A Simple Prayer

The sound of a pin drop echoes throughout the corridors, against the
white sterile walls, where doctors and nurses try to heal sick people.
Families and friends sleep in uncomfortable chairs, holding onto the
hands of the people they love, the people lying in the hospital beds,
riddled with IVs and fear.

The polished floor is cold, my knees are curled up against my chest,
my eyelids are tightly closed, I’m staring into blackness, and never
before have I prayed such a desperate prayer. Inside the quiet
hallways I hear the soft hum of machines, monitoring oxygen and blood
pressure, the shuffling of a nurse exiting a patient’s room…

To imagine the thoughts that have lived inside of these halls, the
elevators, even the parking lots… memories playing over, regret there
wasn’t more joy, regret for words said, or worse, never spoken. Then
the pleading to a God, maybe a God that person didn’t believe in just
days before… but when someone you love is sick… Sure people depend on
technology, specialists, medicine, relying on those who understand how
human bodies become ill, immune systems break down, but they’re
supposed to know how to make them healthy again, but sometimes
surgeries and chemotherapy cannot fix what’s wrong. That’s when you
pray for a freaking miracle.

Miracle has turned into a fictitious word, cultish, reserved for
children’s books and bibles. It’s so easy to drink wine around a
dinner table and profess our belief in carbon dating and evolution.
Hell it’s almost fun to scoff at the possibility of a higher being.

I can say firsthand that being sick is better than being the one
sleeping in the uncomfortable chair. The one who endures the scent of
stale flowers and morphine drips. The one who has to fake a smile, who
calls the rest of the family to give everyone updates, convey horrible
and depressing news. The one who is ushered out into the hall only to
be told that the test came back positive, the treatment isn’t working,
the infection has spread, the one who is told that this hell will only
get worse.

The parents of sick children, the children of sick parents, no, there
are no pain medications for those sleeping in the uncomfortable
chairs. There is a priest who will stop by your room, there are
counselors who can give you textbook suggestions, but there is no
remedy, time nor money can save a breaking heart…

“An August afternoon in southern Texas I was with a group of friends
from the army, I heard a distinct laugh from across the room, as
beautiful as church bells. I navigated through the people, following
this sound and discovered a woman with dark brown hair and chocolate
eyes, and red lips. And that summer day changed my life. I would come
home from work in a wrinkled shirt and beaten briefcase, with three
kids to feed. Some nights so stressed and frustrated, but when she
would wrap her arms around me and smile, that smile gave me a reason
to wake up in the morning, the woman I would fall asleep next to every
night. Her laugh was musical, is still…” He corrected himself.

“I had been in the Air Force, a WWII pilot and I never believed I
would settle down; born to be a bachelor. But then I met Ann… and well
my plan changed. I had only cared about myself, but now there was
someone in my life who I wanted to make happy. And we got married six
months later.”

A powerful CEO of a steel company at nearly eighty, he’s never spent a
single night in the hospital, he defies odds, he chuckled at fear… he
wasn’t one to be reckoned with… he’d point his index finger to the
sky, having a solution for every problem. He was the man who taught me
how to be brave. He was tough on me; he had high expectations and even
higher standards. But sitting next to me right now isn’t my
grandfather.

He is no different than any other man who just been told that the love
of his life is dying.

At 24-years old I’ve never experienced death firsthand. Counting
myself lucky that I’ve made it this far without losing anybody close,
I’m not a fool… mortality is the one aspect of life, in which we can
rely, cannot dodge, or run from… life will kill us eventually, it’s
just a matter of where, when and then the nasty reality of how. I
didn’t think the “not losing a loved one” wouldn’t change, or not yet.
I had too much left to do before I could lose someone close to me.

There are weekends as recent as last month that I chose a charity
event, a movie on my couch, I chose the things that would always be
available, instead of time with my parents’ parents. Not only are
these the people responsible for my genetic makeup; they’ve survived
wars, watched presidents succeed and fail, they’ve witnessed
generations of their own blood grow up. There is so much knowledge to
gleam, there is so much left to absorb, they weren’t frail or fragile,
or sick, but it’s so easy to forget that death doesn’t normally give
us warning, it shows up at our doorsteps uninvited when we’re
unprepared and unready.

Dancing the waltz, toasting champagne and laughing; her unmistakably
beautiful laugh, a woman vibrant with life less than a week ago is
dying in a hospital bed fifteen feet away from me. Her complexion is
pale and her body is aching and when she has enough strength to open
her eyes, they do not belong to the woman I know as my Mother’s
mother. The soft and gentle eyes belong to a patient who has been told
she has run out of options.

The seconds are passing so quickly and time will not seem to wait. And
I know that I am no different from the hundreds of people who have
whispered prayers throughout these same hospital corridors. However my
prayer is very simple, that one day I can tell people, “It was a
miracle.”

Universal currencies...

5pm on Wednesday…
Strappy sandals, straw wedges, suede loafers and classic three-inch black heels that scream Nine West. It’s 5pm happy hour on a Wednesday and four girls reunite for 9 ounces of white wine, and finger food. A political PR nut, real estate agent, marketing director and moi. While you might imagine a pretend reenactment of New York’s most feminine fable, this is indeed much uglier, prettier and relatable, why? Because this right now, is this lovely thing we refer to as reality.

I’m a fan of the air kiss… gives off this chic expectation that all people are immediately fond of each other, plus it’s a test. How quickly can you mitigate a hand, enter and exit personal space, I’m at about 3.5 seconds. But with close friends, I’m a hugger- forget your shirt being wrinkle-free; I’m excited to see you!

We clink the glasses to, us! Black heels kissed a crush from two years ago last night while her boyfriend was home planning their vacation… And so we strategize how to break the heart of an amazing man, we secretly covet. Loafer’s beau is currently considering moving half a world away, she had a strong arm, but recently realized that she’d give a limb and a rib to make it work. And so we high-five her for overcoming her commitment phobia…Strappy sandals started seeing someone who she fell for madly, and he fell madly for her back, until several days ago when he started acting fishy… we all tell her to get out, but she doesn’t want to – and so we shake our heads, empathetically knowing next week all will be okay, and we’ll be listening to a glowing rendition of a romantic night before.

And while yes, delicious to discuss… we dig into our days… pulling out the gossip and horrendous co-worker stories… the graphic designer who engulfs Twinkies when he assumes nobody is looking, stapler stealers, or worse those who arrive back at their desks hung-over. Bosses who demand subordinates suffer simply because they themselves don’t have their own lives. Diets, yoga instructors, weekend jaunts to the mountains, and the occasional political insertion of “wow”… because about half of us read the newspaper. And then, as we sip the last of our vino, we air-kiss goodbye and half-stumble back to our cars (because of the height of our heels, not alcohol intake)… and as I turn the key in my ignition I glance in my review mirror, and ask myself, “There has to be more than this.”

Thursday….
“I’m not a politician, I’m an entrepreneur on loan to the city,” chuckled the most respected Denverite around.... He insists I’m a democrat, but I convince him I’m a libertarian, and no, I promise, I’m not in denial. We chat about our shared love for the sunny and cloudless skies, the transplants who love the natives and the natives who won’t forfeit the Rocky Mountain view for an ocean. This is a man who had zero plans to leave his brewery and lead a city to a national convention, out of a recession, earn an unparalleled approval rating, earning his votes in a very unique way, foreign almost… he approaches politics...in every way a politician wouldn’t dare.

Aiming for the firm grip, I say “Thanks for making time for me.”
“Well any young person willing to make time for the city, rather than herself deserves some time.” He said.

Trying to cover the guilty expression, I said thank you. Remembering the pitiful plant on my porch that I was unconsciously torturing to death… Forgetting for a few days outside, then over-watering, and then throwing back out in the sun. If I couldn’t keep a plant alive, how the hell could I rejuvenate the city to want to give again?

Kindness is free and the most stable of currencies… It takes a lot to eat up pride and reach across the aisle to the opposing political party, or to those that you’re not too sure of, and mostly the strangers who cross our path everyday. Anyway, moving along with this down market… Often we forget the most valuable aspects of life are of no personal cost to us… Trade doesn’t require money, while money assigns a value to that trade, expanding accessibility to all…the very bones and roots of humanity are based on free trade. And when we’re faced with uncertainty about the dollar, let’s use the purest of currencies, which include our skill-sets, contacts and encouraging discouraged friends with funny jokes… reaching outside a potentially dismal future to someone else… Even after an exhausting day, surely there is a helpful connection, a random job-lead, or even a “hello” left in you?

Sometimes a simple smile is all it takes to change the direction of someone’s day…

And that was enough.

Traditional - not a transvestite at the Debutante Ball....

My date donned a Scottish kilt last night. No joke. Yes. In a flood of white Vera silk gowns, Armani tuxes, Channel frocks from the fifties there was a man in a kilt. The fete itself is downright incomparable to the modern parties thrown in honor of art/nonprofits/launches of any sort– and while this exclusive affair does donate to important endeavors for those less fortunate – it’s primal purpose is to present the recently arrived pubescent dames to the already-chosen-accepted-society members… To celebrate good cheer and good health- so visit with friends or foe from the past – or possibly encounter someone new- a sparkling transplant from Connecticut. Mostly these are the daughters, nieces, and cousins of those already mingling amongst the hundreds of close friends- familiar by Christmas cards, society pages and well country club gossip– politely sipping champagne while watching the marshmallow gowns descend the grand staircase. The girls, only nineteen or twenty years old smiling broadly at the flashing bulbs courtesy of all the local newspapers… curtseying, and sheepishly waltzing on the arm of their father… Truly it’s an honor as it is an intriguing experiment, ahem, I mean experience.

Now charisma can’t pull off a kilt alone… no not Halloween, or a rumination where men dressed up in their assigned cultural vetements, for a wedding or a parade. No, just something the decedents of Scotts do for only black-tie gatherings… And regardless of the rich history woven into a choice of this kind…Nothing can prepare someone for the “look” the kilt accompanies. The most shocking of questions came not from the slightly tipsy post-debutantes themselves, but rather several of the women from the upper echelons … the mothers to be more precise…who whispered in my ear so slightly I had to bend closer to hear their query, “Is he wearing underpants?”

“Um, excuse me?” Did I just hear this lawyer-gone philanthropist – the queen of society correctly?

She wasn’t the only foxy cougar taking aim under his kilt.

Who needs Prozac when you've got Oprah?

There is something so fabulously sobering about Oprah. I haven't necessarily given the ol' benefit of the doubt to afternoon-diva-psychologist-ceo.... She is like Mother Teresa only a Democrat, wears Jimmy Choos and throws fetes with people like Elton John. I was undergoing a massive pity party around 3am last night and Conan was over, and there you go the only thing on besides acutane infomercials is Oprah.

Thinking she had maybe some author on (the only bonus from her show I figure)... There she is... grinning ear-to-ear discussing what life is like from down under… and not with Dr. Oz (her sidekick). Her guest was a 3-foot-midgit; she was a 26-year-old brunette that was born, just like really small. And she was spunky and sassy and witty as hell! I thought… well who needs Prozac when Oprah can send you on a spellbound guilt trip riddled with gratefulness. Stupefied on the edge of my duvet... that this woman could be so pumped up about life it was my responsibility (as someone born of ordinary height) to save the world.