Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it. Proverbs 22:6

April 26-28, 2012 Several years ago, I started observing Lent. Each year I would give up something I thought I couldn’t live without. This year I gave up drinking coffee, watching television, and playing the lottery. When I am not watching television, I find myself more interested in reading. For forty-days, I read an average of 1-2 books per day depending on the length of the book. I always included books on spirituality. I find strength and inspiration in reading these books. I have a library filled with them. This year was no exception, especially in light of my cancer diagnosis. My favorite books are about messages people get from friends and family members who have died. I also like books about people who have “died” on the operating table or in an accident, experienced going to heaven and meeting Jesus only to return to tell their story to others. My faith grew stronger by reading these books. When I was growing up, I thought death meant never seeing your friends or family members again. I had doubts about whether heaven was real or not. I wasn’t even sure that God existed. Over the years, I came to learn that all of my doubts were unfounded. During my cancer trial, I believed without a shadow of a doubt that not only was God real but so was Jesus and heaven. I know Jesus heard my every prayer, and every prayer of all the people who prayed for me when I was going through my cancer ordeal. Jesus intervened on my behalf to His Father who granted me the miracle of catching the cancer in time and removing it from my body. God’s test of my faith in the form of a cancer trial was long overdue. He has been patient enough with me in my life but knew I was in a rut at the crossroads of my life. I was in transition in my professional life. I did not want to stay in teaching even thought I loved the kids. The stress and pressure from the school administration regarding testing the kids to death was something to which I no longer wanted to subject myself. I left teaching to try to figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. God seemed to be telling me that He needed me to serve Him in a more proactive way. I wasn’t sure what God wanted me to do exactly but I knew it involved leading people to Jesus. As I pondered how I might do this, it occurred to me that writing my blog and having people read my blog was the first step in leading people to God. Writing this blog has been a wonderful experience, one I intend to keep up with for a long time. My faith is stronger than ever. Once I turned to God, I have never experienced a moment of being lonely or abandoned. God has always been in my life, as He has always been in yours. I grew up believing I was the one in control of my life. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I was never in control of my life. God was always there guiding me, loving me, and protecting me. He does the same for you, too. My belief in God was strained, almost non-existent, growing up in a household where the word of the Lord was never shared among family members. We all went to church together because we were forced to go. But, going to church had little meaning for me. My family didn’t know anyone at the church, even though we attended for years. We were never active in any church activities. Looking back, we only attended church to fulfill our weekly religious obligations. Attending church now is quite different for me. I attend a church community that is more like a family. I know many people, attend because I love going, and attend church activities that bring us together as a church community. Going to church now is like visiting your favorite relatives every week. I also attend adult Sunday school classes. The Bible has so much I can learn. I am learning more now than I did in Sunday school classes growing up. It is nice to see adults seeking the word of the Lord and wanting to share this word with others. The children who attend are also learning a great deal from their Sunday school classes. Their behavior reflects what they have been taught. I have learned over the years that if you want your own children to accept, love, and want to learn everything they can about God, parents must set an example of how the Lord wants them to live. Children tend to copy the behaviors of their parents in their early years. What they learn will stay with them throughout their lives. If their parents are giving them the message, “Do as I say, not as I do” they are going to grow up confused, doubtful, and not committed to believing in anything. As parents, the children need to be shown something in which to believe. If you don’t attend church but believe in God, let your children know how you feel. Explain to them why you choose not to attend church. You can still teach them about your God. Not everybody has to attend church. You can show your love of the Lord by living by his word and teaching your children how to live by his word. Set an example of kind, patient, understanding, and non-judgmental, loving parents. Show them patience when they make mistakes or make you angry. Tell them that you are upset with the decision they made but you still love. Show them how to do things the right way. Don’t expect them to just know what to do. Children must be taught in a loving, caring, and forgiving manner. Sure they are going to try your patience, get on your last nerve, and drive you crazy. Just remember that they are in a learning state as they grow up. You can’t prevent them from making mistakes, but you can give them the tools to correct mistakes, to keep trying, to never lose faith, and to believe in themselves as you have shown how much you believe in them. Give them a reason to believe in God by teaching them to trust in you as their parents who live by the word of the Lord. Give them a reason to believe in the word of the Lord by letting them see His word reflected in your behavior. Most importantly, give them a reason to believe in themselves. Each generation of your family begins with you. Give them a reason to carry on the family tradition.

Now may the Lord of peace himself give you peace at all times and in every way. Thessalonians 3:16

April 25, 2012 Today I worked on Sammy’s Angel Miracle Network. The setup of the website is going well. I hope to have it on line by late next week. I am looking forward to raising donations and distributing them. I have designed a special T-shirt for the website. For donations of $25.00 or more, free T-shirt will be given. When you make your donation on our secure PayPal donation site, you can specify the size of the T-shirt. T-shirts are 100% cotton, preshrunk. All the donations will go towards the bills of individuals or families we will spotlight on our website. If you know of anyone in need of financial assistance during their life altering illness, please refer them to our website or send in information about them yourself. We will make contact with them to see how we might be able to help. I read an article in the Austin American Statesman about a local school district who believes that too much emphasis has been put on testing and not enough on teaching. You know, the way it used to be before No Child Left Behind (NCLB) changed the course of learning in America. Now with the impending deadline for reaching the goal of 100% of all children in the United States expected to pass state testing, many school districts will fall short of this goal. I believe we need to have standards set to assist students in learning, not testing. Our curriculum could use an overhaul with more attention paid to content subject matter and practical application in real life simulated situations. It seems to me that NCLB discriminates against special education students because it does not take into account the special learning needs of this student population. Special education was designed to offer a special learning environment to assist students with special needs by offering a modified curriculum with grade level content. This content would be taught using the identified the best learning modality of each student. Testing could be designed to test those skills on the students’ level of learning with set goals for future progress as goals are accomplished. When I started school, special education did not exist. You had two general career paths: college or the work force. Joining a military branch was also an option but not one promoted by many schools. At the time you didn’t need a high school diploma to sign up for the military. Now, they require at least a GED. Special education services have come a long way since its inception in1975 with the passing of House Bill 19141. That is until the signing of NCLB. Now school districts across the country are scrambling to apply for waivers from having to enforce NCLB. They will still be held accountable for student learning and progress but not under the gun of NCLB. I am hoping this will ease the stress placed on teachers who have been pressured to produce passing student test scores or lose their jobs. My most memorable year in school was during the 1963-1964 school year. I was attending an elementary school in west Baltimore. My 3rd. grade teacher had promoted me to a “high performing” 4th grade class because of the work I did for her in the 3rd. grade. I may have been successful that year but a series of events affected my behavior and attention, causing me to fail that grade. President John Kennedy was assassinated in November 1963. The whole country was affected by his death. My family had moved to the neighborhood surrounding the school after a series of family dramas that had a profound effect on my life. A year before, my mother and father had separated twice. My mother, brothers, and I lived in two different homes after my mother left my father. First we had an apartment. Then, they got back together. We all moved to a house but my father’s behavior did not changed even though he swore it would. My parents continued to fight and argue. Eventually, they separated again, living in the same house but avoiding one another. My father kept drinking, making our lives miserable at every opportunity. He succeeded in throwing my brother Tom out of the house. We had very little to eat. The one Christmas we had in that house was a lean and sad holiday. The only money my mother had coming in was a Social Security check for my brothers from her first husband’s death. Finally, my parents got back together again. My brother David, mother, father, and I moved to west Baltimore, leaving my brother Tom to fend for himself. I hardly ever saw him again after that. Several years later our father allowed him to come visit us. He was married by then. Things started getting better with his first son in 1965. Our daily lives were always in turmoil. That’s the way it is living with a mentally ill individual who refuses to take medication or go to therapy. Their lives are always in turmoil. So in turn, those closest to them are immediately affected. Weekends were the worse. My father was able to keep his act together during the week because he worked Monday through Friday. When Friday night came around, he was drunk before he came home from work. He would stop at a bar on the way home to drink. We lived in terror not knowing what to expect from him when he did come home. He came in to the house loud and verbally abusive, dredging up family problems from the past blaming my mother for the problems. He never gave us a minute of peace all weekend. We were always on edge. Nights were the hardest. He would continue to drink long after we would go to bed. Then, without warning, he would turn all of the lights on in the house, and wake us up to dredge up more past family problems, keeping us awake until well into the early morning hours. When the school week started on Monday, I was tired and a nervous wreck. I couldn’t focus on my work. The only attention I received at home was negative, so I began to act out in school for attention. I was disruptive throughout my 4th grade year (the first one), and learned very little. I repeated the 4th grade because of this. I fell behind academically in every grade after that. My first 4th grade teacher did not help me at all. She had no tolerance for behavior problems and seemed happy to fail me. My only concern was how my family would react. When I took my report card home at the end of the school year and they found out I had to repeat the 4th grade, no one said anything to me at all. This helped me cope more with failing. I kept it to myself and never told anyone else in the neighborhood. I knew they would find out at the beginning of the next school year. Mrs. Jordon was my second 4th grade teacher. She was different from the first 4th grade teacher. Mrs. Jordon cared about me. She treated me much better than the teacher the year before. I felt valued in her classroom. I actually learned something that year, and I was the only student with perfect attendance in her classroom. Having someone care for you and respect you as a child, makes all the difference in the world in your success. Her classroom became a safe place for me after long weekends of listening to my father verbally abuse me. I looked forward to going to her class every day. Until that school year, I was treated like a flunky, not very bright, always distracted, shy, quiet, not a thinking person. But it is hard to be attentive, cognitively aware, and outgoing when you are a nervous, anxious, and depressed child. I was always in survival mode. For those people who still wonder why I moved half way across the country to live, I hope the answer is becoming a little more clear. I had to get away. I saw no future in a city where bad memories lingered around every corner. Moving to Texas gave me a second chance to start my life over again.

Blessed is he who has regard for the weak; the Lord delivers him in times of trouble. Psalms 41:1,2

April, 24, 2012 Another beautiful morning in Austin, Texas. The temperature early this morning was 48 degrees. Today, I am getting out of the house and enjoying the beautiful weather. My babies are laying on their kitty condos watching the birds in the backyard. I heard on the news today that Social Security benefits are expected to run out in the year 2033. I was disappointed to hear this but not surprised. There was a time in our country when older, retired American could depend on their retirement payments, good health care, and Social Security. Not anymore. I see more and more older people working in service jobs, who should be enjoying their golden years in retirement. There is a 90 years old man who served in World War II, a decorated veteran, working as a grocery bagger at a local store. Other elderly people work in retirement years to be able to afford their medication. This was unheard of in the 1950’s. I was born in 1953. Eisenhower was president. The country was 8 years out of the Second World War, the economy was in far better shape than it is today, and America was the top country in the world. The computer was only a fantasy of sci-fi dreamers, the telephone was dominating the market as the best way to communicate over distance, and industries were still the driving economic force in our country. Now, Japan owns a large percentage of America businesses and commercial real estate. North Korea and India are developing nuclear powered missiles, very few thing we purchase are made in America, and the unemployment lines still wrap around the outside of the buildings. When I was growing up, a politician who surface in the public eye for participation in a scandal could count on his/her career ending in a very bad way. Today, even if they lose their position or office, they write a book that brings them millions, a movie is made about their exploits launching them into instant star status, and their reputations are barely scathed. As a child, I was afraid to do anything wrong for fear of the wrath of my parents, God, and the police. Kids today welcome a good fight, their parents defend them to the death as the victim, and then the kids turn on their parents if they don’t get what they want. Behavior modification back then for infraction was going to bed without dessert, apologizing to the neighbor, no allowance for a week, grounded for two weeks, no television for a month, or doing a job over and over again until you got it right. Behavior modification today is for parents not their children. Parents now have to make changes in their lives to keep the kids happy by working extra jobs (if they can find the work) to pay for cell phones, new computers, violent video games, and any of the other latest tech or clothing trends. Did you ever think you would ever pay $4.00 for a gallon of gas? In 1972 I had a Volkswagen Beetle that I could fill up with $4.00 in gas. Now I pay $40.00 for a half tank of gas. I’m beginning to sound like my parents. One thing that has never changed over the years is the love the Lord has for us. I am living proof of this love as a cancer survivor. I thank the Lord every day for the miracle with which he blessed me. I have a whole new lease on life. My energy level is slowly increasing. I am sleeping better a night and less during the day. My interest in everyday life is renewed. My faith stronger than ever. I am one of the fortunate ones. During my doctor’s visits, I saw many other cancer patients in different phases of their treatment. Some were beginning treatments, some were at the end, and many had lost their hair. However, they all had one thing in common-the will to live. Many talked about their jobs, their children, their grandchildren, or their church as the reason that keeps them going to treatments. They become sick from the treatments, lose their appetites, and miss time from work. Many did not have full coverage with through their health insurance and worried about getting better to work extra jobs to pay the medical bills. Still others were sent to a charity hospital because they had no health insurance at all. I have heard that the Lord never gives us more than we can handle. This doesn’t mean that we have to handle our trials without help. I asked for prayers to help me through my trial. I sought help from neighbors and friends. Without their support the road to recovery would have been much more difficult. As a result of my meeting and talking to so many cancer patients who needed financial assistance, I have started a non-profit website: Sammy’s Angels Miracle Network The website is almost ready to go on-line. Just a few more adjustments and it will be ready. The sole purpose of Sammy’s Angels Miracle Network is to raise money through donations for identified individuals with life altering illnesses who need financial support to pay medical bills or household related bills. Each individual will be identified, along with the amount of their financial needs. The site will seek donations to pay the medical bills and other expenses directly. Donations will also be sought through local fund raising events. If you know of someone who needs financial assistance through a difficult health crisis, get all the information you can about their needs, then when the website is up and running, send the information to the email address on the website. We will contact that individual to see what kind of financial assistance we can provide.

“The hardest arithmetic to master is that which enables us to count our blessings.”-Eric Hoffer

April 20, 21, 2012 Another beautiful weekend in the Lone Star State has passed. I love living in Texas. I have lived here for 37 years. Seems like yesterday when my feet hit the Texas soil. When I first moved to Texas, I had no idea what would happen to me, what my future would be, or what I would become. I knew I was going to finish college. That was the whole idea of moving to Texas. In the years I have lived here, I have met so many interesting people. I have had so many life experiences that have turned into really good memories. I have seen the young children of my friends grow up. I have seen the parents of these young children grow old. I have met many good friends, and have lost many greater friends. I too have grown older. The increase in population growth, businesses, housing developments, and the number of schools being built to match the housing growth can be overwhelming at times. I choose to live in the country, right on the eastern perimeter of Austin. I love the country life. I grew up in Baltimore. Austin is nothing like Baltimore. My old neighborhood is nothing like my home now. I wake up each morning to peace and quiet. When I take my morning walk, instead of car horns, I hear cows mooing, birds singing, and the wind rustling through the tree.Instead of a traffic jam, I see farmers hauling hay for their cattle, school busses taking children to school, an occasional Armadillo meandering across the road, and a few city folks on bicycles taking advantage of the beautiful countryside. This is God’s country. I found God here. I thought I moved to Texas of my own free will but it was really the will of the Lord that brought me here. For that, I am forever grateful. My moving, however, was not without a price. I didn’t pay the price. My mother did. She and I were very close right up until the day I left. We wrote letters to each other every week. Every Friday without fail, I would receive a letter or a card in the mail. I would write to her or call her on the phone. I would visit her during the holidays. When I had a chance to move to New York for several months, I was excited to be living closer to her, than I was in living in Texas. When I moved to Texas,I was moving on to a new chapter in my life. I knew she missed me. But over time, she stared to become active in the neighborhood association and made friends of her own. I believe she could have been happy if it were not for my father’s abuse that continued long after I left. She blamed him for my leaving. She was right. However, like the loyal Catholic wife that she was, she would not leave him no matter how sick he was or how unhappy she was. She was a really good person who would give you the shirt off of her back. She was kind, generous, thoughtful, and very caring, even to people she did not know. I would have loved to stay in Baltimore with her. I just couldn’t see a future there with the memories of my past lingering over me. Living there, I was depressed and anxious. It took me years of living in Texas to overcome my fear and suspicion of people. When you grow up with a mentally ill alcoholic, you learn to walk with your back to the wall, never trust strangers, keep your mouth shut,don’t draw attention to yourself, and be on your guard at all times. I eventually overcame my depression, anxiety, and my fear and suspicions of other people. I learned to trust others and became more comfortable talking to people. I learned to be comfortable with myself. I learned to like myself. Today, at the age of 58, I am slowly easing into retired life. Looking back, moving to Texas was the best move of my life. No regrets. UPDATE!!!!!! My new non-profit website that I mentioned in an earlier blog, is coming along. I have chosen a name for the non-profit, secured a domain registration and ownership, and have designed a t-shirt to go along with the organization. So, it won’t be long (1-2 weeks) before we are fully operational. Stay tuned.

Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death." Isaiah 57:1-2 New International Version

April 20, 2012 My mother died 25 years ago today. In 1992 I wrote the following story about her death. Death, Officially With the exception of AIDS, I have never seen people cringe so much as when the word cancer is mentioned, and I am no exception. Like so many others who believed that cancer would never strike their lives, I found the news of my mother’s cancer (terminal from the beginning) to be the onset of one of the most trying periods in my life. I felt personally insulted that my life and family had been invaded by this devastating disease. I prided myself on being a “tower of strength,” during her illness and following her death. I did not realize that everyone mourns in the different ways. Some people openly cry. I didn’t. Some people talk about their feelings. I didn’t want to be reminded of mine. Some people mourn by telling favorite stories or doing something to remind them of who they had lost. I didn’t do any of these things. My mother died, had a funeral, was buried, and my life went on. I also went on to gain 40 pounds, and could not for the life of me understand why my appetite had “taken over” my good senses. I couldn’t understand why friends turned away from me or why new friends faded fast. No one wanted to deal with the angry, hostile person I had become. I had become an angry stranger to those who knew me. Two years after my mother’s death, I looked into the mirror from my lonely, angry, self-created isolation only to see a reflection of someone, not even I could recognize. I looked into the mirror and realized what I had become. I was lost. I realized that I had to begin to make my way back to where I had “lost” myself when my mother died. The journey back has been a long, reflective one which has brought me to the point when I can now sit and go through old photographs, old letters, faded holiday and birthday cards, or just spend a few minutes strolling down memory lane. Each time I reflect, I think back to the time in the hospital that proved to be a turning point in both her life and mine. To me, my mother’s death was the final chapter in the book of her life, whose last page had been turned by another hand.Tthe “paper cut” to our souls was endured by both of us. “Your mother died,” was all the nurse said, as she woke me from a light sleep. I got up slowly from the lounge chair I had taken from the hospital waiting room three nights before (the doctor had known my mother’s time was near, so the hospital security allowed me to sleep overnight in her room). I stood looking at the plain hospital sheet the nurse pulled over her face. The nurse had had already disconnected her tubes and IV. Memories flashed through my mind, taking me back to a time when this lifeless body had been full of life and happiness. She was a lively person who told funny, affectionate, cherished stories about her family as I was growing up. The nurse’s voice broke the silence. “The doctor has been notified and he will be here soon. He will examine her body, officially pronounce her dead, and then record the official time of death for our records. You’ll have to leave when he arrives.” Her voice was soft, yet cold and sterile. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was a heartless woman with no feelings. However, she had been working this shift when my mother was admitted to the hospital. I knew this nurse had worked many nights taking care of her, talking to her, comforting her. I knew that for many nights she made sure my mother received her pain medication on time, rubbed her back, and held her hand during the long night. No. This woman wasn’t cold or heartless. She was just distancing herself from the pain of my mother dying. Something, I would do for the next three years. I thought to myself, why examine her body? Internally, she was consumed with cancer. As for the time of death, I could have told them that. She “died” when the doctor told her one week earlier, there was nothing they could do for her. The surgery had revealed three quarter of her stomach, her liver, and her pancreas were consumed with cancer. When the doctor left the room after telling her the results of the surgery and the final prognosis, I could tell by the rapid eye movement and her eyes concentrated on the ceiling that there was nothing wrong with her thinking processes. Well, this is it, I thought. She’s dying. She had denied this truth all along. Now the prognosis was in. I told myself that I prepared for this moment. If she cried, I would be strong. I would comfort her, talk to her, and let her know we would get through this together. She was there for me all of my life. Now it was my turn. She stared at the ceiling for a long time before saying anything. Finally, she lifted her head off the pillow, looked at me and in a calm, rather inquisitive, yet innocent way asked, “How can someone die of a hernia? The doctors must be wrong.” Without waiting for an answer, she laid her head back on the pillow and never spoke to anyone again. Over the week to follow, I watched her slip deeper and deeper into the oblivion of pain medication. As the pain increased, the medication increased. I knew now her life had been fully lived and was now coming to a close. I felt sad but grateful in knowing I was able to share this time with her. One week later, when the last breath of life left her body, the official time of death was recorded. But in my mind she had died much earlier. “Are you the daughter?” the doctor asked me. Without saying a word, I nodded my head. He picked up the sheet covering her face, careful not to expose her too much, ran his fingers through his hair, yawned, then rubbed his eyes. “You’ll have to leave. I need time to examine the body.” I quietly nodded, once again staring blankly at the doctor. “Can she have a few minutes alone with her mother?” the nurse asked. The doctor nodded, then left the room. I pulled the sheet back to reveal a face thin and old, not the face I knew six months ago when she came to visit me for the summer. I saw the face of a woman who did not deserve to die. I took one last look at her, gave her one last kiss (in this life anyway), then left the room. As I walked through the hospital towards the parking lot, the halls seemed much longer, the elevator much slower, the air much damper, and my life much more empty. As I walked across the parking lot, I could taste the salt water from the Baltimore harbor. The smell took me back to a time when my mother, father, brothers, and I would go to the beach on a hot summer day off the Maryland shoreline. The salt water brought back a time when my mother was healthy and alive. I remember picnics at Sandy Point, near the Bay Bridge. I can picture in mu mind my brothers fishing, while I played in the sand. My father laid on a lounge chair listening to an Oriole baseball game on the car radio. My mother gazed over the water as large ships cluttered the fishing channel. This picture is forever burned in my memories. I stopped in the middle of the hospital parking lot to take a deep breath of the early morning air, and listened to the waves gently rush ashore. Just for a moment, I am seven years old and sitting beside my mother on the beach with my hand next to her hand in the warm sand. She’s alive, laughing, talking, smiling. As I open my eyes I see my car at the end of the parking lot. I continue to walk, stunned by her passing. As I open my car door and start the engine, I wondered how I would tell my father and brothers. I would have to call them early in the morning. I didn’t want them to come to the hospital in the morning to fine her gone. I pulled the collar of my jacket closer to my chin to block out the chilly early morning air, and drove out of the parking lot into the night. The End I never spoke to my mother again in this life. To this day I miss her terribly. I miss she and I going shopping, having lunch, talking over coffee, writing letters to each other, celebrating the holidays with her, or driving to Pennsylvania to visit her family. Our time together here in this temporaty life was too short. I know the Lord looked down on her and realized how much she suffered living with my father. He called her home to let her rest, and gave her peace of mind. Now she is in heaven with five of her sisters. I know she is happy with them, and they are happy to be together again.

"You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother's womb." Psalm 139:13 New Living Translation

April 19, 2012 Tomorrow will be the 25th anniversary of my mother’s death. She died of pancreatic cancer in 1987. She was 69 years old. I spent today reflecting on what I was doing in 1987, where I was living, and where I was working. I was working as a special education teacher in San Antonio, Texas. On April 7, 1987 I moved in to an older, restored home in central San Antonio. The house was built in the 1930’s. It had hardwood floors, 9-12 feet ceilings, cedar closets, a detached 2 car garage, and sat on the corner on two lots. The front and side yards had a total of 11 trees including: pecan, ash, oak, and mimosa trees. The neighborhood was quiet with older established professional people. I loved this house. I fell in love with it when I first saw it. On the day I moved in, I received a phone call from my mother telling me she was going into the hospital for some “routine tests.” I asked her what was wrong. She told me she thought she had a hernia. I told her to keep me posted. She acted like it was no big deal. The next day, I called her hospital room. She was in the restroom when the doctor answered the phone. I asked me if he could tell me anything about my mother’s condition. He told me she had a tumor in her stomach. Her condition was not good. As he was talking to me, she came out of the restroom and asked him who he was talking to. He said your daughter. She became very upset, telling him not to tell me anything else. When she took the phone from him, I acted like he didn’t tell me anything. She seemed ok with my answer. I told her I was thinking about visiting her. She liked the idea. After talking to her doctor, I tried to call my brother David several times but all I got was his answering machine the entire weekend. I called my brother Tom. He acted like he didn’t anything about her condition but that he knew she was in the hospital. I somehow knew he really did know what was wrong with her but wasn’t telling me. As the days wore on, I was processing what the doctor told me with disbelief. I did not want to believe my mother had cancer. If she needed medical care and treatments, living with my father was going to be hell for her. His constant complaining, demanding, and verbal abuse would only get worse if she had to lie in bed at home. He was like a little, spoiled, abusive child. He complained about everything she did or said. She could never do anything right by him. He continuously demanded she clean the house even though she worked and he was home all day. He sat reading the newspaper and smoking cigarettes. When she got home after working all day, he demanded she make him something to eat, when he had all day to eat. If he wanted something from the store, no matter what time of the day or night, she would go to the store. When we all lived at home, he complained about us turning on too many lights in the house, flushing the toilet too many times, having the heat on making the house too warm, opening the refrigerator too many times in one day, playing the radio too loud (even though he complained he could not hear very well), and just about everything else. So, I knew she would not be cared for by him. I thought I would bring her to San Antonio to live with me while she recovered. When I mentioned this to her, she said it would not be necessary because she only had a hernia. I began to make after care arrangements through the hospital because I knew she had more than just a hernia. One day as I pulled into the driveway of the home I had just bought, I remember thinking that I had a solution to make her better. I stood next to my car, looked to the sky, and tried to make a deal with God. I said, “Lord, if you let my mother live, you can have the house back! I don’t need the house, I need my mother. So, just take the house, make her better, and we will all be fine. Amen” The next time this happened, I was in the driveway in the same place. Only this time I asked the Lord to take the house and my college degrees in return for letting her live. I thought this was a perfectly sane request to make. I am sure the Lord looked down on me with pity. Needless to say, my request was not granted. I did not have a relationship with the Lord then. I really thought I could make a deal with him in spite of this. The next two weeks went by so fast. I flew to Baltimore twice. The first was to be there for her surgery. The surgery was not an attempt to save her. Her cancer was too far spread. The surgery was exploratory. The doctor wanted to see how far her cancer had spread. He told me after the surgery that all of her pancreas, her internal female organs, her liver, and three-quarters of her stomach were consumed with cancer. Treatment was not an option. He could only keep her comfortable for the last part of her life. I had to fly home the weekend following her surgery. I did not want to leave her but I had to go back to Texas to take care of business associated with the purchase of the house. I was at home one day when the phone rang. My brother told me our mother was getting worse and that I should fly back as soon as possible. I flew back that evening. Mom lived one week to the day after her surgery. I made her funeral arrangements. As I looked at her lying in her coffin, I realize at that you really cannot take anything with you when you go. Just the clothes you are buried in and nothing more. Mom visited San Antonio the previous summer. I was delighted to have her stay with me for a week. We walked all around the city. She loved to walk. I would get so tired, I would have to sit down. Not her. I slowed her down. We visited the Alamo, went out to lunch, went shopping, visited my friends, and sat around in the evenings just talking. Before she left, she gave me my high schoold graduation ring, which I gave her to hold for me, and the little bracelet the hospital put on my wrist when I was born. My last name was on the pink and white bracelet. I was surprised she was giving me these things. She kept everything from my childhood. I thought maybe she felt I was responsible to keep them myself. I never gave it a second thought. On one of our shopping trips, she told me she had a wedding to go to in September and needed a dress. I bought her a dress for the wedding on one of our shopping trips. She liked the dress but thought it was too much money. I insisted on buying the dress for her. She did wear the dress to the wedding and received many compliments. Little did I know that it would be that very same dress in which she would be buried. After the funeral, I returned home. I didn’t think I was depressed. That weekend I went to the San Antonio Zoo with some friends. We had a picnic in Brackenridge Park near the zoo. Someone took a picture of me that weekend. Looking back at that picture, I looked depressed. I went on to gain 40 pounds because of all of the comfort food I ate in dealing with my mother’s death. Tomorrow, I am going to publish to my blog a story about my mom’s death, which I wrote about 1992. So, on the eve of the 25th anniversary of her death, for those of you who knew her and loved her, I know she is with the Lord. She earned her place in heaven. She has earned her angel wings. She is finally at peace.

Siblings are the people we practice on, the people who teach us about fairness and cooperation and kindness and caring - quite often the hard way. ~Pamela Dugdale

April 18, 2012 Last month I read a book by Fay Aldridge titled, Messages from Heaven. In the book there is a story about a mother who lost her son in an accident and wanted a sign that he was alright. One day when she was visiting her son’s grave she noticed a butterfly. The butterfly flew unusually close to her. Then, when she moved, the butterfly followed. She took this as a sign that he was letting her know that he was alright and safe in heaven. Today, I was working in the backyard when a butterfly landed next to the back fence. I was clearing the weeds next to the fence with a gas powered trimmer. The trimmer was very loud. I thought to myself that the butterfly should have flown away, scared of the noise. Instead, it followed me as I trimmed around the perimeter of the fence. At first, I thought nothing of the butterfly. I was in the back yard working, the sun was beating down, and I wanted to get the trimming over with. When I was finished, I sat on the back patio for a rest. After a while, I noticed the same butterfly near the flowers next to the patio. Only then, did the story about the woman visiting her son’s grave, came back to me. I realized that butterfly was my sign that my brother was visiting me to say hello. I leaned forward to get a better look, then waved to say hello. The butterfly took off flying as if dancing in midair. I knew my wave told my brother I knew he was there, and that made him happy. I delighted in watching the butterfly dance as I spoke saying I missed him. Today marks the 19 anniversary of his death. He was 47 years old when he died. He had a disease called Amyloidosis. Amyloidosis is a progressive, incurable, metabolic disease characterized by abnormal deposits of protein in one or more organs or body systems. Most cases of amyloidosis are diagnosed after the disease has reached an advanced stage. The course of each patient's illness is unique but death, usually a result of heart disease or kidney failure, generally occurs within a few years. Amyloidosis associated by multiple myeloma usually has a poor prognosis. Most patients with both diseases die within one to two years. My brother, like our mother, never wanted anyone to know he was sick. I only knew about his illness when his wife called me to tell me he had died. My mother died two weeks after I found out she had pancreatic cancer. The last time I spoke to him prior to his death was in 1987 when our mother died. He died in 1993. We were not a close family even growing up. Our lives were lived in the survival mode twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Our father’s drinking and untreated mental illness kept us on edge all of the time. Like anyone trying to survive, you turn against each other if it means keeping yourself safe. That happened many times between my brothers and I. They feared being beaten, threatened, or interrogated for something my father suspected them of doing. In turn, I was blamed for many things. As young as I was, I knew I was being blamed for something but didn’t have a clue for what. I felt so afraid to say anything. So, I never defended myself. Our father turned his wrath against me while my brothers smiled at me behind his back. I was scared and would cry but that didn’t stop them from blaming me. I was often slapped across the face (even as young as 5 years old) by my father, then, beaten with a belt or hair brush. No matter what time of the day it was, I was sent to bed, crying, feelings hurt, scared, and confused. My brothers tried to make up for it the next day by giving me candy and it worked. I began to think I was bad and that I did all of the things I was blamed for even though I didn’t. As I grew up, I figured out what they were doing but never confronted them. They lied before. I knew they would not acknowledge what they did. Their typical response would have been to blame me for making things up or having a wild imagination. I don’t blame them. Our father was a sick, drunk, crazy, dangerous person. He has no sense of empathy or sympathy. He saw us a financial burdens, taking money to support us from him when he could have been putting it in a savings account for himself. When my brother, Tom, turned 17 years old, our father threw him out of the house. Put him out in the street. Tom ended up sleeping in the basement of a friend’s house until he could find a place to live on his own. Our father sent Tom a bill for all of the years Tom lived with us. The bill was for room, board, clothes, etc. The amount was $7,000. I have no idea how our father came up with that amount but I know he was never paid. Tom went on to be a successful professional man. He was a devoted husband and a very loving father. Ironically, he was the only one who kept in touch with our father after our mother died. Tom was a good man like that. He forgave him and never held it against him. So, my visit today from the little butterfly brought back many childhood memories. It seems so long ago that we were children, growing up in Baltimore. Yet, life happened so fast. Now many years later, I look back with thanks for having Tom as a brother. He inspired me to move away from Baltimore to Texas when he moved his family to Oklahoma in 1974. He wanted a better life for his sons in a small town like Tom lived in until we all moved to Baltimore. Today, he has grandchildren and great grandchildren. He would be so proud of his three sons. I know he is with the Lord, happy, at peace, and looking down on us. Rest in peace my brother, until the day we will all be together again.