw was critical, and it was pretty good, but the third baseman muffed it. The ball scooted past him out of play. The rule: one base on an overthrow that goes out of play. Harry, exhausted, kept the push on as best he could.

About then, the first cry of a grand slam hit the air. Everyone joined in. When Harry reached home plate, about to collapse, his teammates lifted him as high as they could and chanted, "Harry, Harry, Harry!"

I ran over to the team to hug the proudest kid in America. Tears streaming, Harry looked up at me and said, "The bat, Coach, the bat."

I smiled and said, "No, Harry. It was you who hit the ball, not the bat."

--David Meanor, submitted by Don "Ollie" Olivett

 

dolphin2...2 very cool postings I felt the shivers, nice very nice.

If I place my heart
into your hands,
will you treasure
the gift




and understand?

Will you see
the present and the past,
holding it firmly
within your grasp?

Will you keep
it safe and warm,
guarding it
throughtout our storms?

Will you hold it
forever more,
never knowing
what's in store?

Will I do the same
for you?
I will,
if you heart is true.

Tracey L. Hardie



Mother of the moon

Bathing your children in the soft glow of your love.

Kindred Spirit

Mother of the sky

With eternal space for your children to grow in

Kindred Spirit

Mother of the Earth

I see you enfolding your family

nourishing them the way a mountain

nourishes its forest

with fresh streams of thought and rich soil of love to grow proud in

Kindred Spirit

You dream the dance of souls

You sing the song of hearts

and the voices of your children join you to echo off the mountains of your love

in an eternal chorus of joy and celebration.



The Pond of Dreams

The morning sun
shimmered across
the pond of dreams.

Butterflies fluttered
kissing spiral wings
of doves in flight.

With my yearning heart
I walked upon the water
with lilies in bloom.

Unnoticed was the
snow that covered
winter pines in white.

Lost in thoughts
of my sweet prince
for whom I cherish.

I felt not the frost
that draped my path,
for I was warmed by love.

Tracey L. Hardie

 

Yes i really enjoyed reading "Do You Smell That?" and emailed it to several people

 

aabbccdd.yes there are some great words of wisdom out there, would be nice if the whole world felt the same.Im reading a book called the fingerprints of the gods ,its queit mind blowing . The human race has been around longer then they thought It revels that a lost race map the north and south pole long before they thought humans lived. the north and south pole have no ice on them they think it was map before 4000 bc.So this lost race was far more clever then the human race todat wonder what happen to them.And get this the usa military have this map.even albert einstein new the map was real. mind blowing reading.

 

I might be getting married. That's just maby.

 

Hey go you! Keep us updated!

 

An Angel Never Dies

Don't let them say I wasn't born,

That something stopped my heart

I felt each tender squeeze you gave,

I've loved you from start.

Although my body you can't hold,

It doesn't mean I'm gone,

This world was worthy not of me,

God chose that I move on.

I know the pain that drowns your soul,

What you are forced to face.

You have my word, I'll fill your arms,

Someday we will embrace.

You'll hear that it was "meant to be

God doesn't make mistakes,"

But that won't soften your worst blow,

Or make your heart not ache.

I'm watching over all you do,

Another child you'll bear,

Believe me when I say to you,

That I am always there.

There will come a time, I promise you

When you will hold my hand,

Stroke my face and kiss my lips,

And you'll understand.

Although I've never breathed your air,

Or gazed into your eyes

That doesn't mean I never "was"

An angel never dies.

*******************************************************************A smile costs nothing, but gives much-
It takes but a moment, but the memory of it usually lasts forever.
None are so rich that can get along without it-
And none are so poor but that can be made rich by it.
It enriches those who receive, without making poor those who give-
It creates sunshine in the home,
Fosters good will in business,
And is the best antidote for trouble-
And yet it cannot be begged, borrowed, or stolen, for it is of no value
Unless it is given away.
Some people are too busy to give you a smile-
Give them one of yours-
For the good Lord knows that no one needs a smile so badly
As he or she who has no more smiles left to give.

 

very good lonernz , thanks for the addition

 

Sorry for not posting for a bit. PSU burned up! Yea, it was actually smoking and smelly!

===================
The Thing I Value Most

It had been some time since Jack had seen the old man. College, girls, career and life itself got in the way. In fact, Jack moved clear across the country in pursuit of his dreams. There, in the rush of his busy life, Jack had little time to think about the past and often no time to spend with his wife and son. He was working on his future, and nothing could stop him.

Over the phone, his mother told him, "Mr. Belser died last night. The funeral is Wednesday." Memories flashed through his mind like an old newsreel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days.

"Jack, did you hear me"?

"Oh, sorry, Mom. Yes, I heard you. It's been so long since I thought of him. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago," Jack said.

"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you were doing. He'd reminisce about the many days you spent over 'his side of the fence' as he put it," his Mom told him.

"I loved that old house he lived in," Jack said.

"You know, Jack, after your father died, Mr. Belser stepped in to make sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said.

"He's the one who taught me carpentry," he said. "I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things he thought were important. Mom, I'll be there for the funeral," Jack said.

As busy as he was, he kept his word. Jack caught the next flight to his hometown.

Mr. Belser's funeral was small and uneventful. He had no children of his own and most of his relatives had passed away.

The night before he had to return home, Jack and his Mom stopped by to see the old house next door one more time.

Standing in the doorway, Jack paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into another dimension, a leap through space and time.

The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories. Every picture, every piece of furniture. Jack stopped suddenly.

"What's wrong, Jack"? his Mom asked.

"The box is gone," he said.

"What box"? Mom asked.

"There was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd ever tell me was 'the thing I value most,'" Jack said.

It was gone. Everything about the house was exactly how Jack remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the Belser family had taken it.

"Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Jack said. "I better get some sleep. I have an early flight home, Mom."

It had been about two weeks since Mr. Belser died. Returning home from work one day, Jack discovered a note in his mailbox. "Signature required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the main post office within the next three days," the note read.

Early the next day Jack retrieved the package.

The small box was old and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his attention.

"Mr. Harold Belser," it read.

Jack took the box out to his car and ripped open the package. There inside was the gold box and an envelope.

Jack's hands shook as he read the note inside.

"Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to Jack Bennett. It's the thing I valued most in my life." A small key was taped to the letter.

His heart racing, tears filling his eyes, Jack carefully unlocked the box. There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket watch. Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover.

Inside he found these words engraved: "Jack, thanks for your time! Harold Belser."

"The thing he valued most was my time."

Jack held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared his appointments for the next two days.

"Why"? Janet, his assistant asked.

"I need some time to spend with my son," he said.

"Oh, by the way, Janet. Thanks for your time!"

--Author Unknown

 

Official Resignation from Adulthood

I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult. I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of an 8 year-old again.

I want to go to McDonald's and think that it's a four star restaurant.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make a sidewalk with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms are better than money because you can eat them.
I want to lie under a big oak tree and run a lemonade stand with my friends on a hot summer's day.
I want to return to a time when life was simple. When all you knew were colors, multiplication tables, and nursery rhymes, but that didn't bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know and you didn't care. All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all the things that should make you worried or upset.
I want to think the world is fair. That everyone is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and be overly excited by the little things again.
I want to live simple again. I don't want my day to consist of computer crashes, mountains of paperwork, depressing news, how to survive more days in the month than there is money in the bank, doctor bills, gossip, illness, and loss of loved ones.
I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the imagination, mankind, and making angels in the snow.
So, here's my checkbook and my car-keys, my credit card bills and my 401K statements. I am officially resigning from adulthood. And if you want to discuss this further, you'll have to catch me first, cause... "Tag! You're it."

~ Author Unknown

 

Laser, the Therapist
By Nancy Kucik


The moment he reached his little paw through the cage bars at the humane society, I was a goner. I wasn't looking for another cat - I already had two - but was just stopping by to give the animals some attention. When the shelter volunteer, apparently knowing a sucker when she saw one, asked if I would like to hold him, there was no longer any doubt. He came home with me that day.
He was a gorgeous cat, a five-month-old blue-point Siamese with eyes like blue laser beams: thus, his name. Right from the beginning, it was obvious that Laser was an exceptional cat. He loved everyone - the other cats, visitors to the house, even the dog who later joined the household.
I first heard about animal-assisted therapy several months after we adopted Laser. While most of what I heard was about dogs, it occurred to me that Laser would be perfect for this type of work. I signed up for the training class, and, after completing the preliminary requirements, Laser and I passed the test to become registered Delta Society Pet Partners.
While he had always been a little lovebug at home, Laser found his true calling when we began to go on visits. Whether it was with sick kids at the children's hospital, seniors with Alzheimer's disease, or teens in a psychiatric unit, Laser always knew just what to do. He curled up on laps or beside bed-bound patients and happily snuggled close. He never tried to get up until I moved him to the next person. People often commented that they'd never seen a cat so calm and friendly. Even people who didn't like cats liked him!
One young man, who had been badly burned in a fire, smiled for the first time since his accident when Laser nestled under his lap blanket. A little boy, tired and lethargic from terminal leukemia, rallied to smile, hug Laser and kiss his head, and then talked endlessly about Laser after the visits. Several geriatric patients with dementia, who were agitated and uncommunicative prior to Laser's appearance, calmed down and became talkative with each other and the staff after a visit from my therapeutic feline partner. It has been our hospice visits, though, that I consider the most challenging and rewarding of all our Pet Partner experiences.
One day, I got a phone call telling me about a hospice patient at a nearby nursing home who had requested a visit by a cat. At the time, only one cat – Laser - actively participated in the local program. Even so, my first inclination was to make some excuse not to do it. I have always had issues with death and dying, and a hard time talking about it to anyone, but I quickly realized how selfish I was being - the poor woman was dying, and all she asked was that I bring my cat to visit. I said yes.
A few days later, we made our first visit. Mrs. P. was ninety-one years old, and although her body was weak, her mind was still very sharp. It was a little awkward at first (what do you say to a perfect stranger who knows she's dying?), but Laser was a great conversation catalyst. He crawled into bed with her and curled up right next to her hip - exactly where her hand could rest on his back. She told me stories about the cat she and her husband had years ago.
"See you next week," she said as we got up to leave.
We visited every Sunday during the three months that followed, and a real friendship developed between us. Mrs. P. would excitedly exclaim, "Laser!" every time we appeared at her door and "See you next week!" every time we left. She had been gradually getting weaker, but, one week when we arrived to see her, I was distressed to see that her condition had deteriorated significantly. Still, she smiled and said, "Laser!" when we walked into the room.
She complained of being cold, even though the room was warm, and when Laser cuddled up close to her, she said, "Oh, he's so warm - it feels so good." We had a nice visit, even though Mrs. P. wasn't feeling very well. Her hand never left Laser's back. As we left, she said her usual, "See you next week," and I hoped that was true.
The next Saturday, a phone call informed me that Mrs. P. was going downhill rapidly, and that she probably wouldn't live more than another few days. I asked if we should still come for our visit, and the nurse told me that she thought that would be wonderful.
When we arrived, it was obvious that Mrs. P. was dying. She was fading in and out of consciousness, but when she noticed that Laser and I were beside her bed, she smiled and whispered, "Laser."
She was having a very hard time breathing, so I told her not to try to talk; we would just sit quietly and keep her company. Laser took his spot on the bed next to her hip, and Mrs. P. rested her hand on his soft back. Neither of them moved from that position for the entire length of our visit. This time, when we got up to leave, Mrs. P. whispered, "Thank you." She knew that there would be no "next week" for us.
A couple of days later, I got the phone call telling me that Mrs. P. had died. I was sad - our weekly visits had been so wonderful - but I was glad that she was no longer in pain. I remembered how I had considered declining to make the hospice visits and was so grateful that I had not.
In our seventh year as a Pet Partner team, Laser and I still make visits to several facilities. Laser, the little cat that nobody wanted, is as beautiful on the inside as he is on the outside, and he continues to brighten the lives of everyone he meets.

 

New York Cabbies
By Marsha Arons


New York cabdrivers are legendary. Countless jokes have been made at their expense about the way they zip through traffic, narrowly missing other cars and fixed objects, coming within inches of any pedestrian foolish enough to think he can make it on a flashing "don't walk" sign. And anyone who has ever been a passenger knows that wrenching feeling of speeding up to go one short block then stopping short to avoid a car stopped ahead. Somehow, cabbies never seem able to remember the adage that you can only go as fast as the guy in front of you. And no New Yorker is ever surprised when a cabbie leans his head out the window of his taxi and offers some important comment on another's driving ability or indeed on his personal attributes or lineage!
But three months after September 11, when I spent a week in New York City, the cab rides I took were slow, the cabbies quiet, subdued. I asked a few of them where they were and what they did on September 11. One driver didn't want to talk about it; then he did. In fact, he had so much to say that when we reached my destination, he put up the meter and I just sat there listening.
"Traffic came to a complete stop that day. No busses or cabs or cars could go anywhere. Which is just as well because it was a hell and no one knew where to go to be safe. I was at midtown, stopped in traffic, and I had a fare when the first plane hit. We heard it first, then saw it. Both of us thought it was an accident. Who knew . . . ?
"But then the second plane hit. I dropped my fare and got out of my cab. By then there were so many sirens and emergency vehicles headed south, you couldn't move. So, like everybody else, I watched from the sidewalk. Then . . . then they started to come down! It had been a beautiful sunny day but the air changed in a minute. Suddenly it was black and gray and you couldn't breathe. I turned my cab around to head north. People banged on my window. I told them to get in and we just drove away from it. I don't remember where I left them off.
"Someone flagged me down - stood right in front of my cab. He flashed an ID. He was a doctor and he wanted me to take him to NYU Med center. I did. There was a line of cabs at the hospital. The police wouldn't let us leave. So we all went in and gave blood. Later, the only vehicles allowed out were ambulances. I said, 'I'm a good driver. Let me help.' They put me on an ambulance with another driver. We started taking supplies down to NYU Medical Center downtown.
"Later that day, I got my cab and drove around. There were people all over, just walking dazed and crying. I couldn't do anything for them except give them a ride so I did. Many of them were going from hospital to hospital trying to find a family member who had worked in the WTC. I took one group - a father, mother and two sisters - to five different hospitals. At the last place, I left them because there was someone who fit the description of their loved one. I never found out if it was him. . . ."
I tried to take notes the whole time the man was talking but I couldn't write fast enough. So I just listened. I know I got the whole story. It wasn't one I could forget.
Another cabbie told me how he spent his time trying to take people home. "They were walking, walking anywhere - across bridges, in the middle of the streets. People were leaning on each other. I stopped and took an elderly man and the person he was leaning on to the Upper East Side. They looked like walking dead. . . . We picked up some others along the way. One lady said she had to stop to tell her son that she was okay. Her phone wouldn't work so we stopped at his office around Fiftieth Street. He was outside, just staring south. When he saw his mother, he started crying. The lady decided to stay with him. So I looked for some more people to take."
I had heard that in the hours and days that followed, New York came to a standstill. There was no public transportation available for days. But every one of the cab drivers I spoke with was busy in those hours - taking people home, carrying medical supplies, and transporting emergency personnel. Whatever any of these able-bodied people could do with or without their cabs, they did. They found ways to help. Of course I didn't have to ask if they ever let the meter run during any of those trips. They would have been insulted if I had.
The cabdrivers of New York City are a microcosm of society. They are black, white, Indian, Muslim, Hispanic - every race, creed and color imaginable. They go about their day like most people, earning a living, getting the job done. For the most part, they are ordinary people. And ordinary people find ways to do extraordinary things when called upon. A lot of people did a lot to help others that day. They used what skills they possessed to save lives, give hope, help others. Those skills included being able to perform emergency surgery and being able to drive a cab. Each was needed and important in the aftermath of the horror of September 11.
It's absolutely true what they say about New York cabdrivers - they are legendary.

 

Tears and Laughter
By Kimberly Thompson


Through misted eyes I gazed at my little son as if for the first time - and perhaps for the last time. He lay sedated, fighting for his life, with two holes in his heart and pneumonia. Doctors questioned whether my two-month-old baby with Down's syndrome would live.
I wanted to remember what it felt like to be his mother. I wanted to savor my inability to distinguish where my flesh ended and his began. As I softly pressed my cheek against his, our connection calmed my fears. I wanted to remember the wisp of curls that twirled behind his ears, and the feeling of life fulfilled when his almond-shaped eyes drifted to look into mine. Mostly, I wanted to remember the inexplicable warmth that filled my heart when I held him.
I had dreamed of days when we might build sand castles at the beach together; when Eric would swing so high in the park that he'd feel like he was flying; when he would play catch with his daddy and cuddle with me. I begged the doctors to keep him alive. I pleaded with the nurses to feed him more. And I prayed to a God that I didn't know well to let me keep my baby.
After one special conversation with my husband, Bob, I came to realize that Eric's soul would choose whether to stay with us or let his body go. We stood on either side of his cold metal hospital crib and told him we would stay with him, love him and nurture him if he chose to stay with us. My mind trusted whatever his soul chose, but my heart ached with the hope that he would choose to stay.
Meanwhile, desperate to remember what it was like to hold my baby when it might last only these two precious months - to remember every moment - I decided to write it all down so I could never forget anything. From that moment of resolve, words flooded my thoughts. I formulated chapters in my mind between conversations; phrases appeared as I slipped off to sleep; and whole pages might appear to me upon waking, while driving or at Eric's bedside.
During his second week on life support, I strode into the hospital, past the reception desk to the bank of elevators, all the while transmuting emotions into words, mixing hopes and prayers. I stood before the elevator doors and stared up at numbers blinking all too slowly - 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . - until the soft bell rang and the doors parted to reveal smiling grandparents, nurses and orderlies from the pediatric ward. They passed within a few feet of me, but we were worlds apart. I entered and leaned against the cold wall, returning to my sanctuary of words as the elevator rose, and then I walked slowly down the long hallway to the children's ward.
Before Bob arrived, I whispered to my baby about plans for our book; it would be our secret. Then I remembered that I don't keep secrets, especially when opening up is essential, so I told my husband and some close friends as we gathered near Eric. I began writing that very evening at my kitchen table, occasionally turning to gaze upon the empty cradle in the living room, a reminder of my baby still in the hospital. It felt like a part of me had been pulled away.
Eric triumphed through those six weeks of life support, but over the next two years, he had numerous bouts of pneumonia, respiratory viruses and digestive problems. He was dependent on a breathing tank for his oxygen. We always knew where our little guy crawled to by following the fifty-foot oxygen tube that trailed from the breathing tank at the end of the hall, wound around the kitchen table and into the living room, and ended attached to Eric's face, allowing the prongs to let purified air flow into his nasal passages.
When he was seventeen months old, the doctors told us it was time for Eric to have his heart repaired. They said, "He's as healthy as he can be under such conditions. If you wait much longer, it will be too late." But they couldn't guarantee that his fragile heart and weak lungs would make it through the grueling surgery.
Forty-eight hours later, I stood by his crib and gazed past the tubes and wires to his angelic face, looked down and watched as he opened his eyes and focused on me. His smile illuminated the room. I let out a cry of relief. I knew Eric was here to stay.
Through it all, the writing has carried us through the recurring life-support crises as Eric's legs dangled again and again over death's pier. I recorded every experience, every emergency and breakthrough, every painful moment and every miracle as love carried us deeper into ourselves, peeling away our resistance, teaching us to rely on faith.
Our son needed cardiologists, pediatric nurses, therapists and specialists to repair his heart; we needed Eric to repair ours. Our lives were opened up to a degree I never knew existed. In the midst of these past years, I found myself sitting at the large table in the corner room of the Unity Center, where we held our Up with Down's meetings. I sat across from a brand-new mom and dad. She held her one-month-old, blond-haired, baby with Down's syndrome protectively against her chest, while her husband wrung his hands in his lap. "We haven't told our parents yet," she said. My eyes fixed on the young father's face as she spoke. His tears never stopped.
Then it came to me that my book should not be a secret from anyone, because we have known great pain and found miraculous healing. It comes from Eric's heart and mine. After more than four years, his valiant little heart beats stronger with each passing day we are given.
Today, we can't keep our son out of the playground. It's either monkey bars or basketball, soccer or T-ball. We've since built many a sand castle together, discovered new parks and playgrounds, have taken turns reading and rereading his books - yes, he is reading now! We have pretended to be manatees in our swimming pool and have eaten too much popcorn at the circus. We have a special boy who lives a joyful life.
Eric has his heart checked once a year, but his laughter washes away my fears. When I look into his bright eyes and feel the warmth of his bear hugs, I know his loving heart is going to be just fine. And so is mine.

 

good reading dolphin2 thanks !!