From Newsgroup: uk.rec.audio

Bill Schaffer realizes he should have known better. The stabbing pain in the center of his back whenever he walked up or down stairs. The indigestion. The feeling that two fingers were squeezing the life out of his heart with every beat. He's a retired EMT, after all. He witnessed people who had heart attacks nearly every day. He knew the symptoms, what they looked like, what his patients told him they felt like. But when he started experiencing the same sensations, he told his wife he needed to make an appointment to see the chiropractor.
Im voice he is my heart shirt
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Bystanders at the gym and, eventually, paramedics, spent nearly 30 minutes doing CPR, trying to bring Lazarus back. And the EMTs continued performing CPR until her heart finally started beating on its own at the hospital.
The next time he came around, I turned in time to see what was on the paper. Clipped onto the front of his shirt was a full-page color photo of a young man shot in the face, lying dead in the street.
My heart went out not only to the victim, but also to this lost young man so wrapped up in darkness that he may never break free. I felt the pain of the mother whose son lost his life the night police took that photograph, but also of the one who lost her child to this awful glorification, and to the system, for the next 28 years.
I was speechless, just standing there with the phone slowly falling from my ear, when Taemi's voice recaptured my attention. I cut her off mid-sentence and blurted out a description of what I was seeing.
He managed to run out the back door as a second gunshot rang out. He collapsed on the deck. He remembers the blood, on his hands, soaking through his dress shirt as he called 911. He tried to stay calm.
The goal of physical therapy for ALS is to help you remain independent and safe. Gentle aerobic exercise, such as walking or swimming, can strengthen muscles and improve heart health. These exercises can also help you feel more energetic and less depressed.
Earlier that week my mom had stopped to see her mother and given her one of her favorite turquoise necklaces that she made, looping a tiny silver heart into the clasp. We would learn that she had also recently moved her house into a trust for my sister and me and written her financial information and passwords in a green notebook. At the same time, she wrote letters full of hope and sweetness to her grandchildren. She went to Mass and talked to her priest.
Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart's heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation.
Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer?
If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and always.
In the uncertain hour before the morning
Near the ending of interminable night
At the recurrent end of the unending
After the dark dove with the flickering tongue
Had passed below the horizon of his homing
While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin
Over the asphalt where no other sound was
Between three districts whence the smoke arose
I met one walking, loitering and hurried
As if blown towards me like the metal leaves
Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.
And as I fixed upon the down-turned face
That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge
The first-met stranger in the waning dusk
I caught the sudden look of some dead master
Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled
Both one and many; in the brown baked features
The eyes of a familiar compound ghost
Both intimate and unidentifiable.
So I assumed a double part, and cried
And heard another's voice cry: "What! are you here?"
Although we were not. I was still the same,
Knowing myself yet being someone other--
And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed
To compel the recognition they preceded.
And so, compliant to the common wind,
Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,
In concord at this intersection time
Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,
We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.
I said: "The wonder that I feel is easy,
Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:
I may not comprehend, may not remember."
And he: "I am not eager to rehearse
My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.
These things have served their purpose: let them be.
So with your own, and pray they be forgiven
By others, as I pray you to forgive
Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten
And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.
For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
But, as the passage now presents no hindrance
To the spirit unappeased and peregrine
Between two worlds become much like each other,
So I find words I never thought to speak
In streets I never thought I should revisit
When I left my body on a distant shore.
Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us
To purify the dialect of the tribe
And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,
Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.
First, the cold fricton of expiring sense
Without enchantment, offering no promise
But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
As body and sould begin to fall asunder.
Second, the conscious impotence of rage
At human folly, and the laceration
Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of things ill done and done to others' harm
Which once you took for exercise of virtue.
Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.
From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit
Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire
Where you must move in measure, like a dancer."
The day was breaking. In the disfigured street
He left me, with a kind of valediction,
And faded on the blowing of the horn.
Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
I was scrolling on my Facebook page and found that my brother in law had posted a video of my late husband. In the video my husband was saying that we need to get over some things and move on. Stop crying and go on. It was a video he had sent my brother in law as he ( my brother in law) had been going through some serious personal family problems. Hearing and seeing him threw me for a huge loop. I was not expecting to see this . Others commented on how it was wonderful to see him and hear his voice. To me it difficult
I should just start this off by saying that I am absolutely terrified of spiders. Most people have a healthy fear of the spindly legged monsters roaming our planet, but it's safe to say my fear of arachnids is so severe a psychologist would probably classify it as a full-blown phobia. I'm always on alert for spiders and now that my twins are 3 years old and can form mostly intelligible sentences, they've become part of my spider detection squad. (Yes, I am working on a logo for matching t-shirts, because it's going to be awesome.) One of the great things about 3 year olds is that they're short and close to the ground, so they're typically the first to spot a spider scurrying across the floor and can alert me to its presence. Three year olds are also brutally honest, which is bad when you're in public and they spot a rogue chin hair you forgot to pluck, but great when you want to know which kid is responsible for the pee puddle in the hallway. Because of this, I figured my toddlers would never, ever lie to me. I was wrong.
I snatched up the kids and ran inside, my heart thudding in my chest from terror. The kids were understandably upset that I had dragged them inside without explanation or warning, so I pointed out the striped stalker on the porch and the three of us watched him through the glass window in a silent stand off.
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