On Angels Wings

Nearly three weeks ago, I nearly lost my mother. Her health has been failing for the past few years, and every day seems to present a new challenge. About a year ago, she asked me who she was. A pang so sharp pierced my heart. I got her some orange juice and a cookie and sat with her, and a few minutes later, she was fine. I thought it a combination of too many prescription pills, her age and several other conditions I’d studied when training for my certificate in medical transcription. Some things are just too painful to recognize and our subconscious refuses to let them in.

But what I witnessed a few weeks ago will stay with me for a long, long time. She was sitting on the sofa, taking off her socks and shoes, her words muffled and slightly slurred. The obvious thing that flashed through my mind was that she was having a stroke. I asked her if she knew who she was and she did. But the more I quizzed her, the more agitated she became, and before long, she began to tremble. I held her left hand and it was so limp it brought tears to my eyes. Then she got a death grip on me and squeezed it for all she was worth. Then it went completely limp and she began to convulse. It had to be the most terrifying thing I’d ever experienced.

We called the paramedics and there initial reaction was that she was having a stroke. Then her head rolled to the back of the sofa and she slipped into a state of unconsciousness. Feeling helpless and completely vulnerable, all I could do was pray. And in the many crisis in my life, I have always turned to the angels. I feel their presence and believe they hear our prayers and take them to God on their gossamer wings.

My mom was in a coma in intensive care for twelve hours. When she came to, her family was all around her. She recognized us and although confused to her whereabouts, seemed to be in pretty good shape, all things considered. Her neurologist told us her cat scan ruled out a stroke. His diagnosis was epilepsy. My mom had an epileptic seizure once close to fifty years ago. Ten years ago, her doctor took her off her anti-seizure medication. This bothered me, but I placed it in God’s hands. I always feared she might have another seizure and she did. Now she is on a less invasive type of medication to prevent seizures, but Mom is not happy about taking more pills.

Due to some balance issues and walking difficulties, her neurologist strongly suggested putting Mom in a nursing home for a few weeks for rehabilitation where they could address her needs. This was very hard and for those of you who have been there, visiting a loved one in a nursing home is a guilt trip. They don’t want to be there any more than we want them there. So once more, I called on my angels to carry my burden to God’s ears.

Yesterday, my mother came home. She will have a home nurse and a rehab counselor until she is stronger. She seems so fragile and reminds me of the fragility of life. Count your blessings and make every day count. Life truly does come full circle when our parents become our children, our responsibility.

Sharon Donovan
Romantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith
www.sharonadonovan.com
sharonad@comcast.net

Coffee Rightss Hostess

Looking for a little promo over at Coffee Time Romance & More? Why not join me at Coffee Rights for the remainder of January. I am the hostess for the series and the series is suspense.

I’ve posted the background to the story along with the opening paragraph. Now here’s the fun part. You get to add the next paragraph and so on until the story is complete. And the best paragraph wins a prize. Here are the details:

January Coffee Rights
Hostess: Sharon Donovan
Theme: Romantic Suspense
Characters:
Hero: Reilly Stone
Heroine: Candace Valentine
Villain Andrew Peacock
Prize: Moonlight Path gift bag from Bath&Body

Title: Murder at midnight on a Moonlit Path
Background

The whispers in his head grew louder and louder. Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. His heart pounding, Andrew Peacock bolted upright in bed. A brisk breeze swooshed through the Joshua trees, stirring the scent of roses with rain. A hunter’s moon hung low in the dark desert sky. In the distance, a coyote howled, its keening echoing through the canyon. The smell of the dank earth took him back to the night of his first kill. And the scent of roses reminded him of her. She was the love of his life, the prettiest thing the sorry town of Progress had ever seen. And she’d done him wrong. He walked to the window and gazed into the thicket, knowing precisely where he’d buried his slut of an ex-wife. Next week marked the anniversary of her death. And to keep the thrill of the kill alive, he’d reenact the crime. He’d hunt down her likeness, a flawless beauty with black hair and midnight blue eyes. And after taking a stroll down the moonlit path, he’d kill her. Then he’d bury the corpse in the woods and place a white rose on the grave. And he couldn’t wait.

Candace Valentine stood before her mirror, combing her long black hair before turning in for the night. With the hunter’s moon spilling in through her open window, her blue eyes sparkled. The hair on the nape of her neck prickled. She had the oddest feeling she was being watched. She dashed to the window to close it, her gaze searching the woods. And when her phone rang, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She snatched it up on the first ring.
“What lovely hair you have,” a voice whispered. “I just love watching you brush it in the moonlight. And what pretty blue eyes you have, the way they shimmer is so inviting.”

Deputy Sheriff Reilly Stone studied her, his green eyes searching. Raking his hand through his shaggy brown hair, his jaw clenched, he arched an eyebrow. “How long have you lived in Progress, Ms. Valentine?”
“All my life,” she said, her lip quivering.
He crossed his burly arms over his chest, his eyes narrowed. “So unless you’ve been living in a cave, surely you’re aware of all these women disappearing, vanishing into thin air.” He took a step closer. “And yet you stand in front of an open window, brushing your hair in the moonlight?”
She blinked back the tears. “I…I never worried about open windows before. I brush my hair every night before turning in. Those women who were reported missing were never found, no bodies to prove a serial killer stalks the woods. It’s probably just a coincidence, a…”
“Wise up,” he stormed toward the front door, his booted feet clomping. He glanced over his shoulder. “Every single woman reported missing had long black hair and blue eyes, like you. Bolt your door and keep the windows locked. Or you might just be the next victim.”

Won’t you join me?

http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/board/forumdisplay.php?f=255

Author Roast and Toast is back from Holiday Break

And it's a Medieval Banquet with Rachel Rossano! Come one, come all for a banquet fit for a king. Join Oliver and I, along with Lyn, Mary, Junior and Cuddles for another adventure as we roast Rachel.
http://authorroastandtoast.blogspot.com

Day 6 in Countdown to Christmas

In keeping with nostalgic memories of Christmases past, I would like to share a story from my childhood with you today. As with most children, the spirit of giving was lost on me. But like most things in life, a traumatic incident will occur, embedding itself in our memories forevermore. It happened to me when I was eleven years old.

“I can’t wait for Christmas morning,” I twirled about the kitchen like a sugar plum fairy while my mother rolled gingersnaps. The house smelled wonderful, sugar and spice and everything nice. And from the living room, the heady scent of fresh pine drifted, making me delirious with delight. Outside, snow blanketed the ground, flurries swirling down on the pine branches like spools of angel hair. A white Christmas, I rubbed my hands together with glee, snatching up a cookie on the pan. The spices melted on my tongue, causing me to twirl all the faster.
“You know,” my mom looked up, her cheeks rosy from the oven, flour coating her blue apron. “Christmas isn’t all about presents under the tree. It’s about the spirit of giving and the birth of Baby Jesus. Didn’t you hear Father John’s sermon on Sunday, saying it’s better to give than receive?”
“I heard him,” I said, stealing another peek out the window to see how much snow had fallen. “It’s the same one he gives every year.”
Hearing the mailman, I ran to the door and opened it. A cold gush of air blew in, the howling wind swishing through the towering pines. The mailman handed me a stack of mail and bid me a Merry Christmas. “You too,” I all but slammed the door in his face, noticing the first letter in the stack had my name on it. Running off into the house, belting out a verse or two of Deck the Halls, I ripped the red envelope. It was from my aunt. Shaking out the card, not even bothering to read the verse, I frowned, turning it upside down. “No money, no green stuff to buy a gift,” I tossed the card on the table.
Entering the kitchen, my mom was pulling out another tray of cookies. Snatching one up, burning my fingers, I was too excited to feel the blister. Dashing off, I popped it into my mouth after waving it in the air to cool. Putting on my coat and scarf, gloves and boots, I yelled into the kitchen, “I’m going outside to see how deep the snow is. Be back in a few minutes.”
The snow was really coming down, causing my spirits to soar. A bright red cardinal perched in the fleecy pine tree, pretty as you please. I smiled, my mind on how many gifts I’d find under the tree come Christmas morning. Excitement mounted. But suddenly, I heard a door creak from across the street. Looking up, snapping out of my revelry, I noticed the old lady that lived in the house on the terrace, all stooped over with age, her gnarled fingers probing to get her mail out of the box. She wore a black cardigan sweater over her bony shoulders, her unkempt hair as white as the snow. I shuddered, thinking she looked like a witch. Feeling cold, I went back inside, the scent of cinnamon and spices wafting through the house. Try as I might, the image of the old woman next door flashed through my head. Did anyone care about her? Did anyone bake cookies for her or buy her a Christmas gift? Her husband had died years ago and no one ever came to visit. Something struck me and an idea blossomed in my head. Shedding off my coat and snow gear, I tore into the kitchen.
“I want to bake some cookies for old lady Thomas,” I said, my heart all a flutter. “I want to give her a present for Christmas.”
“That’s the spirit,” my mom said, her lips puckering into a pout. “But don’t call her old lady Thomas. That’s not nice. Her name is Mrs. Thomas.”
“Whatever,” I said, my mind on my mission.

An hour later, bundled once more in my winter snow gear, gingersnaps neatly packed on a paper plate, garnished with foil wrapping and green and red ribbons, I gingerly walked across the cobblestone street to my neighbor’s house on the hill. Taking the steps slowly, hanging onto the railing for dear life with my free hand, I got to the door and rang the bell. A smile teased my lips, anticipating her look of surprise.
The door creaked open and there she stood, hand on her hip, looking anything like what I’d imagined. Her mouth curled in an ugly frown. “What do you want, little girl? Can’t you read the sign? It says no trespassing, and that means you.”
“But…” I stammered, my heart in my throat. “I’m not selling anything, honestly. I live across the street and baked these cookies for you for a Christmas gift. I…”
My words were cut off by the cold banging of the door. I stood there, the tears spilling down my cheek. Turning on my heels, I started down her front steps. But not really watching where I was going, I missed the last step, tripped flat on my face in the snow and landed on my cookies. I heard them crunch. The foil ripped and they were all askew in the snow, bits and pieces of broken cookies along with my broken heart.

An hour later, after a hot cocoa and a good cry, my mom went to the window and looked out and gasped. “Come quick! Hurry!
“What?” I looked, following her gaze to old lady Thomas’s house.
“Don’t you see it?”
“I saw nothing. The snow had stopped falling and looking at that house on the hill made my stomach hurt. “I don’t see anything.” I turned on my heels.
My mother stopped me. “Right there where you fell. See?”
“I looked but saw nothing to get excited about. I shrugged. “What do you see?”
“Your imprint in the snow, the image of an angel.”