Life is sometimes broken up into transitions..there was babyhood, and childhood and teenage years and young adulthood. For me there was becoming a wife, a mother, a nurse. There was the transition of allowing myself to be open with my love of writing and actually writing for other people to read...it is harder (emotionally) than some people may think.

Some people, my father for example, may think my transitions are marked by my hair color. My hair has been every color ...brown (natural color), auburn, reddish brown, dark brown, brown with highlights..then it was blonde, blonde on blonde, blonde with low lights (they are brown)..honey blonde, platinum blonde...then it was short, long, in between. I really liked all those colors except the real dark brown and the real light blonde...too extreme..maybe when I become a punk rocker or something like it....you never know.

Really, I should have been a hair dresser...I love to do things with hair and I really do not like my hair, so I change it whenever the wind changes directions.

I actually like when I go to the salon and have to sit with a wet head, freezing, with a little towel as small as a wash cloth and watch the hairdressers work on their customers...some people are positively transformed. One lady came in with a messy hairdo..but then, she removed it, revealing thin, weak strands barely hanging on to her scalp...they washed, dried and cut those little strands and then washed, dried, and curled the wig with the hot iron ...after the shock wore off I almost started to get excited about wigs. I will wait until it is necessary but I am glad to have a fall back.

It really isn't a big deal. I found out lots of people change their hair color and style. I do wonder about those who always have the same style and never color or change. Makes me shiver. My friend Ro, at 50 1/2 years old, just colored her hair with a few strands of color...I am almost jealous about that one. She likes her gray...well, I do too. But her hair is different than mine. When I think about it I have lots of friends who have really nice hair.

Anyway..I am now trying to leave it brown and let it grow so I can chignon it when I am old...but my dad saw me on Thanksgiving and told me he likes me as a blonde. I often take deep breaths. I stand my ground. hehehehe

My cousin just got breast implants...I cannot go there...no way. Hair is one thing...someone slicing my body up and then stitches and foreign objects inside me forever...well...I just can't do it or understand it...I can't even wear nail polish for longer than 2 days..makes me nuts.

Back to transitions...has nothing to do with my haircolor...
so now, after the wedding and the babies and the school and the business and the shore house and the jobs....what is there????

Nirvana?

I am one who likes routine but also enjoys change (hence, the hair). I am always thinking and planning. A new business? A creative idea? Expand my writing? Go back to school?

Is this called mid-life transition? I do expect to live until at least 90, so 45 is smack in the middle. I feel, at times, panicky about missing opportunities or not taking some chances, or classes or traveling. Sometimes I regret not expecting my kids to keep up with their instruments or painting lessons or exposing them to the rest of the world they never see...but, I do realize..all this will come in time...when it is time for their transitions...and then, when they are older and worried time is going too fast they may start to enjoy some of those things they missed when younger.

Youth is wasted on the young....who said that?

Anyway, I do feel the need for a little transition now. I am looking into going back to school...January..and taking some writing courses and maybe trying to get an article or two published...hence...being paid for it..so I can steer myself in a certain direction. Nursing, I think, will always be a part of my life, because it continues to teach me about people, about life, about the world and ultimately about myself.

When I finally retire, I would like to own a small restaurant like a fancy coffee shop that doubles as a reading room, book store. I'd like to sell beautiful flowers there too. I'd like to write in between overseeing the cooking (my husband will be in the kitchen then) and I'd like to travel 3-4 x a year to experience different food and people of different parts of the world.

A dead end street with garages on the corner and two piles of teddy bears indicating shootings that resulted in deaths was the place of my last visit of the day. The guys on the corner were pulling the trucks into the garages apparently ending their construction job day. Quarts of beer in paper bags are their daily reward. As I climb the wobbly steps, I try the bell. No answer. The door, which is heavy black iron is broken in 3 places and wired together. The only way this door could have broken is by someone kicking it or banging it with a tree trunk or shooting at it or something like that.... something stronger than iron at the given moment.

I knocked and rang. No answer. I called earlier to let them know I was coming over. Now,I dialed the phone again. The granddaughter answered and said she would be right here...she was resting. A man with a bagged bottle in his hand came over dangling keys from his hand with long dirty finger nails. He opened the door as the lady appeared in the vestibule. He asked what was wrong. I told him I was the nurse here to check on Ms. Irene and give her the flu vaccine. "Oh, O.K.", he said and walked back to his buddies.

The house was dark with loose wood planked floors that were bare and unpainted and old. The house was just a house. No curtains, very little furniture, an old dirty kitchen table. The stairway was creaky and dark as Amy lead me to the small bedroom. Ms. Irene was in a well made hospital bed covered with a hospital blanket. The room was packed with supplies: diapers, oxygen tubing, nebulizer equipment, a small table with water and all her bottles of medication, a bedpan, a wash basin and a small chair. There was no room to move. The room had one window that was blocked with an air conditioner. "We's put the air on all the time so it is easier for her to breathe. It gets hot in here". I reminded them about the hazards of smoking with oxygen in the house. No one smokes in there.
Ms Irene tried to speak to me but due to a stroke was unable to move her lips or tongue much. She eats pureed food and liquids. Her right arm was smashed at her side and was stiff and sweaty. She was AAO x 3: awake, alert and oriented x 3. She answered my questions with nods and left hand gestures. I gave her the flu vaccine and explained what is was for and why she was getting it after she agreed to get it. They had no idea what it was but they wanted it; whatever I had to give, they wanted it.

Above her head there were 2 "bombs" hanging...which are used when the bug problem is so bad sprays and traps do not work. Most of these home use these bombs and never bother to take the hanging plastic and paper holder off the ceiling. I hate the site of those things. I did not see any bugs but that doesn't mean they aren't around. Ms. Irene never gets out of bed, never leaves that room as cramped as a closet, full of items that support her life, support some idea of a life.

Amy asked me about one-hundred good questions and seemed genuinely concerned. I wondered who collected Ms. Irene's Social Security check. I wonder who spent it and I wondered what they bought with it? Most of Ms. Irene's medications, supplies and nursing visits are covered by Medicaid or Medicare or is provided by The Corporation of the Aging which is funded by the Pennsylvania Lottery. Amy said she just got home, she was "away", and now she is in charge of Ms. Irene. I could see it on her face that her intentions are good. I wondered if "away" was jail or rehab. She did not have a body full of tattoos and seemed subtle and non-violent, she seemed broken, so I assumed it was rehabilitation.

She was grateful for my visit and help and thanked me. There was no dinner cooking on the stove, no family or kids around, just the man with the keys and the bottle in the bag outside.

When I left I felt so privileged as she waved and smiled at my Mini Cooper. I wondered just how thick that line is that divides that world and my world. I wondered how they can tolerate it on the other side.... Amy, Ms. Irene, the beer drinking fellow. It must be hard to get up every day and face that and never aspire for anything better or different or cleaner or nicer. Is there ever a pot of stew on the stove at 5 p.m.? Does anyone want to put a lampshade over the light? Does anyone ever read a book or wonder about the world? Is there ever a hug hello or a kind handshake? Is there ever a person that wants to rip those teddy bears down and say "enough"?

I think about all of my girlfriends. I try to think of each one of them individually. I think of their probable day and the things they frustrate over, worry about and dream of... I think about them seeing this house and these people. I have become almost used to it, although I will never understand it. I cannot imagine being so exhausted, so low and so unmotivated. I'd like my kids to see this life. I'd like them to see what happens when you expect a little from others and even less from yourself. I want them to see that a mother screaming for them to do better in school, to do more, to expect more of themselves is really a mother who cares about them, worries about them and never wants them to have to be in that situation for any reason. I know lots of it is just years of poverty, the breakdown of the family unit, out of control drugs and alcohol. I know lots of it is no one being there to care one way or the other. It's tiring and it is easy to get overwhelmed and exhausted.

I'll laugh at my friends who are worrying about some seemingly silly thing in their kid's lives, their hair and their nails and their designer bags and others who long to travel even more than they do now, and others who want to go back to school and redesign their kitchens. I think about the person I know who designs very expensive dresses for people who demand very expensive dresses. I wonder about those people too and how that other extreme is also mind boggling. In back of that laugh I'll know these are all good things, these spoiled ways, these rungs that we've climbed. We all work hard to have lots of things that may seem like nonsense at times, but really it is part of our badges of honor, our decorations of our hard work and patience and perserverence and the ability to get up every day and work hard, and then harder still and then STILL want more, want to create and feel good and dream on and give back.

It has to be that way. Or, cross the line and give up?

None of us, including me, my husband, and most of my friends came from families that had lots of money. But we came from families with pride and love and drive. We came from homes where hard work, jobs and education was believed in and changed lives before us. Our worlds are completely changed because someone, somewhere believed that he or she could have what they chose to have, not what someone told them they were entitled to, they worked hard for it and then encouraged their kids to do the same and add education to the whole thing, too. Lots of times they/we are knocked down. WE keep on getting up and trying harder.

I wanted to tell Amy to stay on that roll of hope, to live and try and pick herself up and do MORE. She needs to do lots more or in 40 years it will be her in that bed with even less hope than yesterday.

I want to tell Amy, "it is not too late"! I want to tell her to "Cross the line or your doomed".

You know, no one told me to go to Nursing School or to get a college education, no one expected me to be the President of a company of a working mother of 4, no one expected me to do anything extraordinary. What was expected of me was to try, to try harder (that was from my mother...if you got a B,she wanted to know why you didn't get an A). There were very practical suggestions and demands: help clean the house, cook, shop, learn to type. These may all seem like little things but they were expectations. Our house was conducted in a proud way. We were expected to live in a certain manner: Marriage before children, buy a house, look decent and presentable, go to church. Of course, my family is not unreasonable. There was always support even for things that they did not directly initiate or approve of, there was a sense of pride portrayed in one way or another.

Most of the time, we wanted our parents to be proud and happy. I can say that of most of my friends and family. We had and have someone to answer to, to be afraid of, to want to get away from....lol...that is what motivates us to do for ourselves and keep that line wide and long.

I think it is OK to cross it to help one another and at times to pull someone over to this side. Occasionally, someone from over here winds up lost over there. We need to be aware and strong. We need to keep moving in the right direction.

The brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned to their first ministry, to reopen a church in suburban Brooklyn, arrived in early October excited about their opportunities. When they saw their church, it was very run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Christmas Eve. They worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls, painting, etc, and on December 18 were ahead of schedule and just about finished.

On December 19 a terrible tempest - a driving rainstorm hit the area and lasted for two days.

On the 21st, the pastor went over to the church. His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high. The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone the Christmas Eve service, headed home. On the way he noticed that a local business was having a flea market type sale for charity so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful, handmade, ivory colored, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Cross embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover up the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the church. By this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus.. She missed it. The pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus 45 minutes later.

She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor while he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area. Then he noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet. "Pastor,"she asked, "where did you get that tablecloth?" The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crocheted into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman,and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Austria.The woman could hardly believe it as the pastor told how he had just gotten the Tablecloth. The woman explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Austria. When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave.Her husband was going to follow her the next week. He was captured, sent to prison and she never saw her husband or her home again. The pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth but she made the pastor keep it for the church. The pastor insisted on driving her home, that was the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.

What a wonderful service they had on Christmas Eve. The church was almost full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return. One older man, whom the pastor recognized from the neighborhood continued to sit in one of the pews and stare, and the pastor wondered why he wasn't leaving. The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Austria before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike. He told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a prison. He never saw his wife or his home again all the 35 years in between. The pastor asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier. He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman's apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Christmas reunion he could ever imagine.

True Story - submitted by Pastor Rob Reid

Who says God does not work in mysterious ways. So when the road you're traveling on seems difficult at best.When there is nothing! left but God, that is when you find out that God is all you need.

Babel: very good...putting aside Hollywood's version of the world, it was a very good movie. I love Cate Blanchett...and Brad Pitt was excellent. Are we all victims of circumstance? Is any of it under our control? or Is ALL of it under our control? This movie magnifies the prejudices of the world but also presents situations where, if the characters acted differently, the world may have met them half way. Sometimes the world, and the individuals in it, just can't help themselves.

Cache: French with English Subtitles...like Hitchcock movie, I was a bit confused at the end....ended just like a foreign film. I love watching the French do things....Juliette Binoche and Daniel Auteuil were great to watch.

Scoops: one of the funniest Woody Allen movies I have ever seen. He is a nut. Along with his muses: London, Scarlett Johansson.....very enjoyable. Huck Jackman is also nice to watch, his accent is handsome too. I have to say Scarlett Johansson is not just beautiful but a very good actress....she is really meeting the demands of Woody Allen and the critics.

Jenny walked into the waiting room, passed the crowd of sniffling and miserable looking patients sitting and standing and lying on the floor, went over to the window and knocked hard, her knuckles bouncing off the plastic as it shook. A round stern face nurse with large sausage like fingers and long, pointy, apple red nails, and blue black hair opened the window as if she were handling a cracked egg. She smiled while narrowing her eyes and whispered that Jenny was to wait until the window was open to be addressed. She closed the window as graceful and controlled as she opened it. ...swissssssshhhhhhhhh. The Nurse pointed a perfect nail at the sign: “Please be patient and courteous, we will be with you as soon as possible”.

Jenny did not bat an eye but immediately walked around to the door, flung it open and demanded to see a doctor. Nurse Roseanne clomped over to Jenny and in a low whisper directly in her ear said, “You have to notice we are extremely busy, there is a deadly flu flying through the city, there are many very sick people here who cannot even walk, let alone talk, and therefore you must wait your turn. I suggest you sit on the step until you calm down and then wait to be called.” She gently held Jenny’s arm and stroked her triceps with a tickle. Jenny pulled away, wiped the spittle from her ear and turned 180 degrees to barge into the nearest patient room. “I need the doctor!” “Someone must help me, now”! “Where is the DOCTOR for crispy sake?” “Can’t anyone see I NEED HELP”! Roseanne with the blue black hair wobbled to catch up but soon lost her breathe and slowed down, unable to see Jenny, she tried to follow her voice. Startled patients quickly covered their bare legs and sat up straight and one, old Mrs. Petermister, gasped and flung her magazine to the cold tiled floor as she hugged her pink paper gown about her person. Jenny always thought the pink gowns for females and the blue ones for males were absurd. This has bothered her for years, and she, many times, has sat waiting for hours in a cold sterile room while wearing an absurd pink gown feeling childish and ridiculous and belittled while she tore at her cuticles creating, unintentionally, of course, a pink gown with red splatters.

“I’ll handle this”, Dr. Brescia said in a calm voice. She took Jenny’s hand and guided her to a small office with soft lighting and the fragrance of perking coffee and lingering perfume. “How can I help you Jenny?” Doctor Brescia said with compassionate eyes. She was a real knock out; a petite lady with gorgeous chocolate brown hair and hazel eyes. She wore a starched ironed doctor’s coat over a blue suit, black pointed leather shoes with spiked heels and flesh color stockings. Jenny noticed her beautiful legs. She sat on the floor and started to cry. The doctor had 50 patients waiting for her to save their lives but remained as cool as a cucumber. This really made Jenny feel inadequate. She suddenly felt worse than before, down and in deep despair, hopeless and helpless. Her two swollen, aching hands held her face while she sobbed and cried big, dripping tears that stained her yellowing white shirt. She pulled her coat around her so not to expose her bulging belly and lumpy legs and breasts that tumble out of her bra all day long, breasts that make her feel like a cow. Just like a cow! No wonder cows were so calm...they were DEPRESSED damn it! All they do is Moo! And does anyone help them? Of course not…all they do is take their milk. They squeeze and pull until there isn’t a drop left. They leave them dry.

With her face in her hands she cried “I’m a cow”!

Dr. Brescia slid down to the floor, took off her shoes and crossed her legs at the ankles; her back supported by her desk. She faced Jenny with a look of sincerity and care as she held out a cup of coffee in a pure white mug, steam flowing from its mouth. Jenny took it, gulped a bit and blew her nose loudly into the tissue the doctor provided with the coffee. They sat quietly for 5 full minutes, Dr. Brescia smiling and waiting. Jenny was stunned. She wanted to pull all of that hair out of her head and splash hot coffee on her milky white wrinkle free, blemish free face. She noticed red painted toe nails beneath her silk stockings.

“How are you Jenny?” Dr. Brescia said quietly.

Jenny started to scream and cry and rant and rave. “Well, I am not doing soooooo well as you can see. I mean, LOOK at me! My hands are swollen, my chest is huge, and my backside is full of bumps and dimples. I always have a headache. I can’t stop eating, I can’t stop shopping, I can’t stop drinking and I can’t stop shouting. I shake for no reason. I sweat like a pig in the middle of snowstorms. I have to constantly floss my teeth. I have resorted to having a toothpick on my person at all times. I cannot wear THOSE kinds of shoes anymore, as she pointed accusingly at Dr. Brescia’s beautiful Jimmy Choo’s. My hair is turning gray and falling out all at once. My husband is driving me nuts; you have got to see the man eat celery. You’d want to stab him to death, too. My father is sick, my grandmother died, my son joined a friggin fraternity. Dr. Brescia I have reached the breaking point. I just cannot do it anymore.”

“How can I help you, Jenny?”

“Well, I came here to ask you, no, not ask, to TELL you to prescribe for me really strong medication like Morphine or something. I want to write away for a 3 month prescription and then on my wedding anniversary, I want to gulp down the whole lot…that’ll show that celery monster”!

“Jen, maybe we can work something out for you. Would you mind me giving you a suggestion?”

“As a matter of fact I do fucking mind. I do not want suggestions! I want morphine. Do you hear me? You little twerp! Her face was red and swollen and snot was dripping down her nose. Coffee was spilling from the mug onto her lap and the beautiful Oriental carpet. Dr. Brescia did not seem to notice her rug being ruined right in from of her perfect nose. “I have had it. I cannot do this anymore. I AM NOT NORMAL. I WANT YOU TO PUT ME AWAY. I want you to lock me up and drug me so I can walk around in a stupor all day and play bingo with the other zombies”.

“I think if I put you on something you may feel better”.

“You won’t give me something strong enough”. “No!” “It’s the loony bin or I am not moving. You’ll have to call the police or the guards or something”.

"I am not talking about antidepressants or pain medication. I am talking about hormones. I think you are going through menopause."

“Oh, is that what you think? Well, I have news for you, Miss Priss, I still get my period, as a matter of fact, it is like the deep Red Sea 2 x a month and then some months it is desert city.”

“Well that is what we call peri menopause, sort of pre menopause. I can start you on birth control pills right away.”

Birth control pills? Birth control pills? What do you think I am, some kind of hussy? I WILL NOT go on birth control pills!

Dr. Brescia tried not to look astonished. “I didn’t mean to insult you. The hormones in the pills help regulate your body so you will have regular periods, feel less stress out, reduce hot flashes and even regulate your appetite”.

“Do you know what? The one thing that I really enjoy, that really helps, is singing?”

“Singing”?

“Yes, Dr. Brescia, singing. The other day I was driving in my car, moving along and singing. A policeman pulled me over. He said I was singing too loud, the music was too loud as I was causing an unsafe situation. I asked him who died and left him boss. He gave me a ticket but refused to arrest me. After that I couldn’t sing anymore. I drove home crying the whole way.”

“He wouldn’t arrest me and now you won’t admit me?”

Jenny pulled her Mace out of her coat pocket. “Dr. Brescia, do you know what this is?”

Dr. Brescia now looked scared. Jenny was starting to feel better.

“Well Doctor E.R. this is pepper spray and I am prepared to use it. Maybe I have to prove to you how unstable I really am, maybe I have to do some harm to get locked up? Eh?”
“Whatayathink Eh? “ “Are you gonna start to take me serious”?

“Jenny I am taking you serious. I am trying to give you options, trying to help you. I want to make you feel better”.

Jenny shut her eyes and tightened her mouth as she shook her head. “I cannot listen to this crap anymore!”

The office door opened and fat Roseanne asked, in a not so low whisper, when Jenny was going to let Dr. Brescia get back to work. The nurses needed help.

Jenny sat on the floor with her back to fat Roseanne, she shook her head in disgust, and she started to laugh. She was giggling out loud now. Roseanne asked, “What the hell is so funny”?

Jenny said, “I can’t help thinking of that turkey I gotta cook, and the soup and the stuffing and the ANTIPASTO, and the manicotti and the gravy. I can’t help but think about the ricotta pie, and the pumpkin pie and the pecan pie. I can’t help thinking if Dr. Brescia would just put me away she would save me from looking like you…ROSEANN! Jenny roared with laughter and anger all at once.

Jenny turned and tried to squirt her pepper spray but it backfired and she sprayed herself. Roseanne pulled it from her hands and smacked her face, she smacked her from cheek to cheek and told her she should mind her manners and learn some respect.

Roseanne pulled Jenny from the office and flung her into the room where Mrs. Pedermister was, forcing her head under the faucet. Cold water flushed Jenny’s eyes and face as she screamed her face was burning. Mrs. Pedermister jumped off the table and ran out the door in her paper gown, her backside flapping as it sagged.

Dr. Brescia went to the waiting room to give a bit of explanation. It was totally empty. The room was strewn with used up tissues, a couple of empty water bottles, Starbucks coffee cups and a pillow. All of the patients walked out and went over to the ER of the hospital across the street.

Roseanne and Dr. Brescia walked into the ER with Jenny. A few of the nurses ran over to help them. Jenny was screaming. The ER doctor prescribed 2 mg of Ativan. A big black male nurse injected it into the vein in her arm while he held her down. Jenny immediately fell limp and a broad wide smile emerged on her face.

The patients all followed Dr. Brescia back to her office. As they walked out she heard Jenny say, “Oh, thank you doctor…for that nice medicine.” “I hope you’ll admit me for a couple of days” “Dr. Brescia says I am not well”.

A young, tired intern passed the room. He stopped in his tracks. “Isn’t that the lady the police took in here last week singing, “Your Cheatin Heart”, on top of her lungs?”

They all turned to look.

“Admit her”!

Jenny was finally relieved.