Don't Curse the Nurse!

Sharing support with stories & humor

I Should Have Danced

I don’t mind going alone. Either way, it’s always good.

The energy is upbeat. Everyone is smiling. People turn to meet each other and their smile doesn’t stop at their eyes.

Here comes the music.

The smooth hum of synthesizers’ seeps into the room, and after the first two stanzas of song, a deep boom from the drum head punctuates the air. Carefully placed licks on the guitar pull the tempo faster.

It’s one of my favorite songs, and every now and then I raise my arms.

That’s all I’m able to do.

I’m content to tap my fingers at my side until something catches my attention.

Ten rows up and out of my left periphery a figure within the large gathering is moving in a way like no other. Starting at the shoulders she moves her arms in a wavelike motion, hands twisting over each other, a sign language only she knows, always ending with her palms and her head up. Her body sways, but not in a seductive pattern. She’s picking up her feet. Even from my distance, I can tell.

I’m smiling then I’m laughing, not at her, laughing with joy to be in the presence of someone oblivious to what anyone thinks.

As the tempo slows down, only her head bobs. It looks to me more like an emphatic “yes” than a nod to the talented musicians on stage.

Here comes my favorite part of the song. It’s when the drums and cymbals come to the forefront.

I sing along.

I can’t help but look over at her.

“Ha-lle-lu-jaah,   Ha-lle-lu-jaah”

“Worthy is the Lamb. Worthy is the Lamb…”

She is pumping her arms into the air, her head up. With every word the choir sings, there is a subtle shift in her stance. She’s absorbing the words, the meaning, letting them move her.

The song’s over.

The guest speaker reminds us to guard our heart.

I will do that.

And next time, I’ll dance.

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Not in Kansas, In Orlando

Image   I met a real Tin Man.

 He had a heart to start with, but it stopped working. He wasn’t even 35.

 For a short while he had a pump hooked up to him that pushed his blood through all the chambers.

 Then he got a new heart. The Wizard of Oz didn’t give it to him.

 My Tin Man has requested to meet the family that nurtured his gifted heart.

 He’s told me this story with amazing modesty.

 I’ve been given permission to write about it if I want.

 I think he needs to tell the story.

 This is what I can tell you:

 Be a donor.

 

 

 

 

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