“What’s this?’ I asked my husband as he emerged from his home office.

“Oh, I had my appointment with Dr. Erickson today and we went over my most recent echo-cardiogram,” he said non-nonchalantly.

“So? How’d it go?”

“It’s amazing, I’m healed.”

I stood for a second. The news needed a few moments to sink in. The years of worry and care-giving still fresh in my mind. I couldn’t believe it was over. I read the report in my hand:

Conclusions:

1. Normal left ventricular chamber size and wall thickness, with low-normal systolic function. EF 50%
2. Mildly enlarged left atrium.
3. Mild mitral regurgitation.

“Does this mean you can come off your meds?” I asked.

“Well no. I’ll always take Coreg because no one knows the repercussions of stopping the drug once started. And Dr. Erickson is adding Diovan, which will also help my heart to work without strain. But I feel great and expect to live a long time.”

We celebrated that night with a long warm hug. This week is our 37th wedding anniversary and we’ll go back to our favorite hotel on the Sonoma County north coast. It was at the Breakers Inn over ten years ago, that Blake almost died on our 25th anniversary. Now we make an annual pilgrimage to Gualala to toast our good health and good fortune.

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Good News From Santa Rosa Cardiology

http://abcnews.go.com/Health/barbara-walters-heart-special-matter-life-death/story?id=12810130http://abcnews.go.com/Health/barbara-walters-heart-special-matter-life-death/story?id=12810130

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A Barbara Walters Special, ‘A Matter of Life and Death’

by Elaine Webster

It’s so beautifully arranged on the plate,

you know someone’s fingers have been all over it.

—Julia Child

“Let’s cook,” I said, encircling Blake’s neck with my arms and kissing the top of his head.

Blake’s hands left the computer keyboard and took hold of mine. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said.

Six months after his surgery, I decided it was time to renew the romantic side of our relationship. I’d been grocery shopping, and fresh organic foods covered the kitchen counter. I’d pulled out our best china, set a colorful table for two, arranged a dozen red roses as a centerpiece, and chilled a bottle of Chardonnay wine. Freshly clipped sprigs of rosemary and thyme suffused the air with their aroma.

Blake had been at work all Sunday morning in his office, oblivious to my efforts. Well, I’d fix that.

“Come help me in the kitchen,” I cooed.

Blake’s hands slid up and down my arms. He swiveled his chair around and pulled me down for a kiss. I pulled him up and led him out of the room, swinging the door shut behind us. No more work today. We stood together at the kitchen counter, arms around each others’ waists, surveying the cornucopia of ingredients.

Spread out on the counter was everything we needed for a romantic roast chicken dinner for two.

4-pound roasting chicken (plump)

Fresh-cut herbs (one fistful each of rosemary and thyme)

1 large fragrant lemon (ripe and juicy)

Olive oil (local blend infused with tangerines)

1 ½ pounds Yukon Gold potatoes (scrubbed clean)

1 pound green beans (cut into bite-size lengths)

2 tablespoons unsalted butter (a touch of forbidden decadence)

3 tablespoons sliced almonds (our favorite nuts)

“Preheat the oven to 400 degrees,” I instructed my partner.

“That’s not too hot?” he asked.

“Not for me,” I answered in my best bedroom voice.

As Blake peeled the potatoes and cut them into one-inch chunks, I clipped the rosemary with kitchen shears, placed it in a large glass bowl, and mixed in 2 ½ tablespoons of olive oil.

“Are you done with the potatoes?” I asked.

“They’re ready. Help me slide them into the bowl.”

I held the cutting board as Blake pushed the tubers into the olive oil mixture.

“I’ll start on the chicken while you fix the beans,” I coached.

I removed the giblets from the chicken’s cavity and washed and dried the bird. I packed the empty cavity with the fresh thyme and the whole uncut lemon.

“Help me tie the legs together and tuck the wings—they keep slipping away,” I said.

Blake held the appendages in place while I successfully trussed the poultry. We dipped our fingers in a small bowl of olive oil and rubbed it into the plump flesh. After we both washed our hands, I placed the chicken on a rack in the roasting pan and lowered it into the preheated oven.

“We have a half hour before we need to do anything else. Got any ideas?” I queried with a wink.

“One or two . . . ”

*   *   *

Back in the kitchen, we leisurely finished meal preparation. Blake spread a half tablespoon of olive oil on a rimmed baking sheet. He placed the marinated potatoes on top and spread them evenly around the pan. He brushed the chicken with more olive oil and then slid the pan of potatoes next to the roast. I filled the bottom of a sauce pan with water, set in a steamer basket full of green beans, and set the burner on high. As the vegetables steamed for ten minutes, I turned the roasting potatoes with a spatula, and added butter to a large skillet over a medium heat. To the melted butter I added the sliced almonds and sautéed them. Once they had some color, (approximately two minutes), I lifted the bean-filled steamer rack from the adjacent saucepan and carefully slid the vegetables into the skillet.

An hour and ten minutes after placing the chicken in the oven, Blake uncorked the wine to let it breathe. The potatoes, having roasted for thirty-five minutes, were firm yet cooked through when tested with a fork. We kept the green beans warm in their skillet.

As Blake artfully arranged the potatoes and beans on plates, I carved the chicken. We complemented each other perfectly: I enjoy dark meat and Blake prefers the white tender breast. I placed generous portions of each on the appropriate plates, and we sat down to eat.

We paused to say our form of grace. Clinking our glasses of wine, we smiled and said in unison, “Thank you, God.”

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Merry Christmas–Let’s Cook

http://www.assistedlivinghistory.com/

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Assisted Living–A History

Soul Mate

John came to the apartment one evening to pick up some of his things and to see if I had calmed down. He knew I couldn’t hold a grudge for long and he had come to talk.

“Hi, thanks for letting me come by. How are you?” John looked down at his feet as he spoke.

“So what do you want?”  I demanded. I knew one thing—he wasn’t coming back.

“I’ve been staying with Les. He’s been letting me sleep on the living-room floor. But I wanted to tell you about his roommate, Blake.”

“What about him?” I had no interest in any of John’s lowlife friends. “Is he another drug dealer?”

“No, he has a regular job. His parents own the house, and he splits the rent with Les.”

“Okay, so what about him?”

“We got to talking, and I told him about the Edgar Cayce A.R.E. group. He said he’d like to come.”

That surprised me. To me the Big House on Encina Street was a den of iniquity. Why would one of those deadbeats be interested in spiritual matters?

“So what? How do you know he’s sincere?”

“You’re always telling me not to judge others too quickly. Well?”

I knew John was manipulating me. He was trying to set me up with someone else so he could see Donna without feeling guilty. On the other hand, he was right about the judging part. And the group was open to everyone.

“Well, we’ll soon find out if he’s sincere. Why don’t you bring him to dinner tomorrow night and we’ll talk.”

The next night, the two of them came over. When I opened the door, there stood the hairiest man I’d ever seen, Blake Webster. His long reddish-brown hair hung loosely around his face. His mustache covered his mouth and his beard was bushy. But it was his eyes that really caught my attention. They were so kind and seemed to look right through me.

“Come on in, sit down. Dinner’s almost ready.” I retreated to the kitchen, wondering why my heart was pounding.

John showed Blake the apartment while I put dinner on the table: lentil soup with lots of garlic, whole-wheat macaroni, side salad, and crusty French bread.

“So, you’re interested in Edgar Cayce?” I said, as an icebreaker. I still wasn’t sure this was a good idea.

“Well, my mother’s really into him and I’ve read several of her books. I’ve always been interested in reincarnation. It makes sense to me.”

As I watched, Blake held up his mustache with one hand and spooned lentil soup into his mouth with the other.

“This group is about more than reincarnation,” I said. “It’s a meditation group and about becoming closer to God. The lessons are more about how to live than psychic phenomenon. The focus is on this life, not past lives.”

“Sounds interesting. I’d like to at least come once and see how it goes.”

Blake sounded sincere, but I wasn’t sure I could get past his eating technique. I wondered how he would do with corn on the cob or cotton candy. So much hair, but kind of cute.

“Okay. The group meets Thursday evenings at seven o’clock. If you want, you can pick me up here at six-thirty and we can go together. I need to warn you, though, that Richard is a conservative guy and it takes time to get to know him.  He may drill you at first about your lifestyle. He’s also angry at John and me about our separation, so he might not be too friendly.”

I shot a glance at John, who was shifting nervously in his chair. The moment felt awkward and right at the same time.

*    *    *    *

Thursday night, Blake arrived on time to pick me up. He was driving a 1966 Chevy Camping Van, fully equipped with a stove, a sink, and a table that converted to a double bed. The inside was paneled, fully insulated, carpeted, with extra inside lights and an eight-track sound system. A Persian rug covered the engine between the front seats, and David Crosby’s “If I Could Only Remember My Name” was playing as I climbed in. I liked the feel of that van.

At Richard’s house I made the introductions, then Richard took over. “So, Blake, what types of meditation do you do?”

“None at the moment, but that’s why I’m here. To learn.”

Richard smiled. “Right answer.” Then his lips drooped. “Well, everyone’s welcome here, but I don’t like what’s happened with John and Elaine.”

Blake shifted in his chair, shrugged, and said, “I don’t have anything to do with that. I’m just interested in what you’re doing here. I’ve read a lot about Edgar Cayce and would like to learn to meditate.”

That seemed to satisfy Richard and he addressed the group: “Okay, let’s get started.” He led us in a prayer from the Cayce readings: “As the Father knoweth me, so may I know the Father, through the Christ Spirit, the door to the kingdom of the Father. Show Thou me the way!”

He looked up from the book. “Now, get comfortable. Sit up straight and close your eyes. Focus on the third eye, the spot between the eyebrows. Breathe slowly and deliberately, silently repeating your mantra. A simple ‘Aum’ works well. As the mind wanders and thoughts come in, bring it back to the mantra.”

“Richard, before we start, what’s the difference between prayer and meditation?” Blake asked.

Richard chose to answer by reading a passage from A Search for God, Book I: “Meditation is prayer from within the inner self, and partakes not only of the inner physical man but of the soul aroused by the spirit from within. In prayer we speak to God, in meditation God speaks to us.”

After meditation, we read and discussed the first lesson from Book II: Opportunity. The line that rang truest for me that evening was “Faith Helps Us Grasp Opportunity.” Yes, opportunity!

After the meeting, Blake drove me home. I had told John that he could sleep on my living-room floor for one night only. As we approached the house, I saw the lights on upstairs and realized I was in no hurry to go inside.

“Do you want to sit on the porch and talk for a while?”

“That would be great. There’s so many things I want to ask you about tonight.”

Those simple words opened floodgates, and we talked for hours. We couldn’t get enough of each other’s words and ideas. We talked about our families. I had run away from home; Blake’s father had thrown him out. Having to raise ourselves, I decided, we both became independent thinkers.

Blake was candid about his parents. “I’ve got an asshole for a father and a nut ball for a mother.” At that moment it seemed funny, and we laughed together. We were the only two sane people in the world.

We talked at length about the lost continents of Atlantis, Lemuria and Mu.

We had both inhaled James Churchward’s books on the subject and what I didn’t remember, Blake did. I had just read Paramahansa Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi, and was blown away. “I can’t wait for you to read it,” I said.

Finally around midnight, we called it quits. I gave Blake a quick hug and went upstairs, only to find John waiting up for me. “What have you been doing downstairs all this time?” he demanded.

“What’s it to you?” I shot back. “I don’t have to answer to you.”

John sat down on his sleeping bag and started to cry. “Please don’t leave me. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”

I was tired, unsympathetic, and had to work in the morning. “Go to sleep,” I said. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I’m going to bed.”

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Soul Mate

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The Spice Hunter Carries 35 Salt Free Seasonings for your Holiday menus.

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Can’t Find Low Sodium Foods? Try Healthy Heart Market

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At Open Enrollment Time–Compare and Research Health Insurance Plans

Not a member? Join today. The benefits outweigh the cost.

http://www.aarp.org

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AARP Takes the Needs of Caregivers Seriously

Heartfelt is in good company in their bookstore!

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Checkout Caregiver Village–A virtual community