My grandfather, L Hawthorne.

This past Veterans Day gave me a bit of an escape. No thinking of medical appointments or complicated medical procedures. The wonderful parades, the moving speeches and the beautiful ceremonies allowed Lisa and me to focus my attention on and remember those who have sacrificed for this great country of ours. I had the privilege of serving in the United States Air Force as a Security Policeman from 1980 to 1984. But I’ve always felt there was a special status for those who have faced battle in service of our country. They are true heroes.

And as the flags waved, I thought of my grandfather—a World War II veteran—who died in 1992. This year, my story about my grandfather’s influence on my life, titled “Well, I’ve Had A Plenty” was published in the book My Dad is My Hero: Tributes to the Men Who Gave Us Life, Love, and Driving Lessons.

When I was young, my father abandoned the family and we were left without a place to stay. My grandfather would be that all-important positive male role-model that helped salvage my childhood. My story was a tribute to him.

He was born in the small Louisiana town of Lillie in 1922 as L Hawthorne. He was the only person I’d ever known who had a single letter for a name. When I was young, I asked him where it came from.

When he was born, a man in the parish decided on his name. And even though his parents may not have liked it, the times would not allow them to object or change it. It was the segregated South. His parents were black. The man was white.

“Larry,” he said calmly, “in those days, when a white man named you, you stayed named.”

I was in my militant teen years at the time, so I found it infuriating. He, on the on the other hand, seemed devoid of anger or bitterness.

“Baby,” he said calmly, “that’s just the way things was.” Noticing his demeanor had calmed me.

During the war, he served in the United States Navy in the Pacific. When it ended, he moved to San Diego with my grandmother—Moma—and my six-month old mother. He worked a variety of odd jobs—including janitorial—to support his family.

“If you’re going to have a family,” he would say about that period, “you do whatever you have to do to take care of your family.”

Finally, he landed a job with the City of San Diego in 1947—not an easy feat back in those days. He was never late and rarely sick. He faithfully did his part to repair the worn streets of the city for thirty-one years.

When I left the Air Force, I lived with them as I transitioned back to civilian life. Not only did I get my fill of those delicious sweet potato pies he baked so well, I also got to see my grandparents’ relationship up-close. After so many decades, they still seemed to have the love and respect for one another that was as strong as any I’d seen. Even after he retired—and Moma continued to work—he would get up early in the morning and make her a pot of coffee just so it would be ready when she needed it. I was amazed at his thoughtfulness.

But my grandfather always cautioned me that he was not a perfect man. He never let me forget that he had made his share of mistakes. As a kid, I never believed him. He always seemed to me to be as square as they came.

But having lived life, I understand what he meant. No, he wasn’t perfect. Yes, he probably had made his mistakes. But that only made me admire him even more. As a writer, I know a character with flaws who overcomes adversity is much fuller than one without them. It also let me know that just because you find yourself in a tough situation doesn’t mean you just give in to the dark side. It doesn’t mean you just quit or give up. It means you have to work even harder. It amplifies the necessity for doing the right thing.

For him, his faith was his guiding light. He wasn’t one to recite scriptures or preach you sermons. His life was his sermon. Whether you needed a ride to church or the doctor, he was there. There was many a time when we had to scoot over to make room for a needy traveler. And no matter how many times they offered my grandparents money, it was politely waved off. They felt their pay would come at a later time.

He was a member of his church for over fifty years, where he eventually served on the Board of Trustees and was instrumental in helping the church acquire land in the surrounding inner city neighborhood to expand its old facilities. It became a cornerstone in the community.

In his later years, he developed heart problems. I remember him telling me during one of his many hospital stays, that he didn’t want to waste away in the bed. He said, “I want the Lord to take me at church.”

God must have of felt him worthy of such an honor because he granted him his wish. He died at the church he had served so faithfully and loved so much. It was at a church celebration. Fittingly, he was singing one of his favorite hymns.

At his funeral—which lasted almost five hours—condolences came in from all parts of the country. I heard stories that went back to childhood. Even then-Governor Pete Wilson’s office, who was mayor of San Diego when I was a kid, showed their respects. My grandfather spent the better part of his seventy years on this Earth helping folks and they traveled from all over the country to pay their respects to this simple working class man.

And of course, my grandmother was presented with the flag of this country that he so proudly defended.

So on Veterans Day—as I do on so many other days—I thought of my grandfather. I contemplated what he might think of me. Would he be proud of what I’ve accomplished in my life? Would he be satisfied with how I’ve faced the adversities in my life? Would he be proud of how I was taking care of my wife when she can’t always take care of herself?

If I could be half the man he was, I would truly be a great man. Of course, I’d better brush up on my sweet potato pie baking skills.

Farrah Fawcett will always remain in our hearts.

The news coverage of the death of Michael Jackson seemed to smother us as the afternoon passed into the night. I flipped from channel to channel as every network seemed to report the same details of his life, play the same songs we’ve all heard seemingly a million times, and offer the same images and sounds of the multitude of shocked fans as they gathered all over the world to pay their respects to a great musical icon we grew to know as The King of Pop.

Of course, there were those who eagerly discussed the many scandals and oddities that peppered his life of great successes. They were tragic, but they didn’t just happen yesterday. So I see no need for me to dwell on them today.

But on this day, we lost another famous person. Unfortunately, her loss was eclipsed by this avalanche of The King’s news coverage. Someone who was also known worldwide for her great talent. Someone who had a successful career of her own. She was the face of beauty for a generation.

She was, of course, Farah Fawcett.

Most of us remember her from the 1970’s television show Charley’s Angels. In her role as Jill Monroe, she was one of three attractive women employed by mysterious millionaire Charles Townsend at his private detective agency.

Of course, many of us also knew her from being immortalized on the most popular and arguably highest selling pinup poster of all time. Ah yes, that wonderful poster with that blonde hair and beautiful smile.

But I also remember her as a very talented actor. I learned that from the made-for-television movie The Burning Bed as she gave a wonderful performance as a battered wife who finally took matters into her own hand. It drew much-needed attention to spousal abuse, something that is near and dear to my heart, having seen the hurt and destruction this cause when I was a child. Her triumphant performance forever changed how we saw spousal abuse.

She was able to attack our prejudices that such a beautiful woman can also have great talent.

But her greatest role came later in life. She personified the image of a strong and courageous woman dealing with cancer with great strength. And by her side during this ordeal was her companion, Ryan O’Neal. He lovingly bid her farewell as she made her journey from this world.

It’s great to remember such an iconic artist as Michael Jackson. He did revolutionize the music industry in so many ways. But we should also reserve a space in our hearts for the loss of Farrah Fawcett. She will also be remembered for her contribution to pop culture.

And our thoughts and prayers go out to her family.

 

 

Author Lawrence D. Elliott has added another proud chapter to his writing career by contributing to the much anticipated book My Dad Is My Hero: Tributes to the Men Who Gave Us Life, Love, and Driving Lessons. Published by Adams Media and edited by Susan Reynolds, this wonderful book is a collection of stories from 50 talented authors honoring the everyday heroes in our lives—fathers. This is the third book from Adams Media Lawrence has worked on.

 

“Well, I’ve Had A Plenty” is the story of his late grandfather, L Hawthorne, who died in 1992. It depicts how important he was to Lawrence, especially after his father abandoned the family early in his life.

 

But there was something special about his grandfather that Lawrence learned of as a teenager. Born in 1922 in the segregated south, it was the symbol of our country’s dark past of racial discrimination he carried virtually his entire life.

 

“He was never bitter,” Lawrence says. “He lived a wonderful life and was the symbol of strength, love, and manhood. He went out of his way to help others until he left this Earth.”

 

“Although the story was rejected,” Lawrence continues, “I was determined to have it told. I am so grateful to be associated with such a group of writers and to Ms. Reynolds and the folks at Adams Media for allowing me the opportunity to share my grandfather’s story with the world.”

 

This is not the first time Lawrence has shared stories of his family. In March of 2007, he published a tribute to his mother titled “Thank God for the Sandwiches” in the heartwarming book Letters to My Mother: Tributes to the Women Who Give Us Life—and Love. That same year, he contributed his story “God, I’m Shvitzing!” to Chicken Soup for the Soul in Menopause: Living and Laughing through Hot Flashes and Hormones.

 

All of Lawrence’s book can be purchased by visiting his web site at:

 

http://www.lawrenceelliott.com/books/

 

Lawrence has enjoyed writing for many years and has written articles on everything from real estate to family issues. In addition to being an accomplished author, he has been an active Realtor® since 1989.

 

Lawrence is available for interviews and book signings. If you would like to speak with him regarding his published work or real estate, you can call him direct at 909-923-5491 or send him an email.

 

Lawrence D. Elliott is an author and has been an active Realtor^® since 1989. His stories have appeared in many popular books, including several in the best-selling Chicken Soup for the Soul series. He lives in Ontario, California with his wife Lisa and their dog Lacie. He can be contacted through his main web site at http://www.LawrenceElliott.com

 

It was 8:34 am on December 20, 2008. My eyes were tired and my brain felt like mush. I’d been working on this project since May 29^th. After having quite a few short stories published, I decided to start my own novel. I worked on the plot and characters meticulously. The time had come to begin.

It was a struggle getting the first five thousand words. But I continued to write. Then, I hit 10,000 words and I continued to write.

 

I hit 20,000 words and I started to feel like I had something special going.

 

I hit 30,000 words. I was excited!

 

Then, Murphy’s Law showed its ugly head. My wife Lisa had been off work since November 2007. Her illness took a turn for the worst. We spent the entire summer in and out of hospitals. Sadly, I would have lost her if I hadn’t have revived her on an afternoon in September.

 

And to top it off, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She would need surgery.

 

But I continued to write where and when I could—whether it was for an hour or through the night. Whether it was in my bed or in a park or in a lunchroom, or at the side of my wife’s hospital bed wearing a protective gown and rubber gloves. And I wrote in the waiting room as my mother had surgery.

 

My life was becoming filled with writing and hospitals, not necessarily in that order.

 

By October, Lisa had been home for a while—now using oxygen and a wheelchair. Both she and my mother appeared to be on the path of what I hoped was the road to recovery. Maybe hospitals would be a thing of the past or at least the distant future.

 

But I was growing increasingly more fearful of sleeping as she slept. I feared I would wake to the ending we had avoided. I checked on her continuously so much that I could hardly get a night’s sleep.

 

Then, I came up with an idea. Since I was continuously up and down the throughout night, I decided to use the night as my writing shift. I wrote sometimes until 8, 9, even 10 in the morning. Brief moments of sleep were becoming the norm. Then, I would start the day again.

 

I did the NaNoWriMo 2008 in November to put pressure on myself to finish. I hit 40,000 at a pace that suggested it was working.

 

At 50,000 words, I really began to believe I could finish it, in spite of all Murphy had thrown at me. To hell with it! I’m not scared of Murphy!

 

I wouldn’t let Murphy stop me from my dream!

 

Then, came 60,000, then 70,000, then…82.614 words later, I had completed my first draft of my novel! I sat in bed with my head propped up thinking of what I had done and how I did it.

 

It’s is now early Christmas morning. Gratefully, I’ll be able to spend the holidays with my wife knowing I’ve accomplished something under conditions that could have broken my spirits or my desire to continue…and I didn’t let that happen.

 

I look forward to January when I’ll start the editing and rewrite process. This is the best Christmas present I could have given myself. This was the best Christmas present I could have given us.

 

And with everything that has happened to my family over the year, we still feel grateful for what we do have. Things could have been better, but things also could also have been worse. Someday, Lisa and I will look back on this year and laugh. Not today, but someday, I know we will.

 

Merry Christmas to all and here’s to a Great 2009 for everyone!

It was an interesting afternoon of writing indeed. It had rained for most of the day and our electricity for the neighborhood had been shut off since the early morning. After numerous frustrating calls to the electric company, they continued to move the estimated time for restoration of service later and later unable to locate the cause of the outage. I normally write on a laptop, which of course has battery power. But a battery can only last so long.

 

I made arrangements for my wife to be cared for and decided to head to a favorite park and get in my writing for the day. My SUV has an outlet and I could sit inside and write for hours without the worry of losing power. As a special treat, I decided to get a cup of coffee and an apple fritter from the local coffee house before heading up to the park.

 

As I arrived, the rain came down harder. The pounding could be heard on the roof of my vehicle. Although the sky was growing dark, it took nothing away from the beauty of the rolling green hills and lake with ducks paddling across. Occasionally, they stopped to playfully dive below the surface.

 

I set up a Playlist on my iPod and connected it to play through the vehicle stereo. I moved my seat away from the steering wheel to be able to write more comfortably. I set my laptop on my right leg and fired it up. Well, at least I started it up, Windows being as slow as it is.

 

God, Windows is so slow!

 

But perhaps it was best my writing was delayed. To my right, I could see a plain white sedan with two spotlight lamps on the side easing down the parking lot. It had to be going at about five miles per hour. I knew right away it was an unmarked law enforcement vehicle.

 

The car stopped at a sporty red car parked backward in its stall. Two men exited the vehicle and approached it. Even with my poor eyesight, I could see Sherriff written on their backs. I guess their weapons on their side were also a dead giveaway.

 

I could see one deputy checking the identification of the young man who had been driving it as they all stood in the pouring rain. By now I was now observing them instead of my laptop. They were engaged in conversation that went on for quite a few minutes. Then, the two deputies returned to their vehicle and made their way down the lot in my direction. I could see them starting to pass. I returned my attention to my laptop as I waited for it to complete its startup.

 

Damn Windows is slow!

 

Then, in the rearview mirror I could see the white sedan had stopped. They were in position to prevent me from leaving if I chose to. Their doors opened and the two men walked toward me. One stood back at the rear of the SUV while the other approached me on the driver’s side. Having spent four years in the US Air Force as a Security Policeman, I understood the tactics. The one in back was cover, while the one approaching me would be investigating.

 

The officer approaching me was of medium height and build. He was Hispanic and soft spoken. As he approached my door, I rolled down my window. I noticed his hand was resting on his sidearm.

 

“Hi,” the deputy greeted me. His face matched his demeanor. It wasn’t a smile, but under the circumstances, it was the best I would get. “We’re just checking out the area. A lot of time we catch people out here smoking dope or doing other things.”

 

“Okay,” I replied.

 

“So, what you doing?” I could tell he was sizing me up. He was looking for nervousness or guilt. The only crime I was guilty of was drinking a $4 cup of coffee in this economy.

 

“I’m writing. I’m a writer.”

 

“You’re a writer? Really?”

 

“Yeah. And a Realtor, too. Didn’t you see my license plate?” I was referring to the chrome license plate frame I made when I started building some momentum in my writing. It was sort of a treat and motivation to keep going. It also was a nice conversation tool for business. Engraved on it were the words Author at the top and Chicken Soup for the Soul at the bottom.

 

“You’re kidding,” he said as he walked back to the rear of my vehicle. I couldn’t help wonder how you could check out a vehicle and not notice the license plate. When he returned, he said, “Oh, you can buy those anywhere.”

 

“Yeah and I hope you buy a couple the next time you’re at a book store.” He looked confused. “Wait a minute,” I asked him, “are you talking about the book or the frame?”

 

“The frame.”

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

“No.”

 

By then my laptop had loaded up. I picked it up showing him the screen with the photo I placed on my desktop. “Here’s a picture of me at a book signing at Borders.” I showed it to him. He was surprised.

 

“You’re kidding?” I was waiting for him to tell me, “Anyone can take a picture at next to books at Borders.”

 

Then, I could have come back with a snappy line…

 

What guy would stand next to a picture of Chicken Soup for the Soul in Menopause unless he actually had a story in it? Let alone a crook!

 

But he didn’t. He finally understood. And I missed out on being the subject of a story he would have told every cop he came in contact with, each time embellishing it more and more.

 

“Yeah,” I answer, “That’s me.”

 

“Oh my God!” He looked back at his partner. His expression was classic.

 

“I’m working on my novel,” I continued. “Our electricity went out and I came here to do some writing since I can plug in to the SUV’s outlet. This used to my favorite place.”

 

“Used to be?”

 

“Well about four years ago, we remodeled the house and made the backyard nice. Now the backyard is my favorite place to write. When it’s not raining, of course.”

 

From that moment on, the conversation went into my writing, the real estate market, and back to my writing. By then, his partner had walked up and stood listening to the conversation. Smoothly, I interjected a “Hi” to him as I continued talking. They grew so comfortable, they asked for a business card.

 

But the writing was the main topic of discussion. I love talking about it. Perhaps too much. I went on so long that they were getting soaked standing out in the rain. In fact, so was my left arm and leg, even though I didn’t really notice it.

 

“Well,” the deputy said, “you’re getting soaked.” Actually, they were the one’s getting soaked. I also think I had bored them out of their skulls talking about my writing! I’m sure it was way more than they bargained for.

 

“We’ll let you get back to your work,” the deputy said as his silent partner nodded.

 

“Now when this novel is completed,” I said as I shook hands with each of them, “I’m going to make it a point to have a book signing at the Borders in Chino. I’ve been there about five times and they’ve been so nice to me. I expect to see you both. You can buy a book and I’ll sign it for you.”

 

“Sure.” With that, they started walked away. It was the only time the silent partner smiled.

 

Perhaps it was a coincidence the men they happened to stop were both black. Perhaps it wasn’t. Two black men could not have been more different. The other guy was a thin and tall and young. Let’s just say I am not. A good friend told me I need to carry that picture of me at Borders at all times. Maybe he’s right.

 

I’ve been stopped by cops since I was a kid. My mother always taught me how to be stopped by the police. I was resistant in beginning because I had this notion that I had my rights and that life is fair. It wasn’t long before I learned that life isn’t fair. I guess she just wanted me to make it home alive.

 

Every time I see a black kid get into some altercation with a police officer that started because he decided to argue the merits of the stop with the officer, I figure a few mothers should have been as proactive as mine. An argument with a cop on the street is one you can’t win. Ever!

 

Whoops! She did it again! Taught me a lesson while I wasn’t looking!

 

I really think that’s what threw the two deputies off. I was so calm. I almost seemed like I was enjoying the moment. And in a way, I was. Now, if I was in the middle of getting an idea down and I was being interrupted, then it probably would have been a different story. Just ask my wife about that.

 

But it was a pretty productive afternoon. I got in my 1,000 words for my novel and this story.

 

Not bad, eh?

I’ve listened to this song Just One Day by Jeremy Lister about 100 times since I downloaded it to my iPod. The words make me think of so many people who are no longer here. People I wish I could hug once again or to whom I’d just like to say “I’m sorry.”

This is the wonderful part of writing. You create something that makes people experience feelings they might never otherwise feel. Songwriters are blessed to be able to work in a 3D version of writing.

Listen to this song and see how you feel…

I just saw my listing in the Poets & Writers Magazine Directory of Writers! I was blown away! I’m sending a copy to my mother. I wonder if she’ll sit my 84-year-old grandmother down at the computer for a peek. I hope so.

Here’s the link to my listing:

http://www.pw.org/content/lawrence_d_elliott

Dear Senator Obama,

We are less than two weeks away from our historic election and I find myself with mixed feelings about the month November of 2008. Not only are you on the verge of reaching a goal that I never thought I would see in my lifetime, this will be the month my mother has surgery for breast cancer. This moment is definitely filled with the bitter along with the sweet. With a full staff of great doctors—and the help of tons of prayers, I know my mother—the strongest person I have ever known—will get through this! So, for the moment I will concentrate on the sweet.

When you initially announced you were running for President, the first words out of my skeptical mouth were, “This country will never elect a black man as President! Period!” I admired your guts, but I felt it would end as so many other campaigns—in defeat. Well, you are close to making me a big, fat liar!

The restraint and discipline you have shown is something to be admired. Although you breathing the air of the heights none of us has reached, it is similar to the path others greater than I have had to take and you have proven worthy to have your name written beside theirs in history. When your opponents and their supporters use your middle name in the same tone and manner as they would when hurling the most profane insult, you maintain your composure. Are they aware any black man in America—including me—could have been named Barack Hussein Obama, if their ancestors weren´t brought here as slaves?

You were steady when you were attacked because of people you knew or whom you met. It´s as if two people who have shared the same air or patch of earth are somehow compelled to share the same thoughts. I think we´d all be surprised if we knew the background and history of every person we crossed paths with.

And when they questioned your religious beliefs, it seemed to infuriate me more than it does you. Could they not see the hypocrisy? I mean, we are fighting a war against terrorists who have warped the meaning of their religion in order to destroy people who are different than they are. How do some fellow Americans act when someone different tries to reach for a lofty goal? They warp the meaning of their religion to destroy that person. Not exactly the same as the terrorists, but closer than America should be in the year 2008! This is just more proof that fools come in all shapes, sizes, colors, genders, and religious beliefs.

And you didn´t change when they tried to label you as an elitist. A kid born to a single mother who struggled to make his life better by stressing education can be an elitist? I never understand that one. And to top it off, they tried to make intelligence and eloquence into a four-letter word. I guess they´d be happier if you stood at the podium speaking Ebonics and grabbing your genitals. I promise you, you wouldn’t have my vote if you had.

They even mocked you as being just a celebrity before finally getting around to attacking your ideas. That´s fair game, but my question is this: Why was that the last thing on their list to attack, instead of the first?

All Americans—not just black Americans—should be very proud of your perseverance, of the accomplishment you are close to achieving, and of the sacrifice you and your family have made for almost two years. You have done a great service for our country.

Obviously, my wish is for you to reach your final goal. But win or lose, I would like to thank you for a few things.

Thank you for placing the indelible picture in the minds of every young black kid that anyone has the chance of becoming President, just as Sen. Clinton and Gov. Palin have done for young girls. I am envious of them because it was not something I could envision at their age.

Thank you for the images of the enthusiastic crowds filled with the smiling faces of every race, creed, color, and religion we have represented in this great country. We knew the country had progressed, we just didn´t know quite how far. You´ve actually been able to quantify that progress.

I would like to thank you for allowing my 84-year-old grandmother to be able see a black man rise to such heights. She is someone who is very important—along with my mother—in shaping me into the man I have become. She was also born into a segregated America.

Thank you Barack Hussein Obama for what your candidacy has meant to America as the world looks on with baited breath.

With all of my heart, I pray that your wonderful grandmother will be allowed by God to see you reach the finish line. But if she´s not allowed to see it here on Earth, she´ll probably be watching from Heaven.

You and I are the same age (give or a take a month or two) and connected to the same race. Yet we are different because you saw this was possible, where I could not. That makes you a true visionary!

Our prayers to you and your family. And, of course, God bless America!

Sincerely,

Lawrence D. Elliott

It was October 2, 2008, at 1:53 pm when I received the news. My mother, the strongest person I have ever known, had her final diagnosis. It was breast cancer. To be precise, it was Infiltrating (or Invasive) Ductal Carcinoma. It´s funny how certain words hold so much power they can send chills down your body. I could feel my eyes get watery. I was scared. I mean, I was really scared!

It was not my first taste of fear from the words breast cancer.

Back in 1992, just a short two years into my marriage, my wife and I had a fright when she found a lump in her right breast. I stood ever so still in a corner of the room as a biopsy sample was taken from her. The most chilling comment was when the doctor said, “Hmm.” My imagination went wild as I tried to guess what “Hmm” meant. We had to go through months waiting and a surgery before we would receive the fortunate news. It was not breast cancer. It was just a cyst. She was spared.

Over the years, we have had countless friends and family members afflicted with this disease. Some won their battles. Others sadly lost them. But all of them showed me an example of courage that even the most hardened war veteran would envy.

And now my mother would be added to that list.

I got myself together. I had to call my mother. I wanted to know how she was. I needed to hear her voice. I fought back the tears and dialed her cell number. When she answered, a strong voice greeted me. “I´m okay,” she said. “Everything´s going to be okay.”

It was a very odd conversation, indeed. I mean, my mother was suffering from breast cancer and she was comforting me! She asked if she could call back later in the evening. She was unable to talk. You see, she was at work and involved in a heavy project. She wouldn´t even let breast cancer keep her from doing her work with the quality she demanded.

It was not the first time my mother had shown such courage and determination in the face of adversity. In 2007, I had the honor of publishing a story for my mother titled “Thank God for the Sandwiches” in the book Letters to My Mother: Tributes to the Women Who Give Us Life—and Love. In that story, I illustrated how my mother responded to finding herself homeless in a strange city with two young children in tow.

“When we found ourselves without a warm bed, a roof over our heads, or even the knowledge of where our next meal would come from, you didn´t give up. You rolled up your sleeves and went out to find a way.”

And it was no surprise that in 2006 when it was initially thought that she had lymphoma, a cancer of the lymphatic system that she showed the same unwavering strength that has become her trademark. She would also not waiver. My wife, my two sisters—Cheryl and DiAnna—and I accompanied my mother to her consultation with her wonderful oncologist in San Diego, Dr. Bemiller. My mother made two demands and you´d better believe we had to follow them to the letter. First, she told us she would be allowed to ask all the questions she wanted without interruption. My mother always wanted to know the situation she had to face no matter how grim it may seem. Then, she made one more requirement.

“No crying. No tears. If you have to cry, leave the room, get yourself together, and come back. We´ll deal with what the Lord gives us.”

Thanks to that wonderful oncologist and the City of Hope, we dodged a bullet. It was learned that she had Castleman Disease, a rare illness which has the characteristics of lymphoma.

The last year has been a troubling time in my life. First, my wife has been afflicted with a string of illnesses: lympoedema, pneumonia, a pulmonary embolism, and finally going into respiratory failure. I would have lost her on that last one if God hadn´t have tapped me on my shoulder—or smacked me on the back of my head—and told me to check in on her. As my wife lay in a hospital bed—and while waiting the results of her own biopsy—my mother made the 100-mile drive to check on Lisa. She sat at Lisa´s side as if she didn´t have a care in the world. Her main focus was on her “daughter,” as she always called her.

As I called her on the evening of her diagnosis to get more detailed information, she told me she had her appointment scheduled with the surgeon. I told her I would go with her since Cheryl—the nurse in our family—was now living in Atlanta with her family. My mother´s answer was typical.

“I´d love that. But remember, no crying. No tears. We´ll deal with whatever the Lord gives us.”

If I´d have gotten any other answer it wouldn´t have been normal. With my mother I don´t hope she´ll be strong, I expect it. The toughness of her life had built in a habit of strength. And we all know, habits are just hard to break.

My sister Cheryl will be walking in Atlanta´s Making Strides Against Breast Cancer on October 25, 2008. She has walked in other events before. Obviously, this will be more special than any other she has participated in. She´ll be walking for our mother—or her best friend, as she calls her.

If you would like to pledge to the American Cancer Society for this event (or any event nationally), click here.

To read my sister Cheryl’s touching email to family and friends, click here

Often, we’re told how our choices have consequences. Yet we rarely see what those consequences truly are. This past Wednesday, I got a horrible example.

I was heading to my office for a few hours. We’d be moving to a new location soon and I needed to clean out my desk. I looked in on my wife, who had been ill. Since she had not been sleeping much for the past week, I was glad to see she was asleep. She was hanging off the edge of the bed and I was worried she might fall and hurt herself. I debated moving her completely onto it—and possibly awakening her—or just allow her to continue sleeping as she was.

I chose the former.

As I moved her over, I could hear gargled breathing. I knew it was not normal. I attempted to wake her, but she did not respond.

I shook her forcefully, calling her name loudly. She still did not respond.

I patted her lightly on the face, still calling for her awake. She still did not respond.

I opened her eyelids and her eyeballs were rolling toward the back of her head. Her lips were a purplish blue. Her complexion was pale. I knew she was not getting oxygen. I dialed 911.

I recited to the operator her recent medical issues as I continued my attempts to revive her. As I sat her upright, she finally started to respond. She was completely disoriented saying, “What happened? What did I do?”

“Nothing, Babe,” I assured her. “Just sit here and relax.”

“Is it bad,” she asked. The question, along with the disoriented look on her face, were chilling. I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to get that moment out of my mind. I continued to calm her as I ensured she was securely propped up. I ran to print out her medication list, opened the front door a crack, and pushed our dog Lacie out into the back yard. I returned to her and waited for the paramedics.

I knew her condition was dire, but I was relieved she was finally responding.

I kept her propped up and ran to print out her medication list, propped the front door open, and pushed our dog Lacie out into the back yard. I returned to her and waited for the paramedics.

As I heard their voices, I called out “We’re back here! We’re back here!”

They took over and I watched helplessly as I answered questions thrown my way. I could read the look on their faces. They were concerned. They immediately prepared her for transport. Before long, they had her out the door and in the ambulance. The sirens screamed as they drove off. I followed behind.

Upon my arrival, I paced at the ER as the medical staff worked on her. When I was finally allowed to see her, I was relieved she didn’t remember a thing. The mind was protecting her by shutting out the entire event.

Now, after a week in the hospital, she’s inching toward recovery.

But I’m left with a very frightening question.

What if I hadn’t checked on her and I just had left?

“She would have been dead upon your return,” the ER doctor said to me.

It was something I think I knew. But like having a bucket of cold water splashed on me, it sent shivers through my body. The love of my life would have been gone.

Choices do matter, wouldn’t you agree?