People have asked me over the years why I think I was ‘chosen’ to have the ability to speak to the dead, to facilitate healing, to ‘download’ a biography to make sense of biology. My answer is simple; I was picked for my sense of humour, not some otherworldly vibration of awesomeness (even though I have no trouble admitting that I really like who I am) or because I am so advanced on the journey of my soul that I have incarnated this time as a Great Cosmic See. I genuinely believe that I have been blessed with the abilities to step in to a person’s life experiences and make a difference because I can laugh with myself and everyone else stumbling through the comedy of life. I am also a willing vessel.

Those of you who have read my books are well familiar with my quirky style of sharing pearls of wisdom from beyond. I first have the experiences, some overwhelming in their spiritual nature, some nearly unbelievable in their human nature and others just down right funny in nature. It’s usually me at the butt end of the Cosmic Ha Ha, but people seem to relate.

If you are following my blog, then you are aware that I landed myself in hospital a week and a half ago with what gave the appearance of a heart attack, thought to be a blood clot but ultimately turned out to be a severe hiatal hernia. It seems the vomiting bug that was left in my Christmas stocking rather than coal (which incidentally would have been a much more sought-after commodity in this weather) turned out to be the gift that keeps on giving. I actually hurled so violently that a small tear in my diaphragm sustained from years of adjusting spines at a high volume, ripped into a substantial tear that allowed my stomach to creep up into my chest cavity as I was putting my groceries in the car last Saturday. When my bloods came back with an elevated D Dimer, the docs immediately went searching for a clot after finding out just how many times I had actually been on an airplane over the last 12 months. It was a reasonable pursuit given the circumstances and the symptoms. But there was something that I left out when recounting the hours leading up to the attack. I knew it didn’t cause the event, and I also knew that if I mentioned it I would no longer be taken seriously as a contributing diagnostician to my own condition while in the ER.

My friend Sheila had been staying with us on Thursday night before my ‘Saturday Night Fever’ at the grocery store. We were laughing and having the craic as we always do when we’re together. We are the same age with a few weeks difference, both from the States, both were in Chiropractic school at the same time, she in the North while I was in the South, both presidents of the student body of our respective colleges, married and divorced at the same time, and both of us moved to Ireland to practice Chiropractic within months of one another. The Yankee and Daisy Duke actually met at a seminar in Limerick only to discover that we had been living these bizarrely parallel lives that were simply uncanny. Soul friends for sure, we can really relate to one another. She is highly amused by my steady stream of textbook-defying clinical ailments, and is more or less convinced that ‘I ‘aint from around here’.

Sheila and I have an absolute ball theoretically dissecting the human condition and she is a mad one to try out any alternative exercise, health aid or green, gloppy juice full of parasite disinfectant, just to see if it works. She tries the stuff out then passes the results on to her family, friends and patients much the same way I have made myself available for any and all physical/spiritual abnormalities to share with you, my dear friends.

So the topic last Thursday night was menopause. We were comparing notes, trying to decide if either of us were in the throes of peri or early menopause, when Sheila showed me something attached to the front of her underwear. It was this small glittery thing which of course appealed to me straight away because it was purple. She said it was some kind of ‘lady magnet’ that was meant to drastically reduce the symptoms of… maturation.

‘You should get one’, she said.

Even though I know from many years of experience that magnets and I do not get along, I decided to give it a go. You see, I’m one of those types that kill a watch battery in two minutes flat, sets off the alarms in the airport, oh yes, and works with the electromagnetic energy field of people’s bodies due to a reconfiguration of my internal hard-wiring following that whole death in a car accident thing. Little purple lady magnet in my knicks? No prob. Am I saying it had anything to do with putting me in the hospital 6 hours after I put it in my pants? No. I just think it’s a really funny coincidence.

In keeping with the ridiculous story that was my trip to the hospital, the day before it all happened I had made an appointment to have my legs and my bikini line waxed simply because it’s mid-winter and it was time. Anyone who knows anything about it knows that one must resist the temptation to shave the fledgling forest in order for the wax to stick and make a proper job of ripping the screaming follicles from the flesh. As fate would have it, the father of a family I am very fond of had passed away and his funeral was scheduled for high noon, the very same time as my long awaited wax job. Of course, I rescheduled. It’s not like anyone was going to see the state of my nether regions and beyond over the weekend, right?

You so know where this is going. Where’s the first place they look when searching for a clot? While on a trolley in the ER for 22 hours, I managed to keep my leggings on due to the fact that the Doppler scan of my femoral arteries/veins wouldn’t be performed until the following day. Sheeew! Escaped that one.

Enter my beautiful children. My dear friend, ‘Auntie Irene’, had come to get the children from the hospital as I had them with me when it all hit the fan earlier in the evening. The following day, she arrived back with two proud little girls in tow because they had packed a bag full of nice things for Mommy to have in the ‘hosrible’. I can tell you one thing here and now. I’m going to start wearing silk pyjamas and those lovely slippers with the feathery stuff on top around the house anymore. The girls had packed a bag with the things that they see me wear around the house (when no one is looking). In fairness to Irene, she too, had packed a bag with a pair of her pj’s and slippers which are a far cry from my own ‘casual’ wear. The only problem is, Irene is about half my size so I had to go with the attire provided by the children.

So there I was, fuzzy pants with neon orange, lime green and shocking pink skulls and crossbones, and a black, longsleeve t-shirt with bright red lettering advertising my favourite bar-b-que restaurant, Pigs-R-Us, in my hometown of Virginia. The only thing of Irene’s that fit were the bright pink stripy socks that perfectly capped off the ensemble. I was like a circus clown on top and one of the performing animals underneath it all. It was not one of my finer moments.

Because my complaint was ‘unusual’ in nature, the doctor overseeing my case decided to bring around an entire team of young doctors in training. But of course she did. How could she not? I, in my clown suit with legs like a Yeti and no face wipes. Who would want to miss that?

So up go the pant legs to check width and girth of the calves, everyone in the posse having a good look to check for redness and swelling. At least I wasn’t swollen… No sooner than all ten of them had left, I was wheeled down to x-ray only to be greeted by the only male doctor over the age of 30 I had seen the entire time I was in there. Just to add insult to injury, there was no wedding ring.

Now, this was a scan of the veins in my legs to see if we could locate or rule out a suspected clot. I know what you’re thinking. Oh, how awful for her that he would be lifting the legs of her fuzzy, skull pants only to be greeted by Sherwood Forest. I’m afraid it wasn’t quite that simple. You see, I had been changed into a gown at this stage, legs exposed and still wearing the pink fluffy socks which, by the way, had to be removed for the procedure. It was at this stage that it suddenly dawned on me I had removed the bright red nail polish I had worn for a post-Christmas wedding a few weeks earlier. This had left a beautiful yellow hue on my nails that made it look as if I smoked twenty a day with my toes. I had also missed my pedicure that was scheduled for after the waxing that never happened. Feeling as if I had let all woman-kind down, I lit in to my apologies only to be told by the doctor that he had seen it all. He said this just as he asked me to pull up my gown so that he could start the scan at the top of the femoral artery, conveniently located somewhere underneath my neglected bikini line. I’m a doctor; I know my anatomy and I subconsciously knew that’s exactly what he would be doing. I had allowed myself to slip into denial, far more concerned about my personal grooming than the real reason I was there. I just laid back and groaned as it really and truly couldn’t get any worse. Well, at least there was no clot, and as a bonus, I had just had my hair done on Thursday so the brain scan wasn’t so bad.

So, with all of this behind me, I sat last night sharing my escapades with Sheila, who was staying over again to cover my office in town. We were having a right good laugh at the fact that I really do have my priorities in order. We hee-hawed at the idea that the ‘lady magnet’ could have disrupted my constitution enough to knock me to my knees and she grimaced right along with me at the fact that I was like some kind of wildebeest as I bared all for the barrage of tests that all turned up negative, thank heavens.

This morning, we awoke to freezing fog and a thin layer of ice on the car. While I was herding the children out the door and into the car to go to school, Sheila very kindly had taken my super cool, hot pink window scraper with elbow length insulated mitten and started scraping the ice from the windscreen. I had started the car to get the heat rolling when I looked out the window, only to see Sheila lying over the bonnet, hysterically laughing.

‘What’s up?’ I yelled out the door because the windows were frozen and wouldn’t go down.

Through nearly frozen tears of laughter, she yelled back, ‘I’m stuck to the side of the car!’

I started to laugh, thinking her clothing was stuck to the frost, when she started shaking her head.

‘No, no! The magnet! The magnet in my underwear is stuck to the car!’

I laughed so hard that my daughter shrieked out, ‘Mommy! Are you having another heart attack?’

I guess watching me drop in the Supervalue car park the week before had left its mark. Either that or I must remember to belly laugh a whole lot more often in front of my kids.

I’m laughing all over again as I write because this, my friends, is positive proof that the Universe is always listening and has a flawless sense of humour. OK, I admit it was all a little scary at the time, but man, it sure was funny. Don’t forget that it’s all just a game, a story and an exercise in being a human. No matter how tough, how daunting, how awful it gets, don’t ever forget that you have been blessed with a divine sense of humour. The more you use it, the quicker you will realise that IT’S ALL FUNNY.

Love and Laughter,

Mary Helen

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