Shall We Dance?

Do you remember your prom? I remember mine. I went to my Senior Prom with my friend, Doug.

When I was in high school, the prom seemed like a big deal. Unfortunately, I never had a boyfriend in high school, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. My last attempt at boyfriendom was with a boy named Eric.

Eric was a tall curly-headed brunette who played hockey and lacrosse. I didn’t even know him, but I saw him as sweet, tall-like-me, and somewhat resembling a teddy bear. I guess I knew he was out of my league being that he was a popular guy and I was an unpopular girl; somewhere between 16 and 17, I threw caution to the wind and subliminally wooed him.

This was pretty wild for me back then, because I was not the outgoing and talkative individual that I am today. Believe it or not, when it came to boys, I was stupefied. Okay, I still am stupefied, but back then I had no idea what I was doing; today, I still have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m older, so that must count for something -- like legally driving but still driving blind!

I had a plan of woo attack. Whenever Eric walked by me in the hallway, I was going to look him in straight in the eyes. I was no General Eisenhower in my plan of woo attack; I had no idea if my plan was working, but deep down, I liked to fantasize that I was winning the Battle of the Beers.

Just when I was about to give up, I was waiting for the late bus after winter track practice. Eric wandered into the hallway where we all used to hang out to stay warm and wait. He leaned up against a wall, saw me, and said “Hi.”

Immediately, I said, “Hi” back. No, I didn’t. Years later, I still wished I had eeked out a “Hi.”

I stood there in shock. I kept thinking, “Eric talked to me. Eric talked to me.” And, in a moment, the buses arrived, and it was too late to say anything.

A few weeks later, I was working at my part-time job at First National supermarket. I was a cashier. I was a dinosaur cashier, because it was before we scanned bar codes; I punched in the $1 key, the 90-cent key, and the 9-cent key for $1.99!

(By the way, why did it take us so long to scan those bar codes? I remember my Mom shopping, bringing home groceries, and me asking, “What are these lines on the back of this?” She said, “Someday, they will just wave a wand and the cash register will know the price of something from that.” I’m sure my jaw dropped and then I asked, “Really?” Of course, the sad thing is that this was 10 years before I became a cashier at the First National.)

One afternoon, I was working my cash register when I saw Eric and his Mom get into my line. I was excited yet horrified at the prospect. I rang their order, bagged their items, and then turned back to my register to see what had happened to my woo gun in this surprise heart attack.

All of a sudden, I felt someone tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was Eric’s mother. She said, “Hi!”

Once again, I froze. My woo gun went off in the pocket of my First National smock and stunned me. I said nothing and just glared at her; she smiled, turned around and walked out with Eric.

I stood there waiting for an emotional rescue; however, nothing came to me except five more customers in my line. I fretted thinking that I blew it and by now Eric’s Mom must be saying to Eric in their Ford station wagon, “Are you sure she’s not an exchange student from another country who doesn't quite understand the English language yet?” A few months later, I found out that Eric had begun to date one of my sister’s friends; my woo had become a big boo-hoo.

Anyway, when it came time for the Senior prom, I was Ericless. I wanted to go, because I’ll admit that I wanted to be a princess for a night. I asked my good friend, Doug, and he obliged me. In hindsight, I couldn’t have asked for more; I was with someone who loved me dearly, even if we were just friends.

A few months ago, Nathan was asked to the prom by a friend. She had a boyfriend in college; however, she didn’t want to bring him. When Nathan told me he was going with her, I wanted to say something like “Shouldn’t you wait and see if there’s someone special you might want to ask,” but fearing Facebook deletion and eyeballs rolling Heavenward, I decided to stun myself with my Mom gun.

Last Friday, I received a text message from Nathan. It said, “Can I ask for some maternal advice?” Instead of “Aw, he wants my advice about college,” I was like, “Oh, shit! The prom has come back to bite him!”

I took a deep breath. I sent him a text message back which said, “OMG! I knew this was going to happen. It’s about the prom, isn’t it?” No, I only said, “Sure.”

Within 3 minutes, I had a text message telling me that he regretted accepting the invitation from his friend. He really wanted to go with another girl. He said while he liked the girl who asked him, he knew he’d have a much better time with this other girl who was a close and dear friend.

I took a deep breath. I then immediately headed into the cube of my co-worker, Dave, who had two daughters in their early 20s. I thought he may have been through this before, so I told him the dilemma.

But, before I traveled the four feet to Dave’s cube, I knew I already had an answer to Nathan’s question. I just needed someone to bounce my idea off of. I told Dave that I thought Nate should speak to the first girl, explain the situation, and then go with the second girl.

The first girl had a boyfriend who could take her. Nathan had a lousy time at his prom last year. He wanted to enjoy his prom this year with someone he liked.

Dave agreed. Once I was validated like the parking ticket I felt I was, I went back to my office. I told Nathan to talk to the first girl and explain the situation.

Of course, after I told Nathan what I thought, I then doubted myself thinking he should honor his first commitment. Then creativity struck. Why couldn’t he take both girls?

I sat in my office and texted him my creative prom wooing idea. He texted me back saying, “No way!” And then he told me that his backing out didn't go over well with the first girl and that the girl, who he wanted to go with, didn’t want to go with him, because she didn’t want to create any “drama.”

I knew that girls now went to the prom without men. They went together, which I wish had been popular in “my day.” (Wow, “my day,” I am old!) I wondered why in this day that a man going to the prom with two women was frowned upon; in the 70s, Hugh Hefner was a legend for the very same!

After feeling like a failure in the “maternal” advice-giving department, I went to drown my sorrows at beer o’clock. My barbecue meatballs were a hit, yet I couldn’t help but feeling like a miss all over. After my first glass of porter and surround by six men, I frowned.

One male friend instantly knew why I frowned and asked, “What’s going on now?” I said, “It’s not going well.” Who said women like to gossip?

I then had six men asking me about what wasn’t going well; thus, I explained the whole prom story. Most of the men were amazed that Nate had potentially two women on his arm; however, most agreed with me. He needed to follow his heart not his obligation.

When I arrived home that night, I went to pick up Iz at Ellen's house. I was upset; therefore, I kept quiet. Nah, I told her everything.

She mentioned that she might speak to her son who was Nathan’s friend. It was thought that perhaps he could speak to the girl Nathan wanted to go with who he was friendly with. Meanwhile, I fretted that I had screwed up Nathan’s life forever.

On Sunday, I received a text message from Nathan; I read it and heaved a sigh of relief. He was going to the prom with the girl he wanted to. His friend, Ellen’s son, had acted as Switzerland and had admirably won both their hearts.

Nathan and Ellen’s son had been so close for years. In 7th grade, they had parted ways, and in the last year or so, they had become the best of friends again. Interestingly, they were both so different, but time had shown them that each gave the other one a strength that nature had not given them; as Ellen’s son said, “They would be friends for life,” just like Ellen and I. Our differences had bound us and would always make us stronger…together.

Within ten minutes, I received another text message from Nathan. I noticed that it had been forwarded on to him. I opened it, and it displayed a picture of his prom date's dress; I wanted to text back, “Your girl is lovely, Hubbell.”

I told Nathan how happy I was for him. He told me he was happy but; I always knew I raised a good son, but I knew it again in that moment. Despite feeling good about going to the prom with someone he wanted to, he felt badly about the girl, his friend, who had first asked him.

This morning, I worked at home due to a miserable cold, which kept me on the couch most of the weekend. (Yes, I’ve been sick for pretty much the last three weeks. Uncle!) Nathan took the car at 1pm to go for breakfast. At 3pm, I heard the Kings of Leon’s Birthday blaring in the driveway from my car; Nathan was in the house or the driveway as it was.

I knew I had locked the front door, and I wasn’t sure if he had his house key. I ran downstairs, unlocked the door, and then peered out the window to see if he was near. I saw him looking at his cell phone and then raise his arms. I opened the door, and then before we even got to say anything to each other, he shoved his cell phone in my face.

It was text message from the girl who he originally asked to the prom. Basically, she said that her boyfriend was taking her, there were “no worries," and she understood why he backed out. I told him that she was a very good friend to have realized that, though Nathan said, “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure she still might want to slit my throat.”

I laughed, but I was optimistic. I had worried about Nathan when he developed this horrible head tick when his paternal grandfather was dying. Now I worried about his prom life.

My friend, Ellen, said, “All the worrying us mothers do!!!” I knew then, like I was renewing a library book, that this wouldn’t be the first time I worried, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. This was my life; this was motherhood, and despite its difficulties, I loved dancing with it. ♥

Do You See What I See?

Dear Goddess,

I still can’t figure out what I see in the ink blot. Is that bad?

Lorraine, Looneyville, New York

Dear Lorraine,

No. That’s not bad at all. Recently, I have begun to think that perhaps the people who see things in ink blots are the crazy ones!

Pattycake!

Dude on a motorcycle!

Playground merry-go-round!

Thumbs up!

Batman!

Corset!

Happy Cat! ♥

I Can Handle Zits

Young men are different from young women. Did I ever doubt this? No, but two weeks ago, I lived it; Nathan was dreading a visit to the dermatologist, and Iz was acting like the orthodontist was God.

My son, Nathan, has always sported a very handsome face; however, like most adolescents, for the last year, it had been riddled here and there by acne. At first, it appeared nothing that Clearasil couldn’t handle. At second, it appeared to be getting a bit worse, but with images of Facebook deletion (once again) dancing in my head, I decided to be a Mom and be mum. At third, which occurred a few weekends ago, I said, “Your acne is getting worse. I’m taking you to a dermatologist!”

Of course, Nathan said, “Thanks, Mom. That would be so awesome.” Okay, I admit that’s what he says in my June Cleaver dreams. In my Jean-So-Not-Cleaver reality, he groans and asks, “Why?”

I say in a very Mom-like tone, “You’re a handsome guy. The acne just takes away from all that.” Nathan meets me in my Jean-So-Not-Cleaver reality by groaning once more and saying, “I’m not handsome. My face is fine.” I then break my Mom-like tone and say in exasperation, “Chicks don’t dig guys with zits!”

Nathan answers, “I don’t like girls anyway.” I laugh and say, “I’m making the appointment.” In my Jean-Somewhat-Cleaver reality, Nathan now sighs and says quite irked, “Fine.”

So, I made the appointment, which took me two tries given Nathan is on his Dad’s insurance. Nathan’s Dad doesn’t think Nathan can handle his own plastic insurance card; thus, I have minimal information to go from necessitating a second call to the dermatologist after talking to Nathan’s Dad. On the phone, I propose to Nathan’s Dad that he give Nathan the plastic card for his wallet, which would save me time and effort.

Nathan’s Dad says that Nathan has already lost two paper copies of his card. I want to say, “Oh, brother. Just give him the plastic card!” Before I speak, I then remember that Nathan has misplaced his car and house key about five times this last year and lost his ATM card once. I then think that perhaps Nathan’s Dad is right about the plastic card, and then I have a great idea for an invention – an implanted chip with health insurance information, ATM access, and remote keyless car entry for teens like Nate!

At 3pm the day of the appointment, Nathan sent me a text message to say that I should be outside my office at 4pm, because he was giving a friend a ride to work. He was basically saying, “Don’t make me late for my 4:15 appointment,” when he was the one who might make himself late, but somehow it could potentially all be my fault anyway. Is there “Teenagers for Dummies” book?

I sent him a text message saying that I wouldn’t be late. He then answered, “You know, I really don’t need to go to see the doctor.” I fiercely texted back, “Yes, you do!”

At 3:53pm, Nathan sent me a text message that said, “Here.” Feeling guilty that he was early and I was now technically late, I quickly shut down my computer, grabbed my things, and ran outside to meet him. I got in the passenger side door and was greeted by some punk-rap-fusion group whose CD only said to me “boom-boom-boom” every minute.

I wanted to say out loud, “Thank God, it’s only a five-minute ride to the doctor’s office.” Instead Nathan asked me how to get to the doctor’s office, and I obliged by saying, “Take a left out of the parking lot, take a right at the stop sign, and take another right into the medical office park.” He drove with a purpose, though I felt it was with the “I so want to get this over” purpose rather than the “I want to have an acne-free face” purpose.

Once in the dermatologist’s suite, I checked in. Nathan crumpled himself up into a chair. I looked at him, and then he said, “Mom, I really don’t need to be here.”

I was at a Mom crossroads. Part of me knew I was doing the right thing. The other part of me was peeved that Nathan didn’t appreciate the fact that I had made the effort to make the appointment and leave work early to escort him.

I doubted myself, and I hated when I did that. I argued back and forth with myself until a voice said, “Hey, you’re doing the right thing!” When the medical assistant called out Nathan’s name, I thought, “Thank, God!”

We walked into an exam room. The medical assistant asked Nathan a few questions, and when she left she said, “The physician’s assistant will be in to see you in a few minutes.”

I looked at Nathan. He looked at me. He didn’t say anything, but he was saying, “Mom, why am I here?”

The physician’s assistant came in and immediately went to work. She examined Nathan’s face, chest, back. I started to feel guilty as she said called out acne terms to the medical assistant; I was so hoping there would be subtitles for this very foreign medical visit!

I felt sorry that Nathan was now a medical artifact; however, he didn’t seem to mind at this point. Between poking, prodding, and assessing, the PA asked Nathan many questions about himself, which I thought was very nice. When she found out he was a Senior, she asked him where he was going to college.

He said, “SUNY Stony Brook.” I laughed, and she looked at me strangely. Last I knew Nathan loved Roger Williams.

It seemed that at just that moment, he had a college break out. I knew he didn’t want to go there, yet I knew he didn’t really know where he wanted to go yet. Sometimes kids think you don’t understand them, but little do they know, you always get them and unlike with milk and yogurt that intuition never expires.

The PA prescribed an topical ointment for Nate and some pills. She wished him well, and Nathan thanked her. When we left the office, Nathan didn’t say, “That was a waste of time.” I knew at that point that he didn't think it was, but I knew he was never going to tell me that.

Just last week, I said, “Nathan, your face looks great.” He had some dryness, and he said it stung. I told him to lay off the ointment for a bit and he said he would.

It appeared that there was better living through pharmaceuticals for Nathan; however, I had felt badly for pushing the issue. I hoped that someday Nathan would say, “Thanks, Mom, “ but I’d never hold my breath on that one. Despite my lack of self-confidence, I knew I did the right thing, and unlike many other things in my life, I’d never change a thing where it concerned Nathan’s handsome face. ♥

Purrspective

Above: I see a happy cat. What do you see?

Today, I went to see my doctor for my follow-up visit post-The-Hospital-Nightmare-Before-Easter. My doctor apologized to me at least three times. I said, “Stuff happens, and it just unfortunately happened to me.”

I went on to tell her that given I had lost my Mom, Dad, and best friend to cancer and that my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer three years ago (still cancer-free), I could only be grateful and not hateful that my biopsies came back negative. The real negative was the infection due to one of the biopsies, but to me, given all that could have happened, I deemed it a positive, because I left the hospital healed for an entirely different reason.

She said, “You have such a positive attitude.” I had to laugh. Because when I woke up today, I realized how miserable I had been the last few years; I didn’t kick small dogs, I didn’t throw away glass bottles in the trash when I knew they could have been recycled, and I didn’t intentionally tailgate.

I had been miserable, because I had kept years worth of “stuff” bottled up inside me. I realized that it didn’t matter why someone didn’t like me, it didn’t matter that someone had treated me badly, and it didn’t matter that someone wasn’t there when I needed them. When I woke up this morning, everything looked, felt, and smelled differently.

I had gained a new perspective; I realized that I couldn’t move forward unless I lost all the stuff that I had kept inside me for so long. I had to let go of the bad stuff to make myself open to the good stuff that would eventually come into my life. And then I would never ever look back.

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks; however, I don’t believe that. Sometimes you need a challenge to realize how much you need to learn new tricks. Today, I realized it was all about learning new tricks, tricks that made me see my life in a whole new way; it was about letting go and moving on, which for the first time in a long time made me a very happy cat. ♥

One in a Bazillion

Once again, rumors of my online blogging death are greatly exaggerated. Though after what I’ve been through the last five days, I can tell you what near death may feel like. And, believe me, when you least expect it, expect it!

For every pharmaceutical drug, vaccination, or medical procedure, there’s either a tiny warning message on the side of the bottle or the form you have to fill out before the vaccination or the procedure. The message or form usually warns you that there’s a one in a bazillion chance that the drug, vaccination, or medical procedure in question will cause some type of bad thing to occur; I don’t know about you, but I usually sign this form thinking, “That’ll never happen to me.”

Well, after signing the paper, something happened. It did happen to me. I was the one, the one in a bazillion, Jean Bazillion.

When it came to the lottery, why wasn’t I ever Jean Bazillion? When it came to finding a sunken treasure chest filled with gold doubloons, why wasn’t I ever Jean Bazillion? (On second thought, I had never found a sunken treasure, because I had a land-based occupation and didn’t know how to scuba dive.) But when it came to acquiring a bad infection, which required an emergency room visit, a three-day stay in the hospital and having tons of fluid (ringers lactate, which made me laugh in spite of my pain, because of all those episodes of Emergency! that I had watched when I was little), antibiotics, and two hits of morphine pumped into my body, I was Jean Bazillion!

After having all four impacted wisdom teeth taken out, a tonsillectomy, two c-sections, and the flu, I have to say that being Jean Bazillion was the worst I had ever felt in my life. At some points during my stay in the hospital, I had to wonder who hated me enough to subject me to this at this exact point in my life. Was it that person who I didn’t let into traffic, totally ignoring the “Yield to Side Street Traffic” sign, when I was late picking Iz up at her after-school program? Or was it my neighbor, the one whose yard I threw Monty’s poop into? There was a whole list of suspects, and as I lay there, I tried to crack the case!

As I stared at the IV pump next to me, which went “brup-mrrrrr” or brup-two,” the “two” said as if being spoken by an android, I thought that this was just one more unhappy thing to get through. There had been the sixteen months of unemployment that made it impossible for me to move my life in any direction and the initial stress of my “starter job.” And then there was the long and painful sale of my Dad’s house in Nantucket.

At one point, when I was either lying awake listening to my elderly neighbor’s mucus-laden cough at 4am or when I was experiencing Montezuma’s revenge (sans the lovely trip to Cancun but avec Flagyl) at 2am, I knew there was a reason why all this was happening to me. Okay, I’m not one of those people who usually believes in signs, okay, I really am. It was a sign!

I have to say that the whole experience was not without its bright spots. There were the visits from friends, the lovely flowers sent to my house, and the gifts from Isabelle, which she brought Saturday afternoon, when she visited me in my room.

She walked in carrying a pink bag. She said, “Mommy, I have presents for you. Open them.” I glanced into the bag and saw a book that a friend had given me as a birthday present, and I thought, “Oh, dear. I won’t tell her I already have it.”

I unwrapped what looked like a mug wrapped in pink tissue; the mug was filled with a Hello Kitty hair band and bracelet. I then realized that the mug was one I had bought at Kohl’s for Iz a few weekends ago, and the Hello Kitty items were hers and book was indeed mine. She had re-gifted but not to get rid of unloved items; it was to give a loved one loved items.

I thanked her. She beamed. Then she asked, “Mom, who gave you that book? Is it good?”

The experience wasn’t without its lovely people either; you know, I’ve never ever met a nurse I didn’t like. My Mom was a nurse, perhaps I could never not like a nurse for that reason; however, I don’t think so. I think you have to be smart to be a nurse, and you also have to be a special person.

I had one male nurse, Randall (not Randy but Randall), who looked like he rode Harleys when he wasn’t administering morphine. In the emergency room, I fretted because I had not showered in a day. Randall promptly told me a story about a patient he dealt with at another hospital who came in and then subsequently told him that she hadn’t showered in three weeks. Randall, a seemingly very no-nonsense and no-humor kind of guy, told the story like he was saying, “Yeah, you’re stinky, but you’re not three weeks stinky.” Randall refreshed my perspective on the degrees of stinkyness.

Then there was the nurse who walked in and who I felt I knew instantly, but I couldn’t figure out why. When she returned a second time, my brain, just exiting its morphine rush, said, “Oh, my God. She looks just like her.” I then said, “Has anyone told you that you look like….” She said, “Yes! Sara Sidle from C.S.I.?” As she took my blood pressure, something pivotal happened on the episode of Law & Order that I happened to be watching on TV.

She looked up at the TV and said, “Yeah, like that would ever happen!” I said, “You must sit there and say the same things when you watch shows like ER, huh?” She said, “Oh, yeah. You know when you watch “House” and you see all the doctors visiting their patients? Well, that never happens!”

Sara went on to tell me other things that were false on medical shows. It was funny how when I watched those shows, my brain didn’t question them, even if I thought, “Doubt it,” while watching them. Sara refreshed my perspective on reality.

The next nurse walked in my room, her presence illuminating the four gray stone block walls that held me prisoner. She was wearing a bright scrub top that had wild animals all over it, and I then felt that hospital administration had mistakenly sent the Welcome Wagon not the Vital Signs Soldier. Within three minutes, she divulged that she had two Corgis, Mazie and Poppy, which I thought was pretty amazing given that she didn’t know I owned a Corgi, my Montgomery.

I said, “That’s quite a coincidence! I have a Corgi, too.” Iz happened to be visiting and upon hearing this news said, “We made a video of our dog. It’s on YouTube!” Corgi Nurse asked, “Really, because my daughter shows me all the corgi videos there.”

Iz went onto explain our video in great detail. Corgi Nurse listened and before Iz could finish, she asked, “Wait, is he playing soccer in it?” Iz said, “Yes!”

Corgi nurse said, “I’ve seen that.” Iz said, as if she were a rock star, “That’s me biking in it!” She said, “I’ll have to watch it again.” Corgi nurse refreshed my perspective that 1) It was a small world, 2) I had fans I didn’t even know, who were right in my own backyard, and 3) When you’re sick, the Great Cat Goddess sends you Corgis. well, at least people who own them.

I met my last nurse at 3:30am. There was a knock, and she blast through the door and appeared at the side of my bed. I thought I had died and gone to Heaven, which was a movie starring ex-60s blonde movie goddesses; she was a very pretty woman in her 60s wearing these huge owl glasses who said, “Hello, my friend!” in an accent that I didn’t recognize.

A bit startled when I realized I wasn’t in a movie and still in the hospital, I said, “Err, hello.” She immediately said, “I’m here to take your vital signs.” No, she didn’t say that, and if she did, I would have felt like I was still in the hospital, but her remark transported me back into that movie.

She said, “Oh, what a beautiful sweater!” I then realized that was sitting there in Nathan’s t-shirt, my underwear, and wearing my pink vintage mohair sweater. I wondered if I were the sight to her that she initially was to me.

I said, “Thank you. It’s vintage.” She asked, “Where did you get it?” Still thinking that Bobby Darren might enter the room at any moment and start singing, “Beach Blanket Bingo,” I said, “Um, eBay,” because I never expected this kind of conversation at 3:30am while in the hospital.

She then said, “Let me take your temperature.” No, she didn’t; she asked, “So, what year is that from?” I said, “I think it’s from the 60s.” She then said, “Oh, I met my husband in 1965, and we used to wear those big skirts.” I said that I didn’t own any of those, but I had a few dresses that required a crinoline. I then asked, “Where are you originally from anyway?” She said, “Oh, just Denmark” like she had come from down the street instead of across an ocean and a few continents.

After looking at the temperature, oxygen level, and blood pressure machine to make sure it was real and not going to suddenly turn into Annette Funicello, I told her about my vast vintage collection and she listened intently. We chatted vintage up and down until 3:45am. Even though she owned no vintage, she seemed intrigued by me and my love of it; after taking my vitals, she left, making me feel like my Fairy Godmother had just left the room, leaving me with only with a pumpkin and a few mice.

She returned the next night after I pressed the call button at 3:30am to complain about my visit from the evil Prince Montezuma. I heard the knock on the door, I said, “Come in,” the door flew open, and she said, “Hello, Jean Marie!” (If there was one thing I had hoped to leave the hospital with, it was a “Mariectomy,” but Blue Cross Blue Shield didn’t cover it.)

By the way, my Fairy Godmother’s name was Hannah. I found that out earlier that morning when I mention her to Corgi Nurse who said, “Oh, that’s Hannah. She’s kind of wacky.” And does it surprise anyone that my Fairy Godmother was “wacky?”

This time, however, Hannah didn’t catch me sitting on my bed. I was going back to my bed after spending some more quality time in the bathroom wishing I was Cancun have the runs instead of in the hospital having the runs due to the other evil Prince in my life, Prince Flagyl. Hannah saw me standing there and exclaimed (imagine this in a Danish accent), “Sweet Marie! You look like a model!”

Once again, I was sporting a look you’re sure to see on the runways of Milan next Fall. I was wearing another of Nathan’s t-shirts, my underwear, and my pink vintage Mohair sweater. I laughed.

She said, "You should go to NYC, model, and earn lots of money!" I thanked her, and then I said, “I need to lose 30 pounds for model standards, not to mention that I’m too old. Hannah said, “Nah! Nah!”

I then got into bed, and she came over. I complained about the runs, began to cry, and she said, “I wish there was something I could do for you, Jean Marie” in a most heartfelt matter and then hugged me. I wiped away my tears. I knew it was going to be a long night, and that Hannah couldn’t stay with me all night.

Hannah left my bed, turned out the light, and then said, "Good night, Sweet Jean Marie. You're gorgeous." After she left, I thought, “I don't think she's wacky at all.” Hannah kept my mind off my inside by making me feel good about my outside. She was my Fairy Godmother.

The next morning, Hannah popped her head in my door at 7:25am. She was in her coat and had a bundle of papers in her arms. Her shift was over; however, she had made a special effort to say good-bye to me on her way home. She said, “Good luck, Jean Marie. I hope everything works out okay for you,” and then she was gone. Poof!

I wasn’t her patient; I was her princess, albeit it way before the transformation. Hannah refreshed my perspective on people; sometimes people are only meant to be with you for a short time. And, if you’re lucky, they leave you a carriage, two white horses, and a footman, and whenever you are ride in that carriage, you’ll feel like a princess if only in your heart.

Later that morning, I waited for my doctor to arrive. As I listened to my elderly neighbor’s mucus-laden cough again, the intercom call light dinged. A voice on the other end asked, “Can I help you?” I heard my neighbor say in her gravelly voice, “I need the bed pan.”

It was all about perspective; Jean Bazillion, despite feeling horribly rotten for three days, had a very good life. Maybe I was one in a bazillion, because as I lay there, I realized that everything I had gone through was nothing. And even though there was more to go through, it would be nothing too as long as I kept my perspective knowing that I had my health, my kids, my friends, my sense of humor, and most importantly, my carriage. ♥