Fatigue has a way of playing tricks with your mind. What you experience may not be what it seems.

 

However, when the truth of the situation unfolds, what has occurred starts to make sense. But . . .

 

 

Would You Believe It Happened On New Year’s Eve?

 

     It was December 31 and I had to work. My day was long and boring. And it didn’t end until after 7:00 p.m. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I cleared my desk, grabbed my brief case, and dragged my fatigued body to my car. I slid into the driver’s seat and began the drive home.

     After a hellish twenty-six minutes, in which I had trouble keeping my eyes open, I pulled into the garage. Exiting the car, I headed through the covered walkway to the house.

     Entering through the front door, Bruno, our huge Saint Bernard, wearing a hat that read, “Happy New Year,” greeted me by jumping up and placing his paws on my shoulders. He then planted a slobbery kiss across my mouth and cheek. My balance compromised, I grabbed for the coat rack hanging on the wall in the hallway, while trying to push Bruno off me. I regained my composure, threw my coat over a hook on the rack, and called to my wife and kids, but got no response.

     I looked at the large mahogany grandfather clock sitting like a stately grandmaster against the wall across from the coat rack. It displayed the time, eight o’clock, and began to chime.

     I heard loud talking coming from the kitchen, so I dragged my tired body toward the commotion that must have prevented my family from hearing me call to them. Entering the room, I kissed my wife, Sheila, and hugged the kids, who had eaten a late dinner after spending the afternoon with her at the mall returning unwanted Christmas gifts. Then, without a word, I turned and left the room.

     I ambled down the hall to our bedroom and changed out of my suit and tie into my gray sweats, threw some water on my face, and returned to the kitchen. Grabbing a bowl of chicken noodle soup from the pot on the stove, I plodded toward the living room, placed the soup on a coaster on the coffee table, and collapsed onto our large, plush sectional couch.

     As I settled in, Sheila and the kids joined me to watch the end of our favorite reality show, Amazon Survivor.  After downing my dinner, I did my best to stay awake until the show ended. It concluded at 9:00 p.m. and Sheila hustled the kids off to bed.

     “Good night, Daddy,” Nicholas, my eight-year-old, sung out.

     Olivia, my subdued six-year-old, whispered, “Nighty night, Daddy.” 

     Before I could respond, they headed to their bedrooms. Sheila leaned over and kissed me gently on the cheek and whispered, “Try not to fall asleep on the couch, as you always do. Instead of staying up, why don’t you come to bed now? You look bushed.”

     With my eyes half closed, I muttered, “It’s too early. I need time to unwind. And it’s New Year’s Eve.”

     “You can unwind in bed, you know. And I don’t have the energy to stay up until midnight. The kids and I had a full day.” Not waiting for a response, she turned and left the room.

     Moving to the chaise lounge portion of the couch, a comfortable section built for two, I stretched out my bone-tired torso on its soft velvet pillows. I reached for the remote, fumbled with it to find the “Guide” button and flipped through the selections until I located the Sci Fi Channel. Pressing “Information,” I read aloud, “Lucas Kieron and Sonia Tyrone in Disaster in a Small Town.” I pressed “OK” and settled in.

     This “highbrow” movie made me wish I’d selected another channel. However, too tired to make the effort to find something else to watch, I stared at the screen and tried hard to stay focused on the story. However, just as I realized this wouldn’t occur, my cell phone rang. Jumping up off the chaise, I grabbed it from the end table, hit “ON,” and sputtered, “Hello.” 

     “Hi, Julian, this is Mason. I wanted to get back to you to discuss the tax question you asked me about yesterday. And by the way, Happy New Year.”

     “Happy New Year to you, too, Mason. Thank you for calling.”

     Mason is my accountant and though I know we began to talk, I can’t remember what was said or even if we completed our conversation. And I don’t recall hanging up the phone or how I got back on the chaise lounge. But I reclined there with my eyes drooping.

     I had difficulty concentrating on the TV and the gore and devastation of a town in the midst of a tremendous earthquake, with people struggling to extricate themselves from the rubble. With my legs resting on the bed of the chaise, I endeavored to pay attention to the program, but fought a losing battle. I drifted into a semi-conscious state, not quite asleep, but not awake. 

     Then strange things started happening. I attempted to roll to my left and then my right, but had trouble doing so. I tried to bend my legs in an effort to get up, but they seemed to be pinned to the chaise. Lying on my back, with my eyes almost closed, I scanned the room, but could see only faint shadows, as the only light in the room came from the darkened picture of earthquake debris on the TV screen. 

     I felt a stabbing pain in my left thigh. I reached down to rub it and touched strange objects all around me.  As I endeavored to maneuver my stricken body, I realized something large held my legs within its grasp. I began to wiggle to free them, but to no avail. The more I struggled, the more it seemed things tumbled down onto my defenseless frame. The pain from the weight on my legs became greater and I tried to shout out in anguish, “Oh Lord, what on earth is happening?” But nothing came out of my mouth, as I fought for a breath of air.

     I attempted to locate my cell phone, but couldn’t find it. I remembered I was talking on it with Mason. However, at some time during the conversation everything seemed to go dark and then I felt trapped. But I had no idea how all this occurred.

     Maybe the phone was still on, so I gasped, “Mason,” but got no response. I tried again to move the huge object draped across my legs, however, it wouldn’t budge.

     Thinking I heard noises coming from outside the window, I attempted to yell, “Help me, I’m trapped in here.” But only a whisper came out and nobody responded. I began to panic and stammered, “Please, p . . . lease help me, I can’t move.” Again, no response.

     Could my mind be playing tricks on me? Did I imagine the voices coming from outside my window? Is this all a dream?

     My thoughts returned to the thunderous crash and subsequent falling debris. Did we have an earthquake? I didn’t feel any shaking. There was no warning. Everything just collapsed. Maybe this didn’t happen here, but just in the movie.

     But then why can’t I move my legs? I tried once more. However, nothing happened. It felt as though a herd of elephants had taken refuge on top of them.

     Why had I been placed in this perilous situation? Would anybody come looking for me? Maybe Mason would? But if we got disconnected, why hadn’t he called me back? Was he all right?

     Alone, frightened, and powerless to save myself, I feared I’d lost the battle with this silent and unforgiving foe. But I couldn’t give up. And what about my wife and kids? Were they all right?

     I attempted to retain whatever sanity I had left. Something is watching me, I thought. Mysteriously my voice returned, and I screamed in defiance, “I know you’re out there.”     

     A shrill voice responded, “You bet I am, Julian. Shut off the damn TV. I told you I didn’t want to stay up until midnight. And that stupid sci-fi movie is going to wake the kids. Come to bed, now!” 

     Sheila’s high-pitched, piercing voice startled Bruno, who had fallen into a peaceful sleep, draped across my legs, now quite frozen stiff. He rose and shook himself so hard the whole room seemed to vibrate. With my legs now free, I removed the large plastic dog bone that jabbed into my left thigh and struggled to get up off the couch.

     Then the lights went on and I saw stuffed dog toys all around me. As I gazed across the room, the menacing stare of my enraged wife cut through me. She held a dog toy in her hand and was about to hurl it in my direction. Before she could release it, I looked into her eyes and whimpered, “I’m coming dear.”

     “I sure hope so,” she said, shaking her head. She dropped the toy, turned, and left the room. I slid off the couch and shut off the TV and overhead light. Then, being the obedient husband she wanted me to be, with my head bent to my chest, I followed her down the hallway to our bedroom. As I entered, I looked up and saw balloons with letters hanging from them. I guess it was going to be a “Happy New Year” after all. 

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Do doctors have the answers to keep us healthy and able to do what we want to do? Is their advice always sound?

 

Sometimes I’ve had to question what a physician told me. But then I met the doctor who provided me with . . .

 

The Best Medical Advice I Ever Received

 

It was a partly cloudy Tuesday in the Bay Area.

I sat in my doctor’s waiting room

And awaited my name to be called

To see him

For my annual physical.

 

I felt pretty good

For a thirty-eight year old man

And anticipated the doctor’s

Positive evaluation—

One that would leave me smiling.

 

He asked me to undress

And sit on the examination table.

He took my blood pressure,

Checked my pulse,

And then my heart.

 

“Everything looks good,” he said.

"Just one more test."

He took a rubber hammer

From his lab coat

And hit my left and then right knee.

 

His smile turned to a frown,

And he commented,

“I don’t like your reflexes.

You will need to see a specialist—

A neurosurgeon I will recommend.”

 

Before he could give me the referral,

I stated, “There is only one such doctor

I will agree to see.

His name is Dr. Carver,

A prominent neurosurgeon in Southern California.”

 

He gulped and blurted,

“He won’t see you!”

“Oh yes he will,”

I responded with confidence,

And asked for a written referral.

 

That afternoon,

I called my sister

And asked her to get me

An appointment

With Dr. Carver.

 

Fifteen minutes later,

My phone rang.

My sister said,

“Can you get a flight

To Los Angeles on Thursday?”

 

Thursday afternoon,

We entered the doctor’s office,

And checked in at the front desk.

Within seconds the doctor

Came into the waiting room.

 

With a glow surrounding him,

He approached my sister,

Put his arms around her,

Hugged and kissed her,

And led me to the examination room.

 

“You must be wondering

Why I did that,” he said.

“Most of my patients,

With a cerebral aneurysm that bursts

On the operating table, are paralyzed or die.”

 

Then he examined me,

Looked at my lumbar spine X-rays,

And gave me

The best medical advice

I ever received.

 

“Surgery is a last resort,”

He stated with conviction.

“When you can no longer reduce the pain

By cutting out the activities

That cause it,

 

“Or when you’ve eliminated

So much

That you have no quality of life,

Then come back

And see me.

 

“I’ll be sixty-seven in June,

And my back surgery

Will allow me

to continue

to ski.”

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

9-1-1 is an emergency telephone number in the United States and other countries. Like other emergency numbers around the world, this number is intended for use in emergency circumstances only.

 

But if you’re a senior citizen and your emergency is more an urgency than a crisis, you need to call . . .

 

 

9-1-2

 

“This is 9-1-2. What’s your urgency?”

“I’m eighty-one, my cat fell asleep in my lap, and I can’t get out of my chair.”

 

“Gently squeeze his back to awaken him.”

“But what if he gets angry?”

 

“Okay, ma’am, a truck is on its way.

Is your door open.”

 

“Didn’t you hear me?

I can’t get up with my fifty-pound cat in my lap.”

 

“Well, ma’am, if we can’t get in,

we can’t remove the cat?”

 

“You’re no help at all.

Goodbye!”

 

“Ma’am, don’t hang up.

What is your cat’s name?”

 

“Julius—Julius Caesar.

He’s a roamin’ cat.”

 

“All right, hold the phone to his ear.

Have you done it?”

 

“Huh. Yes!” she screeched.

“He’s gone—jumped off my lap. Thank you.”

 

“That’s what we’re here for.

Have a good day.”

 

“This is 9-1-2. What’s your urgency?”

“My husband fell asleep on the pot.”

 

“So, why do you need us?

Just open the door and tell him to get up.”

 

“But the door is locked.

He’s been in there for two hours and isn’t responding.”

 

“Do you have a good marriage?

Is he faithful?”

 

“Yes, I think so.

Why does that matter?”

 

“Sometimes calling out the girlfriend’s name will get his attention.

Try yelling, ‘Joanie is here and wants to see you.’”

 

She did as I asked.

And, to my amazement, I heard a loud scream.

 

“How the hell did you find out about Joanie?” he shouted.

“And why are you holding the door shut?”

 

“You’ll be getting the name of a marriage counselor in the mail.

Also, a good divorce lawyer. Goodbye, ma’am.”

 

“This is 9-1-2. What’s your urgency?”

“My mother forgot to give me my lunch money.”

 

“How old are you?

We are here to help senior citizens with their daily problems.”

 

“I’m fifty-five.

I need my lunch money, or I’ll starve to death.”

 

“I think you should talk to your mother. You do live with her, don’t you?”

No answer. “Please let me speak with her.”

 

“She can’t come to the phone.

She’s hanging on the clothes line in the backyard.”

 

“She’s hanging clothes on the clothes line in the yard.

Is that what you said?”

 

“No, she’s hanging on the clothes line.

I wouldn’t have done it if she’d given me the money.”

 

“Excuse me, sir, I have to put you on hold so I can make a call.”

“This is 9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Is age the determining factor in being able to do something? If you were younger, would things happen differently?

 

You wish you were younger. However, . . .

 

 

Some Things Don’t Change With Age

 

     My alarm clock blared. I reached over to the nightstand and shut it off. Why I set it in the first place was a mystery to me. I had no place to go this morning—no doctor’s appointment. Sun peeked through the bedroom windows. I began to get out of bed. I had to pee badly. As I did     . . .

     “Oh my God!” I screeched. The pain in my back was awful. And it shot down my left leg. My knee was numb and my foot cramped.

     Today is my birthday, I thought. I’m seventy-nine years old. “What the hell was I thinking, when I wished for a long life?” I muttered.

     “You were thinking living long was a good thing. As you know, I lived to ninety.”

     “Huh. Who are you?”

     “Who am I? Are you serious? We were together for fifty-six years.”

     “I’ve been divorced three times. Nobody’s been in my life that long.”

     “You’ve always been slow to realize the obvious.”

     “What are you talking about?”

     “Stop staring at your cramped foot. It won’t help the pain go away. Just look up.”

     In slow motion, I raised my head, somewhat afraid of what I would see. “You’re not her, are you?” I yelled in disbelief.

     “Well, what do you know? You finally got it. Took you long enough.”

     “What are you doing here, Mom? You’ve been dead for thirteen years.”

     “Dead is an outdated concept. In a world of advanced technology, I’m able to do what I want to do and be where I want to be.”

     “And you wanted to be here?”

     “You were never capable of doing things on your own. And apparently, you still can’t. So I’m here to give you the opportunity to change your life.”

     “This must be a dream. This can’t be happening.”

     “Ow! Something pinched me.”

     “Not something, someone.”

     “Who?”

     “Me. Do I have to give you all the answers?”

     This was getting weirder by the moment. “Okay, you’re back and there’s nothing I can do about it. Growing up you always were my boss and I couldn’t do anything right.”

     “You’ve got that wrong. You chose me to be your mother. That was right.”

     “Chose you?” I gasped.

     “Let’s put the past behind us and move on,” she directed.

     “That would be fine with me. Nice seeing you, Mom. Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime. Good-bye, I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

     “I’m not finished and I’m not going anywhere until I am.”

     “I could never win growing up and things certainly haven’t changed. So, boss, you’re in charge. Go for it.”

     “By the way, ‘Happy Birthday.'”

     “Thank you,” I moaned.

     “How old would you want to be today, if you had a choice?”

     “I haven’t thought about it, because I know I don’t.”

     “But now you do, so?”

     “I don’t know,” I said in frustration.

     “Well, you’re seventy-nine. Add the two numbers together.”

     “All right. Seven plus nine. That’s sixteen.”

     “I knew forcing you to take that advanced Math class was the right thing to do.”

     “So, I’m sixteen? But I don’t want to go back in time. I was dumped by my girlfriend and failed my driving test twice.”

     “No, you’re not going back anywhere. You’re sixteen today—November 13, 2023.”

     Before I had a chance to reply, Mom disappeared. I started to wiggle around on the edge of the bed. My body felt strange. I put my hand on my face to scratch my beard, but it wasn’t there. I wasn’t in my bedroom and I didn’t have to pee.

     I walked over to the mirror on the closet door. What I saw blew me away. I was taller and much better looking than I’d ever been. I didn’t have a pain in my body. And staring at me from my dresser was my provisional California driver’s license.

     A state-of-the-art computer sat on my desk, with my cell phone sitting beside it. And it wasn’t the “Jitterbug Smart3” for seniors I’d just purchased from Best Buy two days ago.

     With a new world and a new life ahead of me, I headed toward the kitchen. Sitting at the table was a girl I’d never seen before. When I entered, she turned and said, “Good morning, little bro.”

     This was strange, because my “real” sister was two years younger than me. I muttered, “Good morning.”

     She looked me in the eye and stated, “Have you told Mom and Dad what you didn’t do for them?”

     “What I didn’t do for them?” I asked, somewhat confused.

     “You said you’d pick up the Thanksgiving turkey they’d ordered from Safeway. Then you came home without it last night. Since you told me you’d get up early this morning and go and get it, I promised to keep my mouth shut.”

     “I don’t remember any of that happening. You’re making it up.”

     “I’ve had it with you, little bro. This is not the first time you agreed to do something and then didn’t follow through.”

     I struggled to come up with a response, but couldn’t think of anything to say. My mind was a blank. I guess, “Some things don’t change with age.”

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Relationships don’t always work out as planned. At times, however, you believe the right thing to do is to keep trying.

 

From the bottom of your heart, you believe things can get better . . .

 

 

Even Now

 

Even now

we can find

our way.

 

Even now.

 

It troubles me

you cannot see

the gift

I bring

to our relationship.

 

It troubles me

you question

my sincerity—

the words

of love

I share.

 

It troubles me

you won’t

take my hand

and face

the future—

our destiny

together.

 

Why?

Why?

Why?

 

When did it

all disappear?

How did I miss

the signs?

 

Take a deep

breath.

Suck in the cool

autumn air.

Exhale and picture

what can be,

not what was.

 

Even now,

we can find our way.

 

Even now.

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Should a father and son always be open and honest with one another? And what if they’re not.

 

Family secrets can have strange consequences, as you will see in . . .

 

 

Honor Thy Father And Other On Halloween

 

     The dark gray clouds, draped like a shroud, obscured the sun. My mind drifted in and out of my own mental fog. I felt confused about life, and what happened next didn’t help matters.

     It was Halloween and my father appeared to be on a mission. He said he had to get to the store to purchase the newest, magical “iSomething.” Why he needed it, I couldn’t figure out.

     Later in the day, I sat at the kitchen table and awaited his return. He’d been gone over five hours. I worried about him. Seventy-six years old, legally blind in one eye, with reflexes slowed by age, he still drove his beat up old Ford. I hated that he was still driving, but he’d just received his driver’s license renewal from the DMV. So there was nothing I could say to him that would change his mind.

     “Honor thy father,” he would chant, anytime I disagreed with his stance on an issue. “Just honor thy father.” And so I did.

     The phone rang, shaking me from my stupor. I picked it up off the table. “Hello,” I muttered. “Yes, I can come. How is he?” No answer. Just a click and I was disconnected.

     I raced to the bedroom, threw on a pair of black trousers and the wrinkled plaid shirt I’d worn yesterday, picked up my car keys off the nightstand, and ran to the garage. I backed the car out and headed down Logan Way toward the freeway.

     My heart raced and my hands shook. What the hell did Merritt Hospital want? They just told me to come, but didn’t answer my question about how he was. I swerved in and out of traffic in an attempt to get to the hospital as fast as I could. With one eye glued to the rearview mirror, I prayed I wouldn’t be pulled over.

     I exited the freeway at the Merritt Boulevard Exit, turned left, and sped toward the hospital parking lot. Stopping at the control gate, I reached for a parking ticket. The gate rose and I pulled into the first open spot I saw. I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t been stopped for speeding or ended up in a hospital bed after a collision. I got out of the car and bounded into the hospital lobby. I froze in fear of what stood before me—a cop.

     The officer approached. I’m going to get arrested for sure, I thought.

     “Mr. Jackson. Tony Jackson,” he called out.

     I gasped, “How do you know my name?” Must’ve gotten it from tracking my license plate.

     “You are Mr. Jackson?” he inquired, with authority.

     “Uh, yeah, I am.”

     “Please come with me.”

     “Okay. But I only drove as fast as I did to get to the hospital. I think my father has been in an accident. I had to get here. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

     The officer looked at me with a befuddled look on his face. “I don’t have a clue what you are ranting about, sir.”

     I stood stunned by his remark. “Then what do you want?”

     “I need you to come with me.”

     “Why?” He didn’t answer.

     “Just follow me, sir.”

     I trudged behind him and got on the elevator. The door closed and we proceeded to the sixth floor. The door opened and he motioned to me to exit.

     We walked down a long, dimly lit corridor. The rooms we passed all had locks on them. “Where are we?” I asked, my voice quivering.

     “You’ll soon find out,” he said, in a way that sent chills running down my spine. “Now keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you.”

     Then he grabbed my arm and shoved me against the wall. My head hit a low hanging pipe and I collapsed into a sea of darkness.

     When I came to, I found myself alone in a sterile room tied down to a hospital bed. I tried to free myself, but to no avail. I heard voices coming down the hall. Then it became quiet. A key being placed in the lock of the door made a clicking sound as it turned. I had no idea what to expect, so I pretended to be asleep.

     Three men entered the room, all dressed in gray suits and blue and gray striped ties. They wore badges, not police badges, but what looked like military badges. Perplexed by this, I became anxious. Then the largest of the three men turned to the tallest of the other two and spoke, “General, I believe he is ready.”

     Ready? Ready for what? I thought. Tension gripped my body. Then a man who appeared to be my father, dressed in a dark black suit, entered the room. My father hadn’t worn a suit like that in over ten years. The three men turned, stood at attention, and saluted him. He returned the salute.

     “At ease men,” he proclaimed in a loud, strong voice.

     “”Dad, what’s happening,” I murmured.

     “Dad? I am not your father. However, I do know the man you are talking about. I have seen him on my frequent visits to the hospital. Some say he is my double. But I am the President of the United States of America, not this other gentleman you are . . .”

     Interrupted in the middle of his sentence by the door of the room being smashed open, he stood silent and stared. Two uniformed hospital guards, accompanied by three city policemen, seized the four men and placed them in restraints. One of the guards, with the appropriate hospital badge affixed to his blue uniform jacket, came over to me and untied me.

     “Mr. Jackson, I’m so sorry for what has happened to you.”

     “Where am I?”

     “You’re in the Psych Ward. There appears to have been an inmate takeover of the ward, one of which we were not aware of, until now.  At least one patient was able to get down to the lobby to greet you. How these patients managed to obtain a police uniform, badges, and dress clothing is a mystery to us, but some ward residents do work in the hospital laundry, which our staff, including city police officers assigned to our public hospital, are permitted to use.”

     “How did you know I was here?”

     “A desk clerk witnessed what occurred in the lobby and reported it.”

     “What about the call I received to come here? Is my father all right?”

     “I don’t know who made the call. However, your father isn’t here.”

     “But that man over there. He is my father, isn’t he?”

     At that moment, a doctor, dressed in a white lab coat entered the room and approached the “President,” who ranted about his right to be free to run the country. “Mr. Jackson, calm down,” the doctor ordered.

     “So he is my father,” I screamed.

     “No,” said the doctor. He is your father’s identical twin brother. He has been here for thirty years. Your father has visited him once a month, during the entire time he has been under our care, including today.”

     “Including today?” I asked, with a puzzled look on my face.

     “Yes, including today.”

     “So he’s my father’s brother?”

     “Yes, the other Mr. Jackson—the one whose existence your father chose to keep secret all these years.”

     This statement upended me. I paused for a second to collect my thoughts. And then mumbled, “You did say my father was here today?”

     “I did. We found him and four ward staff members locked in a room down the hall. We’re bringing him to you, as we speak.”

     Before I could reply, my father entered.

     The “President” took one look at him and then looked me straight in the eye and commanded, “You must honor me, today, as you do your father. For I am the other . . .”

     At that moment, the guards took hold of him and removed him from the room. I just stared in disbelief. My father embraced me. The entire episode left me speechless—something I’d never been before in my life. This was the scariest Halloween I’d ever experienced.

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.