The Tiny Foot

The Tiny Foot

Author: DR Loomis

Two years after I came to California, there came to my office one day a fragile young woman, expecting her first baby. Her history was not good from an emotional standpoint, though she came from a fine family. I built her up as well as I could and found her increasingly wholesome and interesting as time went on, partly because of the effort she was making to be calm and patient and to keep her emotional and nervous reactions under control.

One month before her baby was due, her routine examination showed that her baby was in a breech position. As a rule, the baby's head is in the lower part of the uterus for months before delivery, not because it is heavier and "sinks" in the surrounding fluid, but simply because it fits more comfortably in that position. There is no routine "turning" of all babies at the seventh or eighth month, as is so generally supposed. Only about one baby in 25 is born in the breech position. This is fortunate, as the death rate of breech babies is comparatively high because of the difficulty in delivering the after- coming head, and the imperative need of delivering it rather quickly after the body is born. At that moment the cord becomes compressed between the baby's hard little head and the mother's bony pelvis. When no oxygen reaches the baby's bloodstream, it inevitably dies in a few short minutes.

The case I was speaking of was a "complete" breech -- the baby's legs and feet being folded under it, tailor fashion -- in contrast to the "frank" breech, in which the thighs and legs are folded back on a baby's body like a jackknife, the little rear end backing its way into the world first of all. The hardest thing for the attending doctor to do with any breech delivery is to keep his hands away from it until the natural forces of expulsion have thoroughly dilated the firm maternal structures that delay its progress.

I waited as patiently as I could, sending frequent messages to the excited family in the corridor outside. At last the time had come, and I gently drew down one little foot, I grasped the other, but for some reason I could not understand, it would not come down beside the first one. I pulled again, gently enough but with a little force, with light pressure on the abdomen from above by my assisting nurse, and the baby's body moved down just enough for me to see that it was a little girl -- and then, to my consternation, I saw that the other foot would never be beside the first one. The entire thigh from the hip to the knee was missing and that one foot never could reach below the opposite knee. And a baby girl was to suffer this, a curious defect that I had never seen before, nor have I since!

There followed the hardest struggle I have ever had with myself. I knew what a dreadful effect it would have upon the unstable nervous system of the mother. I felt sure that the family would almost certainly impoverish itself in taking the child to every famous orthopedist in the world whose achievements might offer a ray of hope. Most of all, I saw this little girl sitting sadly by herself while other girls laughed and danced and ran and played -- and then I suddenly realized that there was something that would save every pang but once, and that one thing was in my power. One breech baby in 10 dies in delivery because it is not delivered rapidly enough, and now -- if only I did not hurry! If I could slow my hand, if I could make myself delay those few short moments. No one in all this world would ever know.

The mother, after the first shock of grief, would probably be glad she had lost a child so sadly handicapped. In a year or two she would try again and this tragic fate would never be repeated.

"Don't bring this suffering upon them," the small voice within me said. "This baby has never taken a breath -- don't let her ever take one. You probably can't get it out in time, anyway. Don't hurry. Don't be a fool and bring this terrible thing upon them. Maybe your conscience will hurt worse if you do get it out in time."

I motioned to the nurse for the warm sterile towel that is always ready for me in a breech delivery to wrap around the baby's body so that stimulation of the cold air of the outside world may not induce a sudden expansion of the baby's chest, causing the aspiration of fluid or mucus that might bring death. But this time the towel was only to conceal from the attending nurses that which my eyes alone had seen. With the touch of that pitiful little foot in my hand, a pang of sorrow for the baby's future swept through me, and my decision was made. I glanced at the clock. Three of the allotted seven or eight minutes had already gone.

Every eye in the room was upon me and I could feel the tension in their eagerness to do instantly what I asked, totally unaware of what I was feeling. I hoped they could not possibly detect the tension of my own struggle at that moment. For the first time in my medical life I was deliberately discarding what I had been taught was right for something that I felt sure was better. I slipped my hand beneath the towel to feel the pulsation's of the baby's cord, a certain index of its condition. Two or three minutes more would be enough.

So that I might seem to be doing something, I drew the baby down a little lower to "split out" the arms, the usual next step, and as I did so the little pink foot on the good side bobbed out from its protecting towel and pressed firmly against my slowly moving hand, the hand into whose keeping the safety of the mother and the baby had been entrusted. There was a sudden convulsive movement of the baby's body, an actual feeling of strength and life and vigor. It was too much. I couldn't do it. I delivered the baby with her pitiful little leg.

I told the family the next day, and with a catch in my voice, I told the mother. Every foreboding came true. The mother was in a hospital for months. I saw her once or twice and she looked like a wraith of her former self. I heard of them indirectly from time to time. Finally I lost track of them altogether.

As the years went on, I blamed myself bitterly for not having had the strength to yield to my temptation. Through the many years that I have been there, there has developed in our hospital a pretty custom of staging an elaborate Christmas party each year for the employees, the nurses and the doctors of the staff. There is always a beautifully decorated tree on the stage of our little auditorium. The girls spend weeks in preparation. We have set aside this one day to touch upon the emotional and spiritual side. It is almost like going to an impressive church service, as each year we dedicate ourselves anew to the year ahead.

This past year the arrangement was somewhat changed. The tree, on one side of the stage, had been sprayed with sliver paint and was hung with scores of gleaming silver and tinsel ornaments, without a trace of color anywhere and with no lights hung upon the tree itself. It shone but faintly in the dimly lighted auditorium. The first rows were reserved for the nurses and the moment the procession entered, each girl in uniform, each one crowned by her nurse's cap, her badge of office. We rose as one man to do them honor, and as the last one reached her seat, and we settled in our places again, the organ began the opening notes of one of the oldest of our carols.

Slowly down the middle aisle, marching from the back of the auditorium, came 20 other girls singing softly, our own nurses, in full uniform, each holding high a lighted candle, while through the auditorium floated the familiar strains of "Silent Night." On the opposite side of the stage a curtain was slowly drawn, and we saw three lovely young musicians, all in shimmering white evening gowns. They played very softly in unison with the organ -- a harp, a cello and a violin.

I am quite sure I was not the only old sissy there whose eyes were filled with tears. I have always like the harp, and I love to watch the grace of a skillful player. I was especially fascinated by this young harpist. She played extraordinarily well, as if she loved it. Her slender fingers flickered across the strings, and as the nurses sang, her face, made beautiful by a mass of auburn hair, was upturned as if the world that moment were a wonderful and holy place.

When the short program was over, I sat alone, there came running down the aisle a woman whom I did not know. She came to me with arms outstretched.

"Oh, you saw her," she cried. "You must have recognized your baby. That was my daughter who played the harp and I saw you watching her. Don't you remember the little girl who was born with only one good leg 17 years ago? We tried everything else first, but now she has a whole artificial leg on that side but you would never know it, would you? She can walk, she can swim, and she can almost dance. But, best of all, through all those years when she couldn't do those things, she learned to use her hands so wonderfully. She is going to be one of the world's great harpists. She is my whole life, and now she is so happy."

As we spoke, this sweet young girl had quietly approached us, her eyes glowing, and now she stood beside me.

"This is your first doctor, my dear, our doctor," her mother said. Her voice trembled. I could see her literally swept back, as I was, through all the years of heartache to the day when I told her what she had to face.

"He was the first one to tell me about you. He brought you to me."

Impulsively I took the child in my arms. Across her warm young shoulder I saw the creeping clock of the delivery room 17 years before. I lived again those awful moments when her life was in my hand, when I had decided on deliberate infanticide.

"You never will know, my dear," I said, "you never will know, nor will anyone else in all the world, just what tonight has meant to me. Go back to your harp for a moment, please -- and play "Silent Night" for me alone. I have a load on my shoulders that no one has ever seen, a load that only you can take away."

Perhaps her mother knew what was in my mind. And as the last strains of "Silent Night, Holy Night" faded again, I think I found the answer, and the comfort, I had waited for so long.

Becky And Her Wolf

Becky and Her Wolf

Author: Unknown

With all her big brothers and sisters off to school, our ranch became a lonely place for our three-year-old daughter, Becky. She longed for playmates. Cattle and horses were too big to cuddle and farm machinery dangerous for a child so small. We promised to buy her a puppy but in the meantime, "Pretend" puppies popped up nearly every day.

I had just finished washing the lunch dishes when the screen door slammed and Becky rushed in, cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Mama!" she cried. "Come see my new doggy!

"I gave him water two times already. He's so thirsty!" I sighed. Another of Becky's imaginary dogs.

"Please come, Mama." She tugged at my jeans, her brown eyes pleading, "He's crying -- and he can't walk!"

"Can't walk?"

Now that was a twist. All her previous make-believe dogs could do marvelous things. One balanced a ball on the end of its nose. Another dug a hole that went all the way through the earth and fell out on a star on the other side. Still another danced on a tightrope. Why suddenly a dog that couldn't walk?

"All right, honey," I said. By the time I tried to follow her, Becky had already disappeared into the mesquite.

"Where are you?" I called.

"Over here by the oak stump. Hurry, Mama!"

I parted the thorny branches and raised my hand against the glare of the Arizona sun. A numbing chill gripped me. There she was, sitting on her heels, toes dug firmly in the sand, and cradled in her lap was the unmistakable head of a wolf! Beyond its head rose massive black shoulders. The rest of the body lay completely hidden inside the hollow stump of a fallen oak.

"Becky," My mouth felt dry. "Don't move."

I stepped closer. Pale-yellow eyes narrowed. Black lips tightened, exposing double sets of two-inch fangs. Suddenly the wolf trembled. Its teeth clacked, and a piteous whine rose from its throat.

"It's all right, boy," Becky crooned. "Don't be afraid. That's my mama, and she loves you, too."

Then the unbelievable happened. As her tiny hands stroked the great shaggy head, I heard the gentle thump, thump, thumping of the wolf's tail from deep inside the stump. What was wrong with the animal? I wondered. Why couldn't he get up? I couldn't tell. Nor did I dare to step any closer. I glanced at the empty water bowl. My memory flashed back to the five skunks that last week had torn the burlap from a leaking pipe in a frenzied effort to reach water during the final agonies of rabies. Of course! Rabies! Warning signs had been posted all over the county, and hadn't Becky said, "He's so thirsty?"

I had to get Becky away.

"Honey." My throat tightened. "Put his head down and come to Mama. We'll go find help."

Reluctantly, Becky got up and kissed the wolf on the nose before she walked slowly into my outstretched arms. Sad yellow eyes followed her. Then the wolf's head sank to the ground. With Becky safe in my arms, I ran to the barns where Brian, one of our cowhands, was saddling up to check heifers in the North pasture.

"Brian! Come quickly. Becky found a wolf in the oak stump near the wash! I think it has rabies!"

"I'll be there in a jiffy," he said as I hurried back to the house, eager to put Becky down for her nap. I didn't want her to see Brian come out of the bunkhouse. I knew he'd have a gun.

"But I want to give my doggy his water," she cried. I kissed her and gave her some stuffed animals to play with.

"Honey, let Mom and Brian take care of him for now," I said. Moments later, I reached the oak stump.

Brian stood looking down at the beast. "It's a Mexican lobo, all right." He said, " And a big one!"

The wolf whined. Then we both caught the smell of gangrene.

"Whew! It's not rabies," Brian said. "But he's sure hurt real bad. Don't you think it's best I put him out of his misery?"

The word "yes" was on my lips, when Becky emerged from the bushes. "Is Brian going to make him well, Mama?"

She hauled the animal's head onto her lap once more, and buried her face in the coarse, dark fur. This time I wasn't the only one who heard the thumping of the lobo's tail.

That afternoon my husband, Bill, and our veterinarian came to see the wolf. Observing the trust the animal had in our child, Doc said to me, "Suppose you let Becky and me tend to this fella together."

Minutes later, as child and vet reassured the stricken beast, the hypodermic found its mark. The yellow eyes closed.

"He's asleep now," said the vet. "Give me a hand here, Bill."

They hauled the massive body out of the stump. The animal must have been over five feet long and well over one- hundred pounds. The hip and leg had been mutilated by bullets. Doc did what he had to in order to clean the wound and then gave the patient a dose of penicillin. Next day he returned and inserted a metal rod to replace the missing bone.

"Well, it looks like you've got yourselves a Mexican lobo," Doc said. "He looks to be about three years old, and even as pups, they don't tame real easy. I'm amazed at the way this big fella took to your little gal. But often there's something that goes on between children and animals that we grownups don't understand."

Becky named the wolf Ralph and carried food and water to the stump every day.

Ralph's recovery was not easy. For three months he dragged his injured hindquarters by clawing the earth with his front paws. From the way he lowered his eyelids when we massaged the atrophied limbs, we knew he endured excruciating pain, but not once did he ever try to bite the hands of those who cared for him.

Four months to the day, Ralph finally stood unaided. His huge frame shook as long- unused muscles were activated. Bill and I patted and praised him. But it was Becky to whom he turned for a gentle word, a kiss or a smile. He responded to these gestures of love by swinging his busy tail like a pendulum. As his strength grew, Ralph followed Becky all over the ranch. Together they roamed the desert pastures, the golden-haired child often stooping low, sharing with the great lame wolf whispered secrets of nature's wonders. When evening came, he returned like a silent shadow to his hollow stump that had surely become his special place.

As time went on, although he lived primarily in the brush, the habits of this timid creature endeared him more and more to all of us. His reaction to people other than our family was yet another story. Strangers terrified him, yet his affection for and protectiveness of Becky brought him out of the desert and fields at the sight of every unknown pickup or car. Occasionally he'd approach, lips taut, exposing a nervous smile full of chattering teeth. More often he'd simply pace and finally skulk off to his tree stump, perhaps to worry alone.

Becky's first day of school was sad for Ralph. After the bus left, he refused to return to the yard. Instead, he lay by the side of the road and waited. When Becky returned, he limped and tottered in wild, joyous circles around her. This welcoming ritual persisted throughout her school years.

Although Ralph seemed happy on the ranch, he disappeared into the surrounding deserts and mountains for several weeks during the spring mating season, leaving us to worry about his safety. This was calving season, and fellow ranchers watched for coyotes, cougars, wild dogs and, of course, the lone wolf. But Ralph was lucky.

During Ralph's twelve years on our ranch, his habits remained unchanged. Always keeping his distance, he tolerated other pets and endured the activities of our busy family, but his love for Becky never wavered. Then the spring came when our neighbor told us he'd shot and killed a she-wolf and grazed her mate, who had been running with her. Sure enough, Ralph returned home with another bullet wound. Becky, nearly fifteen years old now, sat with Ralph's head resting on her lap. He, too, must have been about fifteen and was gray with age.

As Bill removed the bullet, my memory raced back through the years. Once again I saw a chubby three-year-old girl stroking the head of a huge black wolf and heard a small voice murmuring, "It's all right, boy. Don't be afraid. That's my mama, and she loves you, too."

Although the wound wasn't serious, this time Ralph didn't get well. Precious pounds fell away. The once luxurious fur turned dull and dry, and his trips to the yard in search of Becky's companionship ceased. All day long he rested quietly. But when night fell, old and stiff as he was, he disappeared into the desert and surrounding hills. By dawn his food was gone.

The morning came when we found him dead. The yellow eyes were closed. Stretched out in front of the oak stump, he appeared but a shadow of the proud beast he once had been. A lump in my throat choked me as I watched Becky stroke his shaggy neck, tears streaming down her face.

"I'll miss him so," she cried.

Then as I covered him with a blanket, we were startled by a strange rustling sound from inside the stump. Becky looked inside. Two tiny yellow eyes peered back and puppy fangs glinted in the semidarkness. Ralph's pup!

Had a dying instinct told him his motherless offspring would be safe here, as he had been, with those who loved him? Hot tears spilled on baby fur as Becky gathered the trembling bundle in her arms.

"It's all right, little . . . Ralphie," she murmured. "Don't be afraid. That's my mom, and she loves you, too."

Doing Well By Doing Good

Doing Well By Doing Good

William R. Brody

Excerpted from a speech delivered by Mr. Brody to the graduating class of John Hopkins University on May 26, 2005.

There is a man who I'd like to tell you about. His name is Sandy Greenberg. In his youth, Sandy was a very good student, but he came from a poor family. And so he went to Columbia University on a scholarship and there he met his roommate who also was receiving financial aid.

Now while he was a sophomore at Columbia University, Sandy contracted an eye disease that eventually proved to be glaucoma. But the trouble was, it wasn't detected early enough, and as a result he became legally blind. I ask you all to imagine for a moment having been sighted all your life, and then all of a sudden being faced, in a very competitive school, with losing so much sight you could no longer read. This is what happened to Sandy Greenberg.

But something else happened to Sandy that may surprise you. Sandy said that when he lost his sight, his roommate would read his textbooks to him, every night.

So I'm going to put you in that position, in a competitive school like Columbia, or Johns Hopkins. If your roommate had a serious disability, would you take the time to read textbooks to him every night, knowing the more you spend time reading textbooks to your roommate, perhaps the less well you might do with your other activities? That's not as easy a question as it first appears.

But luckily for Sandy, his roommate did. And as a result, Sandy went on to graduate with honors. He got a Fulbright Scholarship, and he went off to study at Oxford. He was still quite poor, but he said he had managed to save about five hundred dollars as he went along.

His roommate, meanwhile, also went on to graduate school. One day, Sandy got a call from him at Oxford. And his former roommate said, "Sandy I'm really unhappy. I really don't like being in graduate school, and I don't want to do this."

So Sandy asked, "Well what do you want to do?"

And his roommate told him, "Sandy, I really love to sing. I have a high school friend who plays the guitar. And we would really like to try our hand in the music business. But we need to make a promo record, and in order to do that I need $500."

So Sandy Greenberg told me he took all his life savings and sent it to his roommate. He told me, "You know, what else could I do? He made my life; I needed to help make his life."

So, I hope you'll remember the power of doing well by doing good. Each of you, in your own lives, will be faced with challenges, with roadblocks, with problems that you didn't anticipate or expect. How you are able to deal with adversity will be influenced, to no small extent, by how you deal with others along the way. What you get will depend a lot on what you give. And that's the end of the story of doing well, by doing good.

Ah! I almost forgot. You probably are wanting to know who Sandy's roommate was. I think you've heard of him. Sandy's roommate was a fellow by the name of Art Garfunkel, and he teamed up with another musician by the name of Paul Simon. That $500 helped them cut a record that eventually became "The Sounds of Silence." Recently, we had the pleasure of going to Sandy's daughter's wedding, and it was Art Garfunkel who sang as Sandy walked his daughter down the aisle.

When you get to be my age (which, for some of you, is really old, (though it doesn't seem so old to me anymore), you will find yourself beginning to ask, did my life make a difference?

That's the day of personal reckoning. And I think the only way to face it is to consider, every day of your life: How can I do something for somebody else? How can I give back to others? It may be teaching, it may be becoming a doctor, you may be successful in business - no matter what your career path, there will always be the opportunity to give back. The chance will present itself to be giving of your time, giving of your money, but mostly, to be giving of yourselves, of your own heart and soul.

My hope today, as you commence to new beginnings, is you will always keep your eyes open for those opportunities to give and embrace them as your best sure way of doing well.

Father's Eyes

Bob Richards, the former pole-vault champion, shares a moving story about a skinny young boy who loved football with all his heart.

Practice after practice, he eagerly gave everything he had. But being half the size of the other boys, he got absolutely nowhere.

At all the games, this hopeful athlete sat on the bench and hardly ever played. This teenager lived alone with his father, and the two of them had a very special relationship. Even though the son was always on the bench, his father was always in the stands cheering. He never missed a game.

This young man was still the smallest of the class when he entered high school. But his father continued to encourage him but also made it very clear that he did not have to play football if he didn't want to. But the young man loved football and decided to hang in there. He was determined to try his best at every practice, and perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior.

All through high school he never missed a practice nor a game but remained a bench-warmer all four years. His faithful father was always in the stands, always with words of encouragement for him.

When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the football team as a walk-on. Everyone was sure he could never make the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he kept him on the roster because he always puts his heart and soul to every practice, and at the same time, provided the other members with the spirit and hustle they badly needed.

The news that he had survived the cut thrilled him so much that he rushed to the nearest phone and called his father. His father shared the son's excitement and received season tickets for all the college games.

This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in a game. It was the end of his senior football season, and as he trotted onto the practice field shortly before the big playoff game, the coach met him with a telegram.

The young man read the telegram and he became deathly silent. Swallowing hard, he mumbled to the coach, "My father died this morning. Is it all right if I miss practice today"?

The coach put his arm gently around his shoulder and said, "Take the rest of the week off, son. And don't even plan to come back to the game on Saturday."

Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well. In the third quarter, when the team was ten points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran onto the sidelines, the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful team-mate back so soon.

"Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the young man. The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player in this close playoff game. But the young man persisted, and finally, feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in.

"All right," he said. "22 You can go in."

Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything right. The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked, and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied.

In the closing seconds of the game, this kid intercepted a pass and ran all the way for the winning touchdown. The fans broke loose. His team-mates hoisted him onto their shoulders. Such cheering you never heard.

Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed that this young man was sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and said, "Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me, what got into you? How did you do it?"

The young man looked at the coach, with tears in his eyes, and said, "Well, you knew my dad died, but did you know that my dad was blind?"

The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Dad came to all my games, but today was the first time he could see me play, and I wanted to show him I could do it."

--- Author Unknown ---

A Love Story

*One of the most touching and purest love story I've read in a while..

From the very beginning, girl's family objected strongly on her dating this guy, saying that it has got to do with family background, & that the girl will have to suffer for the rest of her life if she were to be with him.

Due to family's pressure, the couple quarreled very often. Though the girl loved the guy deeply, she always asked him: "How deep is your love for me?"

As the guy is not good with his words, this often caused the girl to be very upset. With that & the family's pressure, the gal often vents her anger on him. As for him.. he only endured it in silence.

After a couple of years, the guy finally graduated & decided to further his studies overseas.

Before leaving, he proposed to the gal: "I'm not very good with words. But all I know is that I love you. If you allow me, I will take care of you for the rest of my life. As for your family, I'll try my best to talk them round. Will you marry me?"

The girl agreed, & with the guy's determination, the family finally gave in & agreed to let them get married. So before he left, they got engaged.

The gal went out to the working society, whereas the guy was overseas, continuing his studies. They sent their love through emails & phone calls. Though it was hard, but both never thought of giving up.

One day, while the gal was on her way to work, she was knocked down by a car that lost control. When she woke up, she saw her parents beside her bed. She realized that she was badly injured. Seeing her mum cry, she wanted to comfort her. But she realized that all that could come out of her mouth was just a sigh. She had lost her voice....

The doctor says that the impact on her brain has caused her to lose her voice. Listening to her parents' comfort, but with nothing coming out from her, she broke down. During the stay in hospital, besides silent cry. it's still just silent cry that accompanied her. Upon reaching home, everything seems to be the same. Except for the ringing tone of the phone which pierced into her heart every time it rang. She does not wish to let the guy know & not wanting to be a burden to him, she wrote a letter to him saying that she does not wish to wait any longer.

With that, she sent the ring back to him. In return, the guy sent millions & millions of reply and countless phone calls. all the gal could do besides crying is still crying.... The parents decided to move away, hoping that she could eventually forget everything & be happy.

With a new environment, the gal learnt sign language & started a new life, Telling herself everyday that she must forget the guy.

One day, her friend came & told her that he's back. She asked her friend not to let him know what happened to her. Since then, there wasn't anymore news of him.

A year has passed & her friend came with an envelope, containing an invitation card for the guy's wedding.

The gal was shattered. When she opened the letter, she saw her name on it instead. When she was about to ask her friend what was going on, she saw the guy standing in front of her....

He used sign language to tell her, "I've spent a year to learn sign language. Just to let you know that I've not forgotten our promise. Let me have the chance to be your voice. I Love You."

With that, he slipped the ring back into her finger. The gal finally smiled......

Treat every relationship as if it's the last one, then you'll know how to Give.

Treat every moment as if it's the last day, then you'll know how to Treasure.

Treasure what you have right now, or else you may regret one day... *

It Might Be Too Late

The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses' station on the seventh floor and glanced at the clock.

It was 9 P. M. I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family.

As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but drooped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.

He looked up from his starched white bed. "Nurse, would you - "He hesitated, tears filling his eyes.

Once before he had started to ask me a question, but changed his mind. I touched his hand, waiting. He brushed away a tear.

"Would you call my daughter? Tell her I've had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have."

His respiration suddenly speeded up. I turned his nasal oxygen up to eight liters a minute.

"Of course I'll call her," I said, studying his face. He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency.

"Will you call her right away - as soon as you can?"

He was breathing fast - too fast.

"I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder.

I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his 50 - year - old face. Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot.

"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?"

I dug a scrap of yellow paper and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table. I walked back to the nurses' station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed.

Her soft voice answered.

"Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and "

"No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying is he ?"

"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying hard to sound convincing. Silence. I bit my lip.

"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone.

"He is getting the very best care."

"But you don't understand," she pleaded.

"My daddy and I haven't spoken. On my 21st birthday, we had a fight over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I-I haven't been back. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you."

Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, "I love you."

As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. "Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness."

"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said.

Click. She had hung up. I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I couldn't concentrate. Room 712; I knew I had to get back to 712.

I hurried down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door. Mr. Williams lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse. There was none.

"Code 99, Room 712. Code 99. Stat."

The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed. Mr. Williams had a cardiac arrest. With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs (twice). I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count.

At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, Compressed and . He could not die!

"O God," I prayed. "His daughter is coming! Don't let it end this way."

The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency equipment. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing. I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat.

My own heart pounded. "God, don't let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter is coming. Let her find peace."

"Stand back," cried a doctor.

I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Williams's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead. A nurse unplugged the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent.

How could this happen? How? I stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. Outside -everywhere - seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark. How could I face his daughter?

When I left the room, I saw her against a wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall. Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew.

The doctor had told her that her father was gone. I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking.

"Janie, I'm so, so sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate.

"I never hated him, you know. I loved him," she said. God, please help her, I thought. Suddenly she whirled toward me. "I want to see him."

My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse. But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the door.

We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets. I tried not to look at her at this sad, sad good-bye. I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. It read:

My dearest Janie,

I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me.

I love you too,

Daddy

The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast.

"Thank You, God," I whispered, looking up at the window.

A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever. Life seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank You, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again - but there is not a moment to spare.

I crept from the room and hurried to the phone. I would call my father. I would say, "I love you."

P. S. I think it would be a wonderful idea for each of us to take a minute of our busy day and tell people that are special to us that we love them.... before it's too late! Don't you?

Trusting The Unknown

"We are very near to greatness: one step and we are safe: can we not take the leap?" - Ralph W. Emerson

After ten years of working for a prestigious Wall Street bank and slamming into a glass ceiling, I vehemently said "Enough!" If I was going to have an inspiring, compelling life and go beyond a clock-punching, nine-to-five job, I knew I had to make the decision to create it and shift gears.

I began looking. I'd never let my deafness shortchange my dreams. I wasn't about to start now. I scanned through The New York Times in search of new opportunities. My eyes were drawn to an advertisement in the back. A financial giant was looking to hire more stockbrokers. I thought, I can do that! With great excitement, I called a few people and made an appointment to see a New York City branch vice president.

On the day of my appointment, I was terribly sick with a cold and 101° fever that threatened to keep me in bed. Yet, I knew I couldn't let this golden opportunity slip away, so I showed up for the interview and spoke with vice president for over three hours. I thought he was surely going to hire me on the spot. Instead, he instructed me to meet with twelve of his top stockbrokers for further interviews. I was floored!

But., then maybe that's a good sign, I thought, trying to rationalize his decision.

During the next five months, every one of the twelve professionals discouraged me from becoming a stockbroker.

"You're better off in a safe 9-to-5 bank job," they proclaimed.

"Eighty percent of newcomers fail within their first year," they added.

"You have no investment experience."

"You won't make it."

The more attacked my dream, the more my stomach tightened. I could hardly breath. I realized then that I would have to "fake it to make it."

My final interview was scheduled on a cold, blustery January day on Fifth Avenue. Five minutes into the meeting, it was obvious the vice president didn't know what to do with me.

I handed him a 25-page marketing report on how I would build my business. I hoped this would convince him that I was indeed the man for the job. But, it didn't. Noticeably uncomfortable, he nervously played with a paper clip and pretended to read my report. Apparently, he wasn't confident that I could perform the job. I felt a tremendous opportunity was about to slip through my fingers.

So I looked at him straight in the eye and captured his attention.

"Sir," I said confidently. "If you don't hire me, you'll never know just how much I could've done for this firm." When I heard my own brazen words, I panicked. My God, I thought, what have I done? Can I really back that up?

I nervously waited. The seconds seemed like minutes and the minutes, like hours.

He finally spoke.

"Okay, you've got the job!" he announced.

I stood up and was about to leave when he added, "On one condition."

My heart sank.

"First," he said, "you must first resign from the Bank of New York effective two weeks from today and enroll in our three-month training program. Then, you have to take the Series 7 stockbroker exam. And, you must pass it on the FIRST try." He drove home his final point, "If you fail even by one point - you're out!"

My mouth went dry. Inward, I shook uncontrollably. I choked at the prospect of taking a huge leap of faith into the unknown. I stood to lose everything!

Then, captivated by this ultimate risk taking opportunity and by a courage that I knew would forever change my future, I swallowed hard and spoke confidently, "I'll take it." Little did I know the impact of that split- second decision.

As instructed, I cut my lifeline to the Bank and leapt into unproven waters.

After three months of training, it was time for me to take the three-hour exam. The test site was on Madison Avenue, a short distance from where I would be working, if I passed the test. I took the elevator to the seventh floor and signed in. From the reception area, I could see the test room through the glass partition. It was full of computers, all deliberately spaced in several rows. The room was sparsely furnished with the barest of essentials of scrap paper, several sharpened pencils and uncomfortable-looking chairs.

The exam proctors led me to my assigned computer. One of the most important tests of my life was about to begin. They gave me a signal to go ahead. I was extremely nervous but as the test progressed, I felt increasingly confident. Three hours passed by surprisingly fast.

It was time for the final score - the computer would calculate it and flash it on the screen. I sat there sweating and staring at the computer that held the key to my future. I was positive someone could hear my heart beating. The screen blinked on and off with the message, "Your scores are being tabulated by the computer, please wait."

The wait seemed like hours. The scores were finally displayed.

I had passed! I let out an audible sigh of relief.

Since that day, I've never looked back. I exceeded not only my own expectations but also those of the manager who took a chance and hired me on that fateful day. Before being promoted himself, he was around long enough to witness my personal sales soar 1,700%, hand me several sales awards and see me on CNN.

That was four years ago. I am now a inspirational speaker and author.

All because I took a chance, instead of hiding safely behind my deafness.

My experiences confirmed the truth of Thoreau's words when he said, "If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams and endeavors to live the life which he had imagined, he will meet success unexpected in common hours."

That's what the power of making a split second decision did for me, a deaf stockbroker-turned motivational speaker/author!

(c) Stephen J. Hopson (Revised Edition)

Information Please

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know. "Information Please" could supply anybody's number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer.

The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.

The telephone!

Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear.

"Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.

A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information."

"I hurt my finger. . ." I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

"Isn't your mother home?"came the question.

"Nobody's home but me." I blubbered.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."

"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could.

"Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before would eat fruits and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called "Information Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled.

I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."

Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please."

"Information," said the now familiar voice.

"How do you spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was 9 years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall.

As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information, Please".

Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information."

I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now."

I laughed. "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time."

"I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me."

"I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls."

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

"Please do," she said. "Just ask for Sally."

Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered "Information." I asked for Sally.

"Are you a friend?" She said.

"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, "she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."

Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"

"Yes."

"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you." The note said, "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

" Never underestimate the impression you may make on others".

--- Author Unknown ---

The Old Corral

I had a childhood friend that taught me several lessons that I'll never forget. His name was Jim and he was a dreamer. He always liked to think up new ways of doing things and had a way of bringing others into those dreams. He was a tremendous friend that understood things beyond his years. Jim and I were about 13 or 14 years old farm kids. I knew him most of my life and we were always at each others homes, especially after we got our motorcycles.

One day Jim walked me down to his parents back pasture. It was quite a hike but it was worth it when he painted out his dream for us. The pasture area sat at the bottom of a wooded hillside a short distance away ran a small creek. Jim took me over to a specified location just inside the woods and said, "Well, what do you think?"

I said, "Think about what?"

He said, "About the cabin that we're going to build?"

I remember thinking that he was crazy, but he was insistent. He told about all the fun we were going to have and how it would be a whole lot better than a tent.

By the time he was done painting his dream, I was sold. I said, "When are we going to start?!?!"

Jim said, "Oh, we need to start by building the corral."

I said, "A corral? What for?"

Jim replied, "In case we need to put horses or cattle into it?"

Well, it was Jim's dream, so I agreed. I remember working for several days digging through the virgin soil under the trees, hitting roots, and complaining an awful lot. I remember taking axes and chopping down trees and dragging them over to the selected location. We trudged onward, until about a week later (It seemed more like a year) we finished.

As we stood back admiring our corral, Jim said, "Good now we can start working on the cabin!"

As we walked back to his home that evening, I remember Jim turning to me and saying, "You know Terry, I have to be honest with you. I didn't want us to build that corral for horses, or cattle."

I said, "Then why did we build it?"

Jim answered, "We built it so that I would know if you really would help me build the cabin."

Jim understood the importance of making dreams real and that dream only come true when commitment is involved. We did finish building the cabin later that year, and it was a source of fun and pride for many, many years to come. It all started with an idea, a dream, and someone who understood the importance of commitment.

I am now an administrator of an elementary school and Jim taught me several lessons that I still apply today. I still try to paint my dreams in vivid colors and make them touchable for others and I still work with my staff to build corrals.

"Your words are continually educating others around you. Let them create a portrait of enthusiasm and faith"

--- Copyright © Terry Hogenson

Take Control of Your Mind

It was the spring of 1982 and I was coaching girls' track in a small southern Iowa town. There was a young discus thrower on the team, a sophomore who had tremendous potential. This is a story about her realizing that potential... and about what tends to hold us all back from realizing our potential.

At the end of our workout the Friday before the Monday district track meet, this discus thrower, we'll call her Jill in this story, came to me and asked if she could come to the school on Sunday after lunch for a little extra workout. I said, "Sure." We would meet at 1:00 and go through a 40-45 minute workout.

I knew why Jill wanted the extra fine tuning. The year before, as only a freshman, she had placed second in the discus at the district meet and narrowly missed going to the state meet in Des Moines.

See, I had done some checking on Jill's freshman season and had tallied those results with the sophomore year that was now winding down. This young lady had won every discus event, in every varsity meet as both a freshman and sophomore, except that district event the year before! And, her throws in competition had always been between 106' 1" and 110' 10". Very consistent. Very good for so young.

But, something began to bother me. Something that I didn't know how to fix until it hit me that sunny Sunday in 1982.

What bothered me was why this young athlete couldn't seem to get the discus two more inches to 111 feet? Only two more little inches... why? I began to wonder if it was more a psychological barrier rather than a physical one. But, what to do about it? I had encouraged the socks off that girl that year...110' 10" was the best she could do... twice!

I decided to try something I had never done to one of my athletes before. I decided to deceive Jill. I decided to LIE! Without going into too many details the rest of the story goes like this.

Jill went through her usual drills. Then, I said, "Why don't you throw five or six good ones for me to measure?" She agreed and proceeded to let some good throws rip, but none were farther than what she had already thrown. I could just tell, even though the markings on the discus area had pretty well been washed off by some recent rains.

But, I didn't tell Jill. As a matter of fact, when we measured them I made sure Jill had the "zero" end of the measuring tape. And, Jill also threw one of her best throws away from the rest of her tosses, which helped with my little scheme, too. As we were measuring, the throws were in her usual range --- 108 to 110 feet. But, as I was walking toward the final one I yelled out to her, "I really think this one is farther!"

It wasn't. It was around 110' 6". But, it was now or never. I still had the tape between my thumb and index finger as I jumped up, pumped my fist into the air, and screamed out, "You've got to see this!!!"

Jill, thinking that this was a personal best, jumped wildly into the air in excitement. As she did, I pulled some more tape through my fingers. I had no idea how much. I just hoped it would be over 111 feet. I didn't even look at the tape until Jill made it to where I was standing. When she looked at the tape, it was the first time I had, too.

There it was, right at the end of my thumb, 112' 2"! Jill went crazy. I just hoped it would work.

The next afternoon, at districts, Jill won with a personal best toss of 114' 10"!!! Just 24 hours after I had "lied" to her. Just 24 hours after she had actually thrown 110' 6". But, now she had ACTUALLY thrown the discus four feet further than she had ever thrown it before without any practice in between our extra session the day before and the meet. But, unbelievably, the story doesn't end here.

Eleven days later we were at the Drake intramural field where the State discus event was to be held. It was a terrible weather day raining fairly heavily. The discus ring was wet. The officials even had to use towels to constantly dry it for the athletes. Jill came into the event with the 8th best throw in the districts.

Her goals were simple: break the school record of 115' 1" and place in the top six to score at least one point for herself, her teammates, and the school. (Jill was the only qualifier from our school that year).

You get 3 throws in the prelims and the top eight qualify for 3 more in the finals. Jill didn't need 6 throws, or even 3 throws that day. On her second throw in the preliminaries she uncorked a toss like she had never had before. The discus sliced through the heavy, rainy air and splashed down. The officials marked it. Then, they measured it. 118' 1"! Amazing!!! But, the most amazing part of the story was that it held up... Jill won the state title by three inches!

She would go on her junior year to place second at State and again win the state meet her senior year. She would throw the discus in college, eventually having a personal best over 135 feet!

I know she got better coaching in college. But what changed in the 12 days from that Sunday afternoon, when I tricked her until the state meet? Not her technique, not her workouts, not her strength level, not her build.

The entire change occurred between her ears and in her heart. She believed that she had broken through. She believed that she was better than 110 feet 10 inches.

After that state meet her sophomore year, her parents took her and my wife and I out for a steak feast in Des Moines. While we were eating dinner I told everyone what I had done 12 days earlier. As I told the story, Jill's mouth dropped open further and further. When I finished, Jill got mad! That's right! She got mad at me and said, "I can't believe that you would lie to me like that."

For a brief moment I felt bad. Then, I looked up at her. Looked her right in the eyes and said, "Jill, take one more look at that medal around your neck. Now you answer me this. Was I lying to you or were you lying to yourself for two years?"

I wonder how many people go through life lying to themselves about their potential and their ability to reach their dreams. I would venture a guess that 90%-95% of us do. Most of us are like Jill. We set our own barriers in our minds. We lie to ourselves.

When someone tries to encourage us, we usually respond with some negative answer. Psychologist, Shad Helmstetter, says that 70% of our self- talk is negative. (Self-talk is what we say to ourselves about ourselves). I agree, and I know Jill would agree too.

Don't lie to yourself, learn to take control of your mind. God gave each of us tremendous abilities and talents. I believe those talents are there to glorify Him. But, whether you believe that or not, don't lie to yourself.

Be the best possible you!

Copyright © Lee Ayers