Damn Freckles

The other night, Gam told my Aunt that perhaps it was time to go back to the ER. This is huge for her as she’s a bit of a tough cookie who would rather run over her own cat than go to the hospital. So when the paramedics showed up and clocked her blackbelt heart at a skippy 160 bpm, her intuition was right. Ninjas always are.

She’s been spending the last few nights at the hospital only to discover that her lungs are full of blood clots–mostly due to her poor liver not being able to due its job. Damn freckles.

She sounds very tired when I finally get her on the phone. She asks me to pray for her–and to pray for her right then and there. She’s always liked to talk to God over the phone.

So I do. And I ask God 4 things. To take away the pain, to obliterate the blood clots (I even used the world ‘smash up’ in there too–figured God was a boy once and must still appreciate the opportunity to make things explode now and then. With amazing sound affects), that Gam would have a good night’s rest, and, lastly, that the Dr. would have a nice butt.

That’s right. I did.

“That was a good prayer,” she whispered.

“It was,” I answered.

I can hear her fading. “Goodnight Jenny, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Love you too, Gam.”

“Goodnight darling . . . Goodnight Angel.”

I am 30 years old and will never tire of being called Angel before bed. Perhaps after God is finished playing demolition man he will write that down and tuck it away for later.


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