Lifestyle changes – a conscious choice!Written by Ingela Berger
Are you ready for a change? Is it time for those plans that you've been thinking about for so long? Now is a good time for making plans, for lifestyle changes, starting over, finding new directions and developing as a human being. Now is a very good time for creating your own personal lifestyle and a life that you have chosen to live. Let there always be cross-roads! Let me tell you what I think about cross-roads. There will always be new cross-roads. And I really hope they will be many. How boring life would be if there weren't any new directions to choose. We would just be walking straight ahead and never find out what else there is to know. We would never discover narrow paths that lead into something new and unexplored. If we always choose straight long road we will not develop as human beings. We will not realize all qualities and possibilities that we all possess. Some cross-roads can be tough on us. We can be forced to change directions. Something happens unexpectedly and we move into a crisis. This will happen to us all sooner or later. The changes that we choose consciously are "better" than ones that hurt, of course. But we develop and grow as a result of both.
| | Let Me Hold You Just One More TimeWritten by Chuck Hinson
AUGUST 23, 1990My sons -- Tim and Mike -- were ecstatic; they'd finally reached final stage of Super Mario 2 and was now fighting evil Koopa when they were interrupted by a long, almost urgent, knock on front door. Pausing game, Tim, oldest at 11, got up and opened it. My older sister, Mary, looked rushed as she stood in doorway. "Quick -- where's your daddy?" Tim told Mike to run to back porch, where I was working, and get me. Hearing commotion, I was already heading back into house, but Mike met me in kitchen and walked with me into living room. "What's wrong, sis?" I asked hesitantly, not wanting to know answer. Since we'd moved next door to my parents, dad had contracted lung cancer -- and it was terminal. We feared any knock on door, thinking that, at any time, it could be news of his death. "Come with me," she said. "We need help getting Daddy back to bed." On way over to house, not much was actually said between us -- we both knew it was just a matter of time now, and all mama and rest of us were doing was trying to make him as comfortable as possible. As I entered house and made my way toward den in back -- a small, sunny room that daddy had built himself back in '78 -- I could still smell disinfectant we used to clean house a week earlier, before he'd been released from hospital. Entering den, I saw mama, who'd already been up for forty-eight hours straight, trying to help daddy to his feet; Susan, wonderful hospice worker who also doubled as Hinson family barber and hairdresser over previous weeks, getting his oxygen tank ready, and, of course, daddy himself, clad in his favorite blue pajamas. "Okay, Chuck," Mary directed, "you get daddy under arms and walk him backward toward bedroom. Mama, you stay in back and guide him there, and Susan and I will be on either side." "No," Mama corrected, "you let me by his side. I've been there for forty-five years, and I ain't budging now!" We grinned at that as I gently lifted him up. I was surprised at how light he was -- this once-strong bull of a man who could pull a 200-foot-deep well with just his bare strength and two 18-inch wrenches -- was now just eighty-five pounds. He also looked confused and scared. This man who, years before, had talked a mentally-ill woman out of stabbing him; who'd counseled so many just on basis of his moral standing, was now looking as around helplessly as if to say, "Wha ... what's happening to me?" I back-walked him to side of his bed and sat him down very delicately -- all while, talking to him. After I was sure he was all right -- and knowing I had to get back to fix supper for boys -- I had started to tell him "I love you, dad"! But, for a reason I'll never understand, "I'll miss you, dad" came out instead. He responded, ever so weakly, "I'll miss you too, son." I corrected myself and said, "Daddy, I love you." It was last time he would ever hear me say that. AUGUST 24, 1990 It had been an unbelievably tense day -- I had gone on to my job at a local do-it-yourself store after leaving word with my sister to call if there was any change in daddy's condition. Actually, I was saying, in a roundabout way, to call me if he passed away. Mama had begun her sixtieth hour awake, hovering over daddy and making sure he had everything he needed. She'd do everything from fluff his pillows, bring him water to sip lightly, read get-well cards he'd gotten in mail that day, and talk about days when they'd first started courting. All while, she fought back tears and a tremendous lump in her throat, for she knew she was quickly losing man she loved so dearly since those days forty-five years earlier. Suddenly, sometime after two in afternoon, as hospice worker was changing his bedclothes, she saw daddy look at mama and motion to her to come closer. Then he whispered in a barely-audible voice, "Irene!" Mama rushed to his side and looked at him, lovingly but obviously worried. "What is it, Eola?" She came closer, to where he could say something to her without straining. He looked at her and whispered, with tears in his voice and his frail arms outstretched, "Let me hold you just one more time!" Mama stopped everything and gently put her arms up and slightly around his frail body, as he barely moved his near-skeletal arms around her as best he could. Tears flowed from both of them and intermingled on pillow underneath his head. Then she gently kissed him and brushed what little hair he had from his eyes. It seemed like they had entwined themselves for an eternity, though it was but for a few minutes only. Yet, it was good they did, for about two hours later, daddy lapsed into his final coma -- one from which he wouldn't recover.
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