Hello my friends and Oh my gosh, I have been so caught up in My Adventures that I haven’t stopped long enough to blog them.
Here’s the latest:
Whenever I see The Old Red Cadillac Car around town I know my dad is trying to reach me.
My father has been ‘dead’ for 7 and 1/2 years, now. When he was alive my folks had a Red Cadillac. Maybe the one I see now is theirs, maybe it isn’t but, in my mind, it’s now my dad’s car and his way of getting my attention. I often see the car parked and empty but the times I have seen it moving I have never noticed the person driving it. Isn’t that strange?
As an aside, I also find dimes when my dad is looking for me. My mother finds dimes from Daddy, too and so does one of my brothers. Apparently my father is not a penny kind of man like all the other spirits who drop pennies from heaven to get their relative’s attention.
For three or four days now I have been seeing The Old Red Caddie and I’m thinking, ‘OK Daddy, what is it?’
Meanwhile, my ankle has been hurting for at least ten years which will indeed, eventually have some bearing on this story.
Many years ago I fell in a gopher hole and twisted the ankle. Being young and limber, I popped right up off the ground and went on with my life. The ankle cried about the trauma but I didn’t listen. Now, years later, it has flared up and berates me and aches me and refuses to let me take the long walks in the morning that I love to take.
Chiropractors and podiatrists have looked at it and I have had expensive inserts put in my shoes. I have had the ankle massaged and rubbed and pulled. I have soaked it and plied it with hot and cold packs, I have oiled it with miracle pain creams and have taken magic supplements but, my ankle has remained mad and swollen and vengeful.
Lately, My Very Normal Friends in this town have been telling me about a woman here who has healed their feet, their shoulders and their lives.
Carol, my 80 year old friend, the one who wasn’t dead and didn’t go to Paris, either, (see Nov. 2007 about the fires) was having intense foot pain for several years and did all the things I have done plus she actually saw real doctors about it. She got no relief until she saw Dr. Daisy.
“She grabbed my foot, said my heel was out, gave it a little push, and I’ve been pain free ever since,” she tells me.
Regina, my 50 year old art friend who’s husband died a year ago, had her chronic shoulder pain cured “In 3o seconds.”
Faye, my 80 year old interior designer friend thinks the world of Dr. Daisy and her work.
Even my lovely, Intense Christian neighbor, in her forties, admits she got major help from her, but unfortunately she had to stop going because she felt Dr. Daisy was “too metaphysical.”
I go back to Carol and say, “She won’t take my blood pressure, will she? I have a phobia about that.”
Carol assures me that Dr. Daisy just tapped her painful foot a bit and that was it.
I’m excited. I want to see Dr. Daisy. I make an appointment.
Then, I start seeing The Old Red Caddie all over town.
“Umm,” I wonder, “is Daddy trying to tell me he approves? Or, that he maneuvered this? Or, am I just hoping hard to get my ankle to like me, again?’
Dr. Daisy has her office in-between the Cash Your PayCheck-and Loan place and the shabby Food Stamp store.
The waiting room is a jumple of toys and chairs and faded pictures on the walls of the spine and nerves and autonomic nervous system.
Her personal office is cluttered and piled with papers and books and boots with no place to sit down which is fine since we don’t tarry there. As I follow her to another room I notice that she is a woman of indeterminate age, with thin short brown hair that has been slicked by her bed pillow, to her head.
She’s wearing enormous brownish tweed pants that are way too big for her, and a short sleeved, rumpled, wrinkled, used-to-be pink sweater. Or maybe it’s a tee shirt?
I like her look.
I sit down in this other room with her and tell her about my ankle.
She wants to take my blood pressure.
Oh No! I don’t want her to take it. I tell her I have white coat syndrome and that just the thought of taking my blood pressure sends me into a frenzy of boiling blood and loudly screaming and teetering heart.
But, hey no need to put all my phobias on the table, I think, as she ignores my pathetic whimpering and wraps a little blood pressure thing around my wrist and sets it going. My eyes roll around as I watch the numbers leap up and up and up. Pretty soon I’m shouting and flinging the thing off me.
Well. This is a fine way to start a relationship.
“Can I shine a light in your ears?” she asks.
“Oh sure,” I say, “I don’t have any phobias about having lights shone in my ears.”
We go from there to her shining a light in my eyes and having my eyes follow the light.
Now she’s got some little rubber hammers and I know she’ll be banging on my knees, next.
I start complaining about my ankle and how it’s my ankle that I am here about.
Dr. Daisy leans against the examining table and looks at me.
“We’re not going to do the ankle today,” she says.
“You’ve had major head trauma,” she says. “When did this happen?”
I’m stumped. I don’t have a clue. But, I have to come up with some response.
“Ah…I had lots of major dental work when I was a kid,” I say. “It was very invasive.”
Dr. Daisy looks at me.
“I volunteer at The Ranch twice a week,” she says. “I see lots of head trauma and you have it.”
I assume The Ranch must be a place where Dr. Daisy works with battered and abused women and children?
“How can you tell I have head trauma?” I ask.
“The left side of your face. It looks like someone smacked you…really hard! and knocked your face sideways. One of your eyes is lower than the other one which is too far up. The right side of your face is cramped and squished up because of the blow on the left.”
I have forgotten about the blood pressure. The news about my face is startling. I have no memory of when this damage may have happened, but it could explain many persistent problems in my head. Dizziness, ear sounds, pains in teeth that have no cause, TMJ, chronic sinus, headaches, a cottony/fuzzy feeling at times, eye problems and more.
I lie down on the table, face up. Dr Daisy tells me she will work on my face to bring it back into alignment.
I am however, still whining about my ankle.
With a sigh, Dr. Daisy goes to the end of the table, gives my foot a little rub and a tweak and I hear and feel a ‘snap.’
“There,” she says, “there’s your nice arch back.”
Oh my gosh! More then 10 years of pain and all it took was a little ‘snap’ to release it? Hoorah!
But, we’re back to my face.
For half an hour Dr. Daisy holds her hands and finger tips lightly over parts of my face and above it. She moves them around a bit.
“Your palate is very unhappy with a certain dentist,” she says. “Which one was it?”
“I don’t know. There were a lot of them.”
“Take the tip of your tongue,” she says, “and feel your palate. Is one side higher then the other?”
“Yes. The left side.”
She asks me about my birth.
“All I know is my mother was put to sleep for the birth and that I came out with a pointed head.”
“Ahh,” says Dr. daisy, “it was a hard and complicated labor. Maybe they used forceps.”
As we book another appointment for the following week, Dr. Daisy tells me that I may now have strange aches and pains and emotional states; that I should just allow them to release.
As I stagger out into the sunshine, I’m thinking, “Wow. What a Strange Adventure that was.”
And….my dad’s car drives by. The Old Red Caddie drives right by me as I’m standing in the parking lot. It whooshes past me and rolls past the McDonalds and the Laundromat.
“So Daddy,” I’m thinking as I drive out of the lot, “was all of this your doing? Am I going to feel better, now?”
I’m heading home when, by golly, The Old Red Caddie sails on by me on the right!
Later, at my mother’s house, I recount my Latest Adventure. Mom loves to hear about my adventures. When I mention the Old Red Caddie and Daddy, she says, “Oh! I often see that car too and think that’s your father contacting me.”
When I ask her about my birth and the doctors drugging her she says, “I’ll never do that again!”
I’m looking at her a bit oddly and she says, “..Oh, well, at 85 I guess I won’t be doing that, again.”
That night I have a dream. I hear my father calling me, twice, and very loudly. I’m outside and I know it’s my father who I know is dead. I’m looking in the direction of his voice. I’m looking and looking. And then, I see him. There he is. He’s in the flesh, in real life, alive! I’m stunned. He’s managed to step through the borderland and into our world. He’s cracked the code between life and death.
Today, as I write this, it seems so reasonable. Why can’t we walk from here to there and there to here? I’m sure it can be done.
In my work as a medium I ‘see’ and chat with ‘dead’ people all the time. But, I don’t see them in the physical flesh as we live folks see each other.
And yet, my father did it.
And, so I know it can be done, and I expect to see my father again, hopefully in the daytime, in this daytime that is really also a dream, as real and as unreal as a night dream.
……….And yes, my ankle is still fine, thanks for asking.
As for my head? Umm, maybe I should ask you what you think about that?