Did I tell you that old age can be a Pandora’s box of fear and worry, filled with fleeting memories of past, faded glory? That though a nursing home might sound delightful, actually, I found it exceedingly dreadful and at times, deliberately spiteful.

Let me brief you that for years I lived with my kids until, suddenly, I did not. When the Move occurred, the social worker said, “Welcome!” The nurses lectured, “Be good and take your meds.” The psychiatrist advised, “Feed your head.” The sex worker smiled and whispered, “Time for bed. Relax, lay back and enjoy it.” But really, with her, it was more like grin and bear it!

All through it, though unsteady and unbalanced, I heeded a pounding voice in my brain that expressed my desperate wish to “STAY ALIVE, STAY ALIVE!” and to avoid the overwhelming, chaotic  feeling of being on a wild, runaway train.

Then one fine day, out of the blue, along came Mary, the masseuse. She became my muse and things did not remain the same. Undoubtedly heaven sent, she adroitly rescued me from tragedy.

As she thrilled me down to my toenails, her wonderful massage took me to amazing heights. Her radiant hands flowed through me while her strong, discerning fingers plucked all my strings and played all my notes ((ABCDEFG) so well that she absolutely made time disappear completely.

All of a sudden, I discovered myself listening from my grave. I heard the mighty words of the God above, shouting (not in vain) in the swirling wind, about merry frolics in the hay and, yes, inviting me to return to live another day.

“Yes, please!” I dared to say.