No predawn swimming practice for Kendall.......nothing on the calendar today that says I should be shuffling off to the hockey rink, half bleary-eyed....the kids are old enough not to need me to rescue temporarily misplaced pacifiers and blankies from the confines of their own bed sheets. It's so early on a Sunday that even my dogs are nestled in their beds, not daring to look in my direction for fear I may say a four letter word. That word is "walk", so get your minds out of the gutter. The clocks won't "fall back" until next weekend, so it's still pitch black outside. It's so foggy and misty that I'm not sure the rising sun will be able to take any edge off of the dreariness of this fall morning.
So why the heck am I sitting at my computer, composing a story, while listening to Kenny Chesney belt out "Anything But Mine" on iTunes? Wouldn't most people choose the comfort of a bed and the companionship of a cuddly bed mate? I have both of those those, just down the hall. I guess I'm not most people.
Most people do not write blogs. Those that do certainly don't reveal as much of themselves as I have chosen to do since taking up this calling early in 2011. The handle The Not So Private I remains a fitting one.
I'm awake because I have things to do. Time is a precious commodity. I dare not waste too much of it. I recently wrote a story about applying for a job and that I was having trouble passing the medical. I mentioned that the EKG found an abnormality and that I may have a big heart, in the literal sense. I have since followed up with my own doctor and it appears that is indeed the case. The early diagnosis is that my ticker has minor electrical issues. Those are my words, not the phrase used by my doctor, which was way too technical. I'll be following up with a cardiologist. As you may expect, I'll keep you posted.
When I turned on iTunes this morning, I went to my personal folder and clicked on shuffle. The first song that came on was "Safe in the Arms of Love" by Martina McBride - (you gotta love those eyes). Most times I don't pay too much attention to the lyrics of any song and god knows I've butchered my share over the years by making up words that sort of sound like they might fit with the music. I digress. When Martina began, today, for some reason, I heard what she sang. The very first line of her song is "My hearts not ready for the rocking chair." Coincidence or karma?
I'm not going anywhere, at least not anytime soon. I've been assured that my heart problem is not serious. (Hey, Jimmy Boy! Try reading what you just wrote. Now go back and read it again.) I'm talking to myself (or writing to myself) because I know me fairly well. I seem to have a propensity to over think everything. I guess I'm not listening to myself very well because my alter ego wants to go back to bed. The me, who's banging away at the keyboard, is not taking any chances. I'm not about to sleep my life away, no matter how much of it I have left.
I've been pretty good over the years at making sure that my affairs are in order. The RCMP does its part of educating young officers of the necessity to do just that. I'll double check everything, just to be sure. Perhaps there's a message here. No matter what your age or life situation, every adult should take the time and spend the few bucks to ensure that your loved ones are looked after. Get a will and have a power of attorney in place in the event you are incapacitated. Those two are the bare minimum.
If I can ask a small favour of you, it is to please don't forget to complete an organ donation form. It is also very important to tell your loved ones that you want your organs to be donated. So many organs go to waste and lives are lost because no one is aware of your wishes. That donation card you signed may never be found, or worse, found days or hours after you have been buried or cremated. This is such an unselfish act and an oh so simple thing to do. The life you improve or save may me that of someone you know. Have a heart and do the right thing. Who knows, someday I just may need your heart.
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