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Margaret, loving called Donnie by friends and family began telling stories at the age of 5. By the time she was 8, her mom complained that she found it difficult to tell the difference between Donnie's truth and her fabrications. Her mom encouraged Donnie to start putting her imagination on paper, including poetry since she seemed to have a talent for it.
Donnie, finally had her first story published. The title is Max and Donnie wrote under the Donnie Harucki. She's had many poems published in various anthologies.
Now being in the senior category of her life, she want to write more and see how far it takes her. That's why she became a member of Biopage. She's hoping you'll read her stories and leave a message.
Thanks for reading about her. She appreciates your attention. Have a great day.
Okay, so everyone who knows me, knows I'm a klutz. True enough but you've got to admit, a lot of what I've done has been done by others and will continue to be done by others. My latest mishap? A picture frame! I carefully lifted all those annoying metal prongs to life the back in order to insert my photo. Whew! Did that with no problem. Then I carefully pressed them all back down...... or so I thought. I held the frame sideways against the wall to measure where the nails would go for hanging. And that's when my problems began. The frame slipped and rather than having a piles of splintered glass to sweep, I caught the frame. Yes, you guess it! The one prong I missed didn't miss my thumb! Ouch, that hurt as it slid across the back of my thumb. And boy did it bleed!!! My attempts at curtailing and stopping the blood flow were all in vain and a trip to the local ER was inevitable. Four hours and three stitches later, I arrived back home. Now, here we are, two weeks later, the sutures are out but my thumb is still a bit swollen and very sore. The doctor said it will be this way for about "maybe another week." Wonderful!! Just wonderful!! I don't think that anyone every realizes how useful their thumbs are until it hurts so badly to use it, you don't. Can't hitchhike anymore (although I never really did). Can't stick my thumb in a pie to pull out a plum (although I didn't do that either). But seriously, it hurts to hold a pen (or pencil). Opening a jar is out of the question. Anything that requires pressure against where the injury was is something that will only happen as the injury heals...which the doctors assured me will happen but slowly. So, now you're wondering why I'm blogging all this nonsensical trivia. It's to alert you of the hazards of what lies behind the frames. Before you attempt to hang your beautiful photos, check and double check that you've actually pushed all those prongs back into place. You just never know when one might be lurking behind to make you yell, “OUCH, that hurt”.
I have absolutely no tolerance for rude people, especially when they're rude to the handicapped. There is really no excuse for them. Here is an example of what drives me absolutely batty: Mom and I were at a store and she needed to use the ladies' room. Okay, not a problem. Since mom uses a walker, we head straight for the handicapped stall where she can have more room to maneuver her walking aid. Only this time, the stall was locked. It was in use. There were still three other stalls that were vacant. I heard a voice coming from the handicapped stall indicating someone was using their cell phone. Okay, again, not a major dilemma. It happens. Leaving the walker outside the tiny stall, I helped mom inside then turned away to block the door and give her some privacy. Mom was almost done with “her business” when I heard the lock click in the door of the handicapped stall. Out walks a girl who looked about 16 years old, talking on a cell phone and absolutely no handicap. I stared at her and said, “Really? You used the handicapped stall when there is clearly nothing wrong with you?” She looked at me as if I had 5 heads and said, “I wanted to make a phone call. I wanted my privacy.” I told her everyone in the restroom could hear her so what was the point. Again, she looked at me as if I were crazy and left the room. Now, the way I look at it, these stalls were made bigger to accommodate people with wheelchairs, walkers, mothers with small children that need assistance and mothers with infants that need changing on the installed changing table. They are not made for kids who want to use their cell phones for what they think is a bit of privacy. I can't tell you how angry I was to know that my mom had to be so inconvenienced by someone so inconsiderate. And what if she was in a wheelchair and need me to help her from the wheelchair to the toilet? She would have ended up messing herself. And for what? For the use of a teen using her cell phone?
You groggily awaken in the OR. Your surgery has ended so you close your eyes for a peaceful recovery. Without warning, you feel as though you're being propelled through a wind tunnel and somewhere off in the distance, you hear someone shout, “Hurry, she's not breathing.” Someone else shouts: “Her heart stopped.” You wonder who is about to die but the bright lights of what you assume are hospital hallway lights are too bright for that thought to last too long. They're so bright, you squeeze your eyes shut against the glare. All is now suddenly quiet and peaceful. Someone is gently shaking your shoulder while saying, “Wake up. Come back to us. Open your eyes.” You realize, someone is speaking to you. I opened my eyes but found I couldn't speak. What happened? I was fine just a few minutes ago. Wasn't I? A doctor walks over and says, “You had a bad reaction to the anesthesia. Your lungs and heart stopped working. You'll be on a ventilator until you can breathe on your own again.” That happened to me in February of 1979. It was the scariest part of my life. Every hour, for eight hours, a nurse would approach. I would hear a loud “CLICK”, then no air! Nothing! As hard as I tried, no air! I would see a hand pass over the top of the tube that was inserted down my trachea. I would hear her say, “Nothing yet. Hook her back up.” Another loud, “CLICK” then beautiful cool, refreshing air and I'd be breathing again. Actually, I wasn't breathing at all. The ventilator was breathing for me, but it was keeping me alive. As hard as I tried, I couldn't get my lungs to function. Was I doomed to a life of ventilator dependency? Did the lack of oxygen paralyze me? Did I suffer any sort of brain damage? Time continued to pass by and every time I closed my eyes, a nurse would rush over saying, “Now, honey, please don't close your eyes. Stay awake for us. You can't sleep.” Another question. Why? Why was I denied the privilege of a nap? I felt so tired. I wanted desperately to sleep even if only for an hour or two. I thought of my two young sons. Their father and I were separated with a pending divorce. Before the surgery, he graciously volunteered to keep them for the duration of my recovery. He had no idea what was happening in the ICU. No one called him. I'm not blaming anyone. No one had his new phone number. I had it but was in no condition to give it out. Lying helplessly in the ICU, as the clock on the wall ticked away each second, all I could think of was breathing and getting home to my sons, rebuilding my life again without my almost ex-husband. Boredom had me drifting off again Another nurse, whom I'll call Anne hurried to my bedside. She gently stroked my forehead. “You need to stay awake. We're afraid if you fall asleep, you might slip into a coma.” Wow! That opened my eyes in a hurry. It was towards the end of her shift. I heard the shuffle of feet and saw Anne's face. “It's time once again. This time, I want you to try and take the deepest breath you ever inhaled.” I heard that all too familiar, “CLICK”. I focused and finally after eight agonizing hours, took the tiniest whisper of air you could possibly imagine. But it was enough. “Yea!” Anne exclaimed. She shouted to another nurse, “She took a breath. A small one but it was there.” A second nurse verified that I indeed took a small breath, a few of them. Anne said, “Close your eyes. We're removing the tube.” It felt like someone was removing a cactus plant from my trachea but suddenly, it was out, but was breathing on my own! Anne said I could now close my eyes and take that long awaited nap. I'd soon awaken in my own room. I have no idea why I reacted so badly to the anesthesia but to this day, here in 2020, there have been occasions where anesthesia stops my breath. The doctors, nurses, and anesthesiologists are all aware of this problem and take extra precautions to ensure it doesn't happen again. Have I been on a ventilator since then? Yes. Yes, I have, but for no longer that 2 hours and that's because the doctors are forewarned and monitor me very closely. I know the fear of not being able to breathe voluntarily. It's a horribly scary thing to go through. I can't help but have the deepest empathy for those who contract and suffer from COVID-19 and must be ventilated. For those who live through it, they'll never forget the time when the only thing keeping them alive was a machine. For those that didn't make it, all I can say is that it was a horribly, hideous way to die. I no longer take breathing for granted. I haven't since February of 1979 and never will.
I saw something in the distance Beneath the pale moonlight. It was a fleeting, translucent figure - Something of sheer white. I strained my eyes to see it, but It vanished in thin air. I wondered about my sanity: Did I see it? Was it there? The moon struggled with its brightness Through the thickening of the woods. I recalled every silent movement, As best my memory could. But alas! As I had given up The dream I thought I'd seen, There stood a beautiful Lady Where the image had once been. As she smiled I felt a comfort, Instead of threatening harm; I felt no apprehension Only peaceful calm. Although she never spoke a word, She pointed out the way To take me from the forest Into the light of day. And as I walked, I realized, She'd been there all the while – This Lady with the simmering gown And the saddened but beautiful smile. She's the Lady of the Forest; She's there to help us see The light that's in the distance Beyond the tall dark trees.
As the families gather all around, Together, yet alone, Tears fill the eyes of all who visit Here, in the Garden of Stone. We're remembering all the days gone by And the happiness we had known, While we walk with sadness in our hearts Through the Garden of Stone. The Flags are waving proudly, But at half-staff they are flown. They wave for our quiet heroes Within the Garden of Stone. They lived with war's torments and nightmares And never felt more alone. Now, they finally found peace within the walls Of their personal Garden of Stone. The years have left us fond memories, But the emotions that are shown Are mixed with our pride and yet, bitterness Due to the Garden of Stone. The pain will remain within me, No matter how much I have grown, As I kneel beside my loved one, who Lies in the Garden of Stone. But a voice deep inside offers comfort, Saying that from the Garden of Stone, God is leading our fallen heroes as The soldiers make their final march home.