RX

Humor is uplifting and great medicine for the soul. In my opinion, show me a happy person, and they're probably a relatively healthy person. This week I have been a walking prescription bottle.

I honestly can't believe the things that have happened this week. It all started on Sunday. I was cleaning the house for my mother's arrival. Even though Mama would be staying with us for her heart surgery, I was always glad to see her and was singing while I cleaned. I come from a very musically inclined family, but instrumental, not vocal, is more on my skill level. I've never thought that I was another Karen Carpenter, but I thought my vocal abilities were "fair." Imagine my surprise when I heard my dogs howling.

As a test, I abruptly stopped singing; the darn dogs stopped howling. I took a breath and started on the second verse. Yep, you guess it. I again had two canine back-up singers.

"Maybe you could try singing 'How Much is that Doggie in the Window?'" John asked with fake innocence.

Okay smart guy, I thought, you'd better be glad that I have had my coffee this morning. Or I'd . . . I'd have something really smart to say back. Even though coffee jump starts me in the morning, sometimes it takes a while for my "electrical system" to be fully functional.

Monday came and went without a hitch; Tuesday was the day of Mama's surgery. We had to awaken at three in the morning, and make the thirty minute drive to Austin for the surgery. The lab had made a mistake the week before and forgotten to do my mother's blood work.

My mother is an eternal morning person, while John and I are not. Needless to say, neither one of us received our daily transfusion of coffee, so the ride to Austin was not very pleasant. I sat in the backseat and talked to my mother while John drove.

"Must you talk while I'm driving?" I glanced out the window at the interstate. We were the only cars on the road.

"Must you drive while I'm talking?" I retorted. Yeah, I know. That statement made no sense. But who makes sense at four in the morning.

We arrived at the hospital, and before I could put the diapers in my bag along with the peanut butter sandwich I had made for the toddler, Seth ran off with the bag. I had to walk into the hospital carrying a stack of diapers and a foil wrapped sandwich.

I was the first to approach the information desk, and was greeted by a well-groomed receptionist.

"Hello dear," she crooned. You must be looking for mental health services. It's . . ."

"Why would I be looking for them," I interrupted. "My mother is having surgery." The lady mumbled an apology, and avoiding eye contact, directed us to where we needed to go.

"She probably thinks you were a patient by the way you look," John giggled as we walked away. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a mirrored window as we walked past, and was shocked at what I saw. I was disheveled from the wind outside, there were diapers poking out of my jacket pocket, and I was carrying that darn sandwich in my hands.

Despite all this, Mama made it through the surgery with flying colors.

The great finale was yesterday. My family and I returned to the scene of the crime --the hospital-- to visit Mama. I was talking to Seth and not watching were I was going as we walked down the hall. Suddenly, I ran into the glass elevators with a thump and bounced off them. I saw that a woman was watching me, and I couldn't help but laugh. Together, we laughed until tears ran down our faces while John and my boys walked ahead, pretending not to know me.

In my opinion, I am a walking prescription for laughter.