Monose's 'Pocket Full of Miracles'

My sister has asked me to tell you of my dear Haitian friend and sister in Christ, whose name is Monose.  There's much to tell, and I'll try to do my best to tell it here.

Monose is a Haitian "nurse" on the island of La Gonave. I say "nurse" in quotations because where they lack some of the training of stateside nurses, and could never practice nursing here, they excel in other areas by being able to deliver babies, suture, diagnose and prescribe for simple diseases, unlike our stateside RN's --  and most all trained by the missionary staff.

Now, I couldn't say for sure when I first met her, I can only say when I first became aware of her.  It was my second short term trip to Haiti in 1988, and I didn't know any of the Haitian staff by name or very well at all.  Not knowing the language makes it so difficult to learn those little facts that set people apart in your memory  when you're meeting 100+  people in the space of a month's time.  I didn't know her name, I didn't know who she was, really nothing about her.  Then, my second visit to the country, I was walking across the hospital compound when I heard a small yell and was suddenly nearly knocked over by a woman throwing herself in my arms in a tight embrace, and saying something in Creole in my ear.  The missionary said, "She is so sweet.  This is Monose, one of our nurses.  She's saying how happy she is to see you again, that you didn't forget them," and my throat choked up, closed with tears.  Though I did love the times I spent in Haiti, and enjoyed the Haitian people so much, most of the time I DID forget them, didn't pray for them, couldn't even remember this woman who was so grateful for my return.  I returned her embrace warmly, but had no words.  The other missionary said some words to Monose, and with a sweet smile, she went on her way.

Years later, I went on the mission field for what I hoped would be a lifetime, and Monose became a dear friend.  We would have long talks, and she was one person of a couple Haitians that I could trust to really "tell me like it is" if I was having trouble in my cross-cultural relationships with the Haitians. Met Rousevel Michel was another, though Monose was always biased to my side. Met Rous, on the other hand, never hesitated to tell me what a hot-head I could be!  Bless them both!!  I really needed her support and his gentle and wise words of reproach!

Over the years, as I knew Monose, she got married to Met Harold (Met = teacher and is a title) and so, formally, became Madame Harold. Haitians would traditionally, and for formality's sake, take not only their husband's last name, as we usually do, but their first as well.  But Madame Harold was still Monose to me.  She had a son, and later, a daughter -- but by the time she had her daughter, health reasons had called me off the mission field.  I still miss her terribly.

Now where I served as a missionary, and where Monose lives, is a large island in the bay of Haiti off the coast of Port-au-Prince.  It is called La Gonave.  When I was there it was especially primitive. Our water ran by gravity by pipes from high in the mountains to our homes and to the village wells, but had to be boiled or treated before used.  Our only electricity was by our own generators, and our stoves and fridges ran on propane.  No phones.  No internet.  No TV.  It was, in many ways, idyllic, in that sense, if it wasn't so hot!  No fans, you see, never any AC. Mail came by plane to Port-Au-Prince and then to us by boat about once a month.

Our small 34 bed hospital served the island of 100,000.  We had the hospital, lab (microscope, a centrifuge, limited lab tests, no chemistries), clinic, one operating room, an x-ray machine that looked to me from WWII until Samaritan's Purse got us a new one and built a building to store it!  Complicated cases had to go by boat across 12 miles of sea, then by bus 2 hours to get to Port-au-Prince if they had really serious problems, or across the sea to St. Marc and another small hospital that had a surgeon sometimes.  But we would have surgical teams from the States come and do non-urgent surgeries we'd saved up for them, and our pediatrician, Marilyn, learned how to do C-Sections because so many women died trying to get to a hospital from La Gonave when they needed one.  Monose was one of our staff trained in the operating room to assist in these surgeries.  She's a good woman.

After I left the mission field, in 1998 I believe it was, a surgical team from Indiana was visiting our hospital in on La Gonave.  As I understand it, the day the team was leaving for home in the US, Monose woke that morning to find a lump on her breast. With fear and trembling, she went to the surgical team.  Prayerfully, the team removed the lump that very day, as transportation waited for them, to take them from the island to return them to home.  The tissue was placed in a proper medium for transport and the team went home with their precious cargo and Monose's hopes for good news.

The pathology report came back:  breast cancer.  Monose, in Haiti, limited resources, seemingly no options, faced what in that country is usually a death sentence.  To those of us who loved her, it was a terrible shock.  But God was at work in the hearts of those in the surgical team, who loved Haiti, and still do, who are still active in that country, in that hospital, on La Gonave.

First, Steve and Diane F. opened their home to Monose for as long as she would need to be there.  They are both physicians, and through their work, and the workings of their friends and friends of Haiti, a hospital in Indianapolis donated the operating room time and her room;  the anesthesiologist donated his time, the surgeon donated HIS time -- everyone wanted to be a part of helping Monose live!  I contacted the mission headquarters and found out they needed a translator, as Monose speaks no English, and they accepted me as a volunteer to go and be translator. I would stay with Steve and Diane and their family with Monose, to help care for her.  Of course, I had just started a job, had no vacation time -- but my employer decided to pay me for the time anyway -- more answers to prayer! Dear and loving friends of mine gave me their precious frequent flyer miles to make the trip, and money to give to Monose for whatever need she might have.

Now -- Monose would be flying by way of  Florida, CONNECTING IN O'HARE, of all places, then to Indianapolis.  Alone.  She had never been out of Haiti. Never been on a plane.  Never in a big city.  Not speaking English.  I thought and thought.  Then remembered Christine's sister in Chicago!  Sure enough, when Monose landed in Chicago, there was Katherine, supplied with Haitian pharases, to meet her and get her on the next plane!  Kathy even found a guy who spoke the language to help, if I remember right, to explain a flight delay.  What are the odds??  Pretty good, if God is in control!  I asked Monose, later, about that flight.  One, she was too frightened to eat, and people kept trying to feed her!  Second, she felt flying in a plane was OK as long as she kept her eyes inside the "little house" of the plane.  If she looked out the window at the clouds and distant sea -- well, it was better to just keep looking inside the "little house"!

At last Monose and I met in Indianapolis, and I stayed with her through her surgery and her initial recovery.  It was wonderful to see her, and her surgery went so well.  We had a great time later, too, once she started feeling better, as we watched two movies together on TV, and I translated simultaneously as we watched.  The first, "The Fantastic Voyage" where they travel through the human body in a mini space ship, she thought ridiculous, but I thought she might like because of her knowledge of medicine.  But then we saw "Cool Runnings", about the Jamaican Olympic Bobsled team, with John Candy, and she thoroughly enjoyed that one. We did some shopping, with money people in my church had sent her, so she could buy gifts to take to her family, and she bought herself some clothing so she would feel as if she fit in more.

I took her to her follow up doctor appointments, and, oh, all the good reports! We talked and talked, and were sad when it was time to say good by.  We both knew we might not see each other again, because I didn't know if I'd ever get back to Haiti again.  We prayed together and I cried on the plane.  Found out later she cried all the way home from the airport after dropping me off.

She's not much for writing letters, even when I do write.  Just not something she ever learned to do, so we don't really write.  But I know that at any time we could get together and it would be as if no time passed.

I saw her again, in 2008, 10 years after her surgery, and she looked great.  She got her miracle, thanks to God and all those who helped make it happen.  The cancer has never come back!  When I saw her, it was like 1988 all over again, me in the hospital yard and suddenly nearly being knocked off my feet by a woman throwing herself into my arms.  Monose.

Of course, this time I understood the words.

"Summer Should Get a Speeding Ticket"

          "Summer should get a speeding ticket" was the comment on Facebook that I read, I wish I'd thought of it.  Very clever.  There certainly is some truth in it.  Time has gone by so quickly, this summer, I'm certain it has truly MELTED away from the amount of heat that we've had.  I don't remember ever having such unbearably hot days, and I grew up without air conditioners, or even a fan in my bedroom.  We knew some hot nights, but, man, I don't remember people literally dying from the heat or my tapered candles literally melting and bowing down in subjection to it.  Crazy days.

          I was thinking today of some of the fun summers I've had in the past, because, frankly, this summer was not my best. I took my vacation really early in the season, and the heat, for me, put a damper on all 3 months.  I didn't go to any picnics, didn't see any fireworks, didn't even go out to canoe or kayak, not even ONCE.  But now that the weather is cooler, I hope to start acting like I do more in life than sit at a desk and work.

Lunatic Thrill-seeker

          Once I'm out on the lake, I enjoy canoeing, but especially kayaking, because it's so maneuverable, I suppose, so fast.  Because kayaks are so light, they're much less work, and you can talk to the person your kayaking with because you're side by side, not in front and back.  And if you're in an area where there are speedboats, it's fun to jump their wash.  But I didn't always admire kayaking, let me tell you.  I'd always associated kayaking with those lunatic thrill-seekers on Wide World of Sports riding rapids and spinning around under water in what looked to me like giant pickles.  Not fun, to me, but a death wish.  Anyway, to proceed: 

          It was probably about 10 years ago that my friend, Christine, and I took a trip to Long Beach Island, NJ, and decided to take an "Eco-tour" through wetlands by kayak there.  They were ocean kayaks, where you sit on top, you're not inside, and they were long, flat, and we each had one.  I had a wonderful time paddling around in it, I fell in love with the thing!  Afterward, driving back to our hotel, I told Christine that I'd been a fool to think my canoe was the only way to go -- we NEEDED kayaks.

          "GREAT!!"  She exclaimed, "Because right now, end of season, a lot of places have used ones for a good price!"  With that, we came upon a souvenir shop on the bay side that, besides the usual junk, also had used kayaks for sale. Christine whipped the car into the parking lot..  She went off to look at kayaks to her heart's content while I got to look at T-shirts, etc, all the usual junk you feel you can't live without while you're at the beach, but can never understand why you bought once you get home.  (My apartment used to be FULL of little sand castles, carved men in yellow slickers smoking pipes, a miniature wooden pier with a plastic gull perched on top, etc, like I was somehow nautical, but actually get quite seasick and live hundreds of miles from the ocean.  These things usually end up in our bathrooms, which is puzzling to me, but the subject of another blog:  Why do we think bathrooms have anything to do with the ocean?)

          I'd only been shopping for a short time, when I felt Christine excitedly tap my shoulder.  She'd found a kayak she wanted me to check out.  I obediently followed, thinking we were going to be heading toward the bay.  To my surprise, she led me to a bright yellow single kayak with a "keyhole" sitting arrangement.  In other words, though you wouldn't flip all around upside down in it, you sat INSIDE it, not on top.  More puzzling, it wasn't on water, it was in front of the shop, in the parking lot, about 5 feet from the major 4 lane Long Beach Island road.  "Try this and see what you think!"  Chris said, indicating the bright yellow kayak, that if not a pickle, looked like a banana, anyway. Skeptically, I began to get in the thing, while Christine and the owner, a woman about 65, watched.

          Now, Christine, a trim athlete, teaches fitness and such things at a nearby university.  I am the polar opposite.  I was kinda round, (now I'm decidedly round) and have an Olympic Gold in Sedentary.  As I slid into the Monster Banana, Christine remarked she thought perhaps the hole was a little tight on her, what did I think?  I looked at her in amazement as my humonga-butt settled in.  "WHAT???  It was tight on YOU and you just let ME get in???"

          I couldn't bend my knees because I was in a long, skinny 'banana' and I had really bad arthritic knees. I hadn't had my knee replacements yet, see.  Uh oh.  "Uh, Christine, I can't get out!"  The owner's eyebrows shot up in alarm.  "I'm serious, I can't get out!"  I tried to push on the kayak, but it was plastic, and I was afraid it would buckle.  I couldn't help myself, I started to giggle, which got Christine going.  Soon, she and the owner each had an arm and were pulling.  I began to wonder how it would look when the old lady dropped from the heart attack she was brewing by lifting me AND the kayak 3 inches off the ground, as it was firmly wedged around my posterior.

          Then I noticed we had an audience, 4 lanes of it, plus souvenir shoppers in the parking lot.  Thank goodness I didn't have a bathing suit on, though if I did I might be easier to grease up with Vaseline or KY Jelly...

          FINALLY, I managed to turn on my side, have Christine and the owner hold on to the kayak, and with effort, wiggled like a snake onto the parking lot, where I lay for awhile, breathless with laughing.  (I don't THINK there was a pop, like cork out of a bottle.)  Christine sat next to me, laughing, while the owner examined the kayak.  We waved a good bye to the onlookers and scurried to the car, where I proceeded to sit on the floor, unseen, but giggling, still.  We didn't buy any kayaks on that day, but when I did, I assure you, it was a sit on top.  I've since used kayaks where you've sat inside, but I've mentally measured them up pretty carefully first, knowing that if I'd had so much as a dime in my pocket that day, I'd have been learning how to accessorize a kayak for high fashion!
         

"I was in prison and you came to visit Me."

Something kind of monumental happened several weeks ago, and it's a sad commentary on the busyness of life that I'm just getting around to writing about it now.

I was a teenager when I came to faith in Christ, and I think it's special how God reached me.  It's certainly special to me!  I was a "churched" youngster.  My parents sent me to Sunday School as a child, and we attended church with periods of faithfulness, then dry stretches of non-attendance.  But I had an amiable relationship with God, I thought. I certainly had a belief in His existence, though He had little to do with my daily life.  I don't believe I would have enjoyed it much if He HAD interfered too very much in my affairs.

I had a flair for music, a singer, but unfortunately chose the clarinet to play in the school band.  My brother has been quoted as saying that no one, but NO ONE, except Benny Goodman, should ever attempt to play the clarinet.  I'm sure his strong feelings come from my early attempts at getting sound from that stubborn instrument and its finicky bamboo reed.  I finally gave it up and my parents bought me a guitar.  I was 16 and eventually taught myself notes, then chords, then even picking.  In 2 years I was adequate, and one of my high school teachers asked me to her apt. one evening for dinner, and to bring my guitar, as she played a bit as well.

I'm digressing a bit -- let me just say that she was a Christian and wanted to start a Bible Study in her home for students and faculty of my high school, and wanted me to be a part of it.  You see, she thought I was a believer already, though I wasn't.  The very first study it was all faculty and me -- and I received Christ as my personal Savior that very night.  It was truly, for me, a trip from darkness to light. 

Photo Copyright Associated Press

About that same time, as God was speaking to my heart, enlightening the muddle of my mind to see His Truth, He was doing the same thing in a mind far superior to my own.  He was at work in the heart and mind of a man named Charles Wendell Colson.  Because we came to Faith around the same time, I've felt a kind of kinship with him over the years.

Charles Colson was President Nixon's "hatchet man", a term he coined to describe himself.  I was just beginning to grasp politics, just starting to watch the evening news and trying to piece things together.  The news was full of the Watergate Hearings, and the name Chuck Colson was like Satan, the man who said he'd walk over his own grandmother for Nixon.  He was ambitious, was a liar, a crook, and had a heart of stone.  So everyone I knew said.

What we did not immediately know was that God had taken hold of that "heart of stone" and was turning it to flesh.  Sometimes we have to reach bottom to look up to God, and Colson had reached the bottom.  A Christian friend had given him C.S. Lewis' book Mere Christianity to read, and it had a profound effect on Chuck.  It turned him to belief and faith in God.  It melted his heart and brought him to his knees.  He was never the same again.  Against legal advice, he pleaded guilty to the charges against him and went to prison for obstruction of justice.  It was, he said, "a price I had to pay to complete the shedding of my old life and to be free to live the new."

His conversion was met with skepticism and mocking by the press and comediennes.  These were, over time, largely silenced, when as a result of his prison term, Chuck Colson became involved in prison reform, founding The Prison Fellowship Ministries.  He devoted the rest of his life to working on behalf of those behind bars around the world.

His Washington Post obituary notes:  "The ministry he founded in 1976 grew into a worldwide movement with branches in more that 110 different countries....In addition to befriending prisoners and converting them to Christianity, Mr. Colson established a rehabilitation program that aimed to cut the recidivism rate..."  (Washington Post, April 21, Michael Dobbs)

He also showed concern for the families of prisoners through his Angel Tree program, which makes sure that the children of prisoners have gifts for Christmas, even though one or both parents may be in prison, through donations of people like you and me.

I was very moved after I read Chuck's autobiography, Born Again, many years ago.  He was a man who, unfortunately like many celebrities who become Christians, have every move, every stumble, broadcasted and examined by a skeptical public, and are so open to ridicule.  How many of us, in our early days of faith could stand that kind of scrutiny?

The world lost a true giant of the Christian Faith when Chuck passed on to Glory and his reward.  He was a man of real integrity. It's hard for me as I see some of the real powerhouses of God age and move on, and I wonder who of us will take their place.  We are so into ourselves, and so lack the service and sacrifice of some of our elders, some of the "greats" of our past.  It was hard for me to see Dr. James Kennedy pass on.  I pray for Charles Stanley as now he sits down to deliver his messages, though I love and admire his son, Andy, and his ministry.  But time marches on and I wouldn't deny these men the rest and reward they so richly deserve. 

Charles Colson was a dedicated Christian man that I greatly admired.  He was articulate, he was immersed in Scripture, and knew how to apply it to our daily lives.  I loved his books, I loved to listen to his radio program, "Breakpoint", as he shared brief bits of Biblical wisdom, and how Scripture applied to our society today.  He was a man who really "stayed the course."

It's not a course I would want.  Prisons and prisoners scare me, and I'm wondering if I'm disobedient for not EVER visiting prisoners in prison!

"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thristy and give you something to drink?  When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you?  When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'

"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'                                                       Matthew 25:37 - 40

He was a man, I believe, who will hear as he stands before his Maker, Savior, and King:

                          "Well done, thou good and faithful servant."

Photo Pat Burdette

Little Einsteins

OK, OK, I admit it.  I'm biased, I'm prejudiced, I have no objectivity at all when it comes to my four nephews (all wonderful and brilliant young men), or their wives, (fine young women, 99.9999% worthy of them), and I am ready to accept the girlfriends of the unmarried ones, too.  Right after they pass the IQ and integrity exams, followed by the grueling obstacle course in Quantico. 

But all of these over protective feelings  pale in comparison to those I have for this angel pictured here, A______, my great-niece.  Certainly pretty, as stubborn and pig-headed as anyone with Pennsylvania German blood flowing in their veins OUGHT to be -- but also musical and intelligent.  Yet her intelligence has a strange little bent.  In other words, she fits right in with our family.  She was 2 years old in December 2011.

I knew she was her mother's daughter at first, because she likes dresses.  I would have worn jeans to my high school prom if I could have found a dress made of denim.  But, not to worry, because she's musical like I am, and has my will of iron. and a temper.  I pray she doesn't go through everything I had to go through to learn to control it!

Anyway, she is a real mother to her dolls, so she's one up on me in that department.  When I was even older than two, my dolls often found themselves upside down in a corner with extremities askew and bald patches.  Hers are all named, in bed, and covered up.  Completely, even heads, faces.  When they sleep they look like a line of corpses in a morgue, but they will never catch a draft!  And if you have the audacity to uncover a face here and there, or a nose to peek out for oxygen, she will squeal, run over, and cover the offending face again.  Cadavers, every last one.

She's been watching Little Einsteins, lately.  I've never seen the show myself, but I understand that music plays a part.  Some are the classics that I love, Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven, Handel.  Amazing.  A________ LIKES the music.  My nephew was out with her in the car driving one day and she requested daddy put on "Little Einstein music."  Yes, she wished to hear the classics.  So now he's gone out and purchased some of the music for them to listen to.

Recently she named her feet.  Please keep in mind she is TWO YEARS OLD.  One foot is named Ella (for Ella Fitzgerald, I think?) and the other Sousa -- for John Philip Sousa, the composer.  I kid you not.  Not long after the christening, her feet were banging against each other and making spectacles of themselves.  When questioned she told her mother that Ella and Sousa were "fighting".  How cute is that?  And creative!

To continue to gush with just one more story -- today my sister, her grandmother, wrote me the latest A______ story.  They had been at the playground, and after they'd left and were driving home in the car, it began to rain.

"Rain, rain, go away,
Come again another day," they sang together.

 Then Little Einsteins raised its head again.  A_______ said "Let's sing it again, only this time, louder -- you know ... CRESCENDO!"

How are we ever going to keep up with this child?

Not "Tin-Grin", but "Knickle Knees"

    For some obscure reason, when I was young, I wanted braces on my teeth and eyeglasses.  The eyeglasses I got, and as soon as I could, traded them for contact lenses.  The dental braces I never got.  But in later years I got something much more permanent, though concealed:  bilateral total knee replacements.

     For the first surgery I had no idea what to expect, no realization of the amount of pain I would experience and the torture physical therapy would bring about (though I did have the benefit of meeting a life-long friend and dear Christian sister in my physical therapist).  The mere SIZE of the incision was a shock to me, as was one of my nurses' description of the actual surgery.  I don't know WHY I didn't research the whole thing a bit more before I did the first one, the right knee, but it had to be done.  It wouldn't really have mattered what gruesome details I was privy to, I suppose.

     A different surgeon did the second knee, and it was night and day.  They went through every disgusting little detail, even showed me what the prosthetic device looked like that they were putting in.  I knew more than I think I WANTED to know about it all.  There was one last parting pearl of information to impart to me, and the pre-op educator did it with great gravity.

     "Listen," the nurse said seriously, "Dr. __________ has a tremendous record of NO INFECTIONS with his surgeries.  One reason is that if you have so much as ONE TINY SCRATCH on your leg, one cut, he will CANCEL your surgery.  Don't even shave your leg before surgery, we will do that.  GUARD THAT LEG from cuts, scratches, ANYTHING that might cut it, DO YOU UNDERSTAND???"

     I solemnly crossed my heart and hoped to die if I got one little boo boo on my leg before surgery.  Then the weekend before surgery my friend, Christine, and my sister, Kathy, and I packed up and went to the beach, Long Beach Island, NJ, for the weekend!  WHOO HOO.

Barnagat Light, Long Beach Island

     Now, my sister and I have always loved going to the shore together, a kind of "girls only" trip.  I love my sis, we have a great time.  Christine's not much for sitting on the beach, but will tolerate it for our sake.  But we love Long Beach Island because there is no boardwalk, only beach, and the lighthouse, and quaint shops, peace and quiet, and we sit on the beach, play games, read, people-watch, talk, sleep.  Now, ever since the movie "Jaws" and the time one August we were overcome by jellyfish in the surf, we are not much for actual SWIMMING in the ocean, but usually we go in for a bit.  For us, on this particular vacation, this is where the trouble began.

Jetty at the lighthouse, bay side

     You see, in a way it was the surgeon's fault.  I probably NEVER would have even gone IN the water if he hadn't said not to get even a tiny scratch.  But, as fate would have it, I DID go in the water that day.

     My sister, Christine, and I were slowly strolling out into the surf, talking together.  The sea was pretty rough, the breakers hard, high, and frequent, so we had decided not to go too far out.  I was mid-sentence, I think, and a little less than knee-deep in water, when I took a step forward with my stronger right leg -- my left leg, the one to be operated on, fairly useless.

     Suddenly I felt nothing in front of me, under my forward foot!  I began to fall forward as I walked right off the end of a drop off.  "So I said to heeeeeeeeeEEEEEE --  AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"    Christine made a grab for me, but down I went, landing right on my posterior.  I had no glasses on, and was facing the beach, but glanced behind me just in time to see what looked like a tsunami wave ready to break over me.  "NOOOOOOOOOOOO -- glub glub...." and I was turned over and over, butt over head in 3 feet of water, sand and sea creatures in my hair, feet, I am sure, flailing in the air.

     I came up, hair over my eyes and some seaweed draped prettily over one ear, and sputtering.  Christine was still trying to make a grab for my arm, calling for my sister's help.  I glanced at my sister, and she was helpless with laughter, holding her stomach and doubled over.

     Suddenly, without even seeing it coming, I was hit again with another driving wave, and there I was, feet in the air, head in the sand.  Charming, I must look so charming, I thought.  Christine was trying to get a grip on me, clawing ridges in my forearm.  When I caught sight I my sister again I think she was in danger of drowning from laughter, she was very nearly falling into the water herself.  I was thinking I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I'd drowned her as an infant.

     I was so hindered by my bad knee I just COULD NOT regain my footing, and I began to look like the creature from the black lagoon with each successive wave, covered in sand, shells, seaweed, small sea life and who knows what.  Finally, a man waded out from the beach to help, a smoking butt hanging from his mouth.  He was so untroubled by the waves that, I swear, the ash did not fall from his cigarette.  He and Christine each grabbed an arm and helped me up, and I was able to get my bad leg under me.  We thanked him profusely and he waded back to shore.  My sister weakly followed behind, still periodically giggling.

     I probably got another 5 paces before a particularly nasty wave hit me in the back of the knees and -- you guessed it -- down I went yet again.  Words can not describe the humiliation of flopping around in that shallow water, trying to get up, hearing Christine call, "Oh, man?  Oh, ma-an?" she sing-songed sweetly.  "Can you help us one more time?  We promise we're going in to shore now."

     The man waded out yet again, tossing his butt into the water.  Up I got again, with the help of the three of them, my sister having recovered from her seizures and fits of hilarity.  Christine said to the man, as a comfort and a promise, "We really ARE going to spend the rest of the day on shore!"  I tried to thank him myself with as much dignity as I could muster, with my hair plastered to my head so oddly and decorated with the treasures of the deep.

     As we finally accomplished land I hopefully said, "Do you think anyone noticed what was going on?"

     My sister and friend looked at me with pity.   "Oh, I'm sure no one noticed."

     Secretly we all knew we'd be the discussion around many a blanket, towel, and dinner table, and possibly the subject of a home video or two.  Oh well, everybody loves a clown......

     And my surgery?  Well, it was with heavy heart I showed the pre-op nurse the tell-tale scratch on my knee on the morning of surgery.  She looked at me, her lips a tight straight line, looking like an old west hanging judge.  She said she'd check with the doctor and left.  I sighed.

     Soon the doctor appeared and with a serious face examined the 3/4" shallow scratch on my knee.  Probed it, squeezed it, pushed, pulled.

     "No,"  he said with a brilliant smile, "completely superficial.  We'll go ahead with surgery!"  I threw my arms around him with joy.

     Now I have two metal knees, and I can't get through airport security stark naked.  But, by golly, I'll bet I'm a better match for those LBI waves now!!!