Hey Mom . . . I love you. Don't go just yet.

At 6 p today I'll be on the phone with my 3 brothers and my sister to talk about Mom. We will have results and recommendations from her doctors about treatment that will keep her alive. It's up to us to decide whether she stays alive or indeed has a life. She's trusting us to decide what's best for her. How many times in her life did she make that same decision for each one of the five of us? Now it's our turn. Meanwhile, I'm starting a journal to give her on her 88th birthday a few weeks from now on Nov. 8--trying to capture as many memories as I can write down that are running through my head like a fast-moving slide show. I hope, want, pray she will read and enjoy it. She loved one I gave our dad on his 80th birthday 5 years ago and not two months before he died. I'm sorry I've waited so long, this long, too long? Don't go yet, Mom. Two weeks ago she was her vivacious sharp self. That's how I see her; that's what I want to see again. But how does she feel? What does she want?

Barcelona Beckons

I pulled the postcard out of my mailbox, stopped short and leaned against the wall to stare at the aerial view of Barcelona. My friend Deb sends me the sickest strangest postcards from all over creation and for YEARS she's been doing this. But this is a normal picture post card and it stabs me right in the heart. I WANNA GO TO BARCELONA. While backpacking through Europe a zillion years ago I fell in love with The Ramblas, the tapas, the exquisite leather boots I bought there . . on the back Deb reminds me how long ago I was there. 35 years. Returning is on my to do list. I started saving for the trip, signed up for Spanish on Live Mocha, studied Rick Steeves. I announced it on Facebook for chrissakes! Rick and I went to Mexico last summer. It was great. It was not Barcelona. I'm gonna go. It's a sign. Leave it to Deb. Thank you my friend.