Healing Hands

 

The phone rang at the small dental office where I worked. “We need you to come in for an x-ray. There appears to be a spot on your lungs.”

     I clicked off the portable phone with shaking hands. The dentist looked at me across the patient we’d been working on. As the only employee- dental assistant and receptionist- my duties were numerous. I knew that my boss didn’t like me to get personal calls. But I think he could tell by the look on my face that it was something very serious.

     Fear grabbed hold of me. I had no words. I had to finish the patient’s procedure while my stomach clenched with terror. I tried not to let my hands shake as we continued working.

     I imagined the worst right away. I’d always been a glass-half-empty sort-of person. News always meant something bad. But this—a spot on my lung. It had to be cancer.

     So many thoughts rolled within me at once. I’m only thirty-eight. My son is ten. I can’t leave him now. He needs me. What about my parents? We were such a close family. What would this do to them?

     After we dismissed the patient, I told my boss about the phone call. I excused myself from the office for the rest of the day. I had to find answers.

     I drove three blocks to my physician’s office. I barely noticed the brilliant hues of the red and gold fall leaves on the trees lining the streets. People walking along the sidewalks blurred as tears stung my eyes. Though Thanksgiving would soon be approaching, I had nothing to be thankful about.

     I’d recently had minor outpatient surgery. Everything had gone well and I’d been on my way to complete recovery. It seemed odd that the doctor called me now after I’d had all the pre-testing and x-rays done over a month before. Nobody had informed me of any issues and I’d been cleared for the procedure.

     When I walked into the doctor’s office and informed the receptionist I was there, she told me to wait a few minutes and they would call me back shortly. I tried picking up a magazine to browse through or tried smiling at the others seated nearby. Nothing worked. I could feel fear choking me.

     New x-rays were taken and I waited for the doctor in an examination room. It didn’t take long for him to bring in the new films.

     “Here it is,” he pointed out. “A spot on your left lung.” He compared it to the x-rays taken one month before.

     The words hung in the air until I had the courage to ask, “What can it be, doctor?”

     “Well,” he said, “it could be an old scar from pneumonia you may have had at one time, or it could be cancer.”

     Cancer: a word that changes lives. It would certainly change mine.

     I left his office that afternoon completely baffled and fearful. Further tests would have to be scheduled.

     I called my mother that night. “First of all, I refuse to believe this,” she said. “Also your doctor was too harsh. I want you to have a second opinion, honey. I’d like you to see my doctor. She’s good and also very compassionate.”

     Mom also told me about a pastor she had recently met in the little antique shop she owned. “He was a good man,” my mother said. “We got to talking about so many things the day he was in the store. He told me incredible stories of healing. He said he had been given the gift of healing hands. I’d like to call him for you if that’s okay.”

     Though I’d been a bit skeptical as I waited for further tests, I knocked on the door of the pastor’s small home. He invited me in, and we sat and chatted for a while. Pictures of Jesus hung on the wood-paneled walls: Jesus comforting little children and the sick. Jesus, please comfort me too, I thought. Bibles and inspirational reference books lined bookshelves. A sense of peace enveloped me.

     I wanted to clear my conscience before he prayed. As I spoke, I felt cleansed and a sense of great relief.

     He anointed my forehead with spice- scented oil that reminded me of the incense our church used during special seasons. He placed his hands on my head as he prayed. I could feel the depth and power of the healing words as he spoke. There seemed to be a warm sensation going from his hands right through me. When he was done, I thanked him. He asked me to stay in touch.

     During the time I had to wait for the scheduled tests, I kept busy with something I enjoyed: raking fall leaves into huge piles on a crisp afternoon. My mind felt free in the fresh air. I’d been reading my Bible daily like a warrior getting ready for battle. I prayed bolder prayers and began to think a bit more positive. The fear that had engulfed me was replaced by a sense of calmness. The touch of the pastor’s hands had given me hope.

     My mother’s doctor met us at the local hospital the day of my tests. She was a tiny lady with a big personality. “I’m going to be around,” she said to me and Mom. “I want to see the results of the scan immediately.”

     Afterward, when we sat in the waiting area, my mother’s doctor came into the room with a perplexed, but cheerful expression. “I don’t know what the other doctor saw,” she said. “There is absolutely nothing on your scans.”

     Relief flooded me. Mom and I thanked her for the wonderful news as we hugged one another and cried happy tears.

     Later that night as I was praying, I remembered something that a friend had said to me a few months earlier. She’d called me one day and said, “Karen, I don’t know why you are supposed to hear these particular words, but God said everything is going to be okay.” They had been cryptic, but comforting words at the time, and as I thanked my heavenly father that evening, it came to me: I’d already been healed from that moment.

     It was easier to think positively as time went on because I’d become a more powerful prayer warrior. When others had issues in their lives, I gave them Bible passages that had comforted me during my own fearful time. I shared my story to bless others. Scriptures were no longer words but living truth. No longer fearful and negative, my life was filled with true thanksgiving.  It was the best Thanksgiving ever.

 

 

 

 

Different but better

As Thanksgiving approached this year, I found myself angry and upset. Because of Mom's dementia and confusion about so many things, I'd wanted to take the full responsibilities of the dinner upon myself. I wanted her to relax, sit back and let someone else do all the cooking, all the preparation, all of it. No such thing happened.

About a month ago, Mom announced that she wanted to buy the turkey. I begged and pleaded, telling her it was way too early, first of all. I told her that they've come to my house for the last five years, and wouldn't she like to do that again? Wouldn't she like to just enjoy the meal and get out of her house for a change? Nope. Mom would get upset every time the turkey battle would ensue. She'd huff and puff on the phone when we spoke, acting what I thought was rather childish. Little temper tantrums about how she wanted to do this, and a day or so without speaking to me after she got upset over mashed potatoes.

I cried myself to sleep a few nights about this change of power. I felt wronged and I grieved over the injustice done to me. Then it hit me. This is not about me. This is about her illness. An illness of the mind. She doesn't have control over much these days, not her thoughts or actions at times. Perhaps this Thanksgiving meal is the last hurrah of sorts. Her one way to gain control over a situation that is important to her. For cooking and baking have always been Mom's strengths. We had meals through the years, and not only the Italian ones, meals that were homey and good. Baked goods and homemade pizza that rivaled most of the best pizza parlors in town. This is where Mom felt safe. Her kitchen. A place where she always had control. And here I was trying the power struggle to take it away from her.

When I let my pride go and got into the spirit of things, I immediately felt a release of all the pent up emotions of the last few weeks. If it was this important to her, then I'd make it my priority for it to be important to me. Mom started days before Thanksgiving with a chocolate cake. Then another dessert she always makes called refrigerator cake. (Recipe to follow.) She threw together a batch of unbaked cookies. She made potato salad even though I told her we wanted mashed potatoes. There was no stopping the whirlwind frenzy that was my mother in the days leading up to the Thanksgiving.

I fretted over the bird most of all. I wondered if she remembered how to make one. Was her stuffing going to turn out? Would that turkey be fully cooked? Were we all headed to the emergency room afterward?

My brother and father helped Mom best they could until I arrived early Thanksgiving morning. And I was surprised that the turkey sat in the oven, already stuffed, already baking. As the hours ticked by, and each additional preparation began, the heavenly aroma lay about the house as the bird continued to roast.

I found a meat thermometer which pleased me to no end a little later. And when I inserted it into the breast, I saw it jump to the proper reading. It was finished! Wow, and it looked great! The picture above is indeed of the main event. On the old stove sat the pride of my mother. She'd remembered and done well I might add. Yes, she talked about the same things over and over yesterday. She checked and double checked things many times. But each of us handled it with good grace and a sense of humor. We enjoyed the day, so thankful for the blessing of our family. So grateful to still have Mom and Dad with us and the closeness of the loud Italian family I speak of so often.

No, it wasn't like Thanksgiving's of the past. It was different, yet somehow better. Years and memories have come and gone. Good times and bad, happiness and sadness. One thing remains: the love.

Refrigerator cake:
Package of graham crackers
Large box of Vanilla pudding, the type you have to cook
Large box of Chocolate pudding,the type you have to cook
Milk
Bananas optional

Layer graham crackers in a 13x9 pan across the bottom, breaking them to fit. Do not crush them, lay them flat.

Cook vanilla and chocolate puddings according to package directions.

Begin with a thin layer of chocolate pudding across the graham crackers, spreading it evenly. Then layer graham crackers across the top. (Remember do not crush them, lay them whole.) Alternate with vanilla pudding, etc until you end up with pudding on the top. Now you can slice bananas onto the dessert if you wish, then refrigerate. No baking involved.

Old-fashioned ways

Yesterday, while eating Thanksgiving dinner with my family, I couldn't help but ponder some of our customs and old-fashioned ways. For instance, how certain foods are made. With no deviations, Mom and I pretty much make dishes the same way since time began. The background music during dinner, old time records, yes, vinyl, my father lovingly brought to the house for us all to enjoy. These records have cracks, chips, some of them skip uncontrollably, but they all evoke memories. How can I not hear Percy Faith's "Carol of the Bells" and not get a bit choked up, thinking back to years ago, my brother and I as younger kids and the warmth of our family home?

It's this very warmth I want to talk about today. For several years I've been writing books. I have this blog, The Finches Nest, Inspirational Stories and I also have a story going pretty much all the time either in my head, or on my laptop. What I've hoped to convey over the years are heartfelt, old-fashioned stories.

Take for instance my book called "Reflections From my Mother's Kitchen." It's just that: a memoir-based tale, though fiction, but evoking all the warmth and memories of my mother's old-fashioned kitchen and old time customs. Things my son and his generation may never understand.

In this world of fast paced cell phone, i-pad technology, I'd like the younger people to take a moment and bask in some good old-fashioned warmth.

I recently got this very kind editorial review of my book "Piggy." What I've hoped to tell with this book is a story of friendship, honor, fun, adventure and good old-fashioned values. I feel these may be traits that I see sadly lacking in today's television and movies. Take a look:

Editorial Reviews

Review

Reviewed By Jane Finch for Readers' Favorite

Piggy by Karen Malena is a delightful story involving a cat and a mouse and their unusual friendship. Goober, a mother cat, has an adopted kitten, Peanut, and she entertains him by telling him the story of Piggy the cat and a mouse named Melvin. The story involves an assortment of other animals and takes the reader on a journey into the animal world. In a clever twist, Peanut finds out that the story his mother is telling him has far more meaning than he expected, and that someone close to him is involved in a way he had not imagined. The idea of the mother cat soothing her restless kitten with a story is charming, and the story itself is captivating.

This is a clever story that, although probably aimed at middle-grade age, would be lovely read to a younger child by a parent. I also think older children and even adults would enjoy the story and the antics of the animals. The author, Karen Malena, has done a really good job of weaving in a few life lessons. The fact that a cat and a mouse can be friends shows the importance of friendships and helping one another, even though the perception would be that they would be enemies. This is a gentle book with a story that is fun and enjoyable and also an exciting adventure. It's also about caring for one another and not always taking things on face value. I think it would make a perfect bedtime story where the reader could explain the story and its interpretations to a younger child.

 

This reader saw in my story exactly what I wished to convey. I'm very pleased to see such kind words. It is my hope that you, too, will take a moment, whether you're an e-book reader, or enjoy paperback, and pick up a copy of "Piggy" today. In time for the holidays, it's 25% off on my publisher's site. 

Let's bring back the heart of good old fashioned stories! Enjoy a good book today!

 

 

 

http://www.tuxedoebooks.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Piggy-Karen-Malena-ebook/dp/B00MR92EXS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1417208509&sr=8-1&keywords=karen+malena+piggy

Family: The gift of Thanksgiving

As Thanksgiving approaches I want to take some time to list my gratitude.

I am grateful for being raised in a family that cares about others. A family where my mother taught us children about respect for the elderly, for those less fortunate and for animals. A mother who once called me her shining star and would have done anything for me when I was faced with serious surgery as a young teenager. A woman who's battled deepest depression and found the will to go on in her darkest moments. A woman who can still laugh heartily.

I am grateful for a father who taught me about patience, resilience and a sense of humor. A man who didn't give up in the heat of life's toughest moments, who honors the sanctity of marriage and  his wedding vows. An unselfish man who is soft-spoken and kind, gentle and good.

I am grateful for a husband who calls me his best friend. A man who tells me almost daily how glad he is that we met later in life and he doesn't know what he would have done without me. A husband who respects me, listens to me even when I rattle on and on about some infraction that may seem boring to him, yet he gives me his time. A man I enjoy taking trips with, laughing with and praying with. A man who is not perfect, but loves God with his whole heart.

I am grateful for my son. He's taught me about life and never giving up. He's shown me that I could love so unconditionally until it hurts. During some of the toughest moments when I thought my heart would break over things he's had to go through, I learned that my love for him is one of the deepest emotions a mother could feel. I am grateful for our ability to talk with one another, enjoy each others company, and share stories together.

I am grateful for a brother who is one of the most selfless people I know. A man who would put others before his own needs. A man I've called best friend many times in my life. Though he came along fourteen years after me, I am grateful for our closeness and confiding in one another.

I am who I am because of these amazing people. Each of them with so much to offer this world. Each of them a part of the makeup of my life, my self and all that I am. I am blessed, honored, and yes, so very grateful for each of them.

There are countless others in my life, step-children, friends, cousins, aunts and uncles and my beautiful nieces who have meant the world to me. They, too, have contributed to the fabric of my life, the gratefulness I feel at this time of the year. I give you all my love each and every one of you and wish you the true gift of Thanksgiving in your own lives.

Thanksgiving Humor

     With trepidation, I pulled the portly bird in its wrapped packaging from the refrigerator yesterday morning.  I laid it upon the counter, eyeing up the name Butterball.  "Yes," I thought, "very appropriate."  I set to work, with surgical precision cutting the wrapper from the body.  I was expecting a demon-possessed entity looking back at me.  All I saw was a white, plump body of a turkey.  Nothing to be frightened of.
     I donned thin, latex gloves.  No way I was going to stick my hands up into the cavity of this thing.  I'm supposed to pull out what?  Hmmm, so far, so good.  I found the necessary innards to remove:  turkey neck, very ugly; some package of red, squishy things I didn't even want to know what they were.  Okay, it was going well.  With salt shaker in hand, I began to wash, even scrub the bird inside, outside, under wings and over legs.  When the thing was practically squeaky clean, I began speaking to it.  Now, this is not a normal thing for me.  I talk to my cats on occasion, and they love me for it.  I sing crazy songs to them while they look up at me, love clearly written on their feline faces.  But I felt it necessary to address the bird.  Tell it some stories about what a pretty thing it was, how good it was going to look after it was baked, and just some all around general chit chat.  Hubby didn't even glance up from some work he was doing at our kitchen table.  I asked him about that today.  His answer:  "I didn't even notice."
     Does this mean it's normal then for me to speak out to inanimate objects?  Has he become so immune to this type of behavior from me he barely notices?  Perhaps.
     This was only the third turkey I've prepared in my lifetime, you see.  The thing just intimidates me.  I worry it won't be cooked thoroughly.  I worry on how to get it out of the oven when it's done.  I worry over gravy-making, carving, the list goes on and on.
     Let me tell you, though.  When all was said and done yesterday, the meal was great.  Turkey was handled with care, gravy came out fine, even hubby got into the act and did the carving.  My eight guests were pleased and even went so far as to congratulate me on one of the most moist turkeys they had eaten.
     Phew, glad it's all over for now.  Until next year, or next holiday.....Perhaps the ham at Christmastime will hear some entertaining story from me as I prepare it.  At least the cats will be sitting at my feet, waiting for scraps to fall.  Waiting for me to sing some crazy song lovingly to them.