If you think your bum looks big, or your stomach protrudes too much in an outfit you're wearing, you should ask your partner or friend for a second opinion.

According to a recent study, everyone sees their own body in a distorted way. Researchers at UK's University of Lancaster found large systematic distortions in individuals’ perceptions of their relative bodily proportions.


Another study published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology found the same thing.

Approximately 91% of American women are unhappy with their bodies and resort to dieting to achieve their ideal body shape. Unfortunately, only 5% of women naturally possess the body type often portrayed in the media.

Where did the concept of the ideal come from? Did early women consider body shape more important than health, attitude, and skill?

You form your perceptions of your body’s attractiveness, health, acceptability and fitness in early childhood. This body image continues to grow as you age and receive feedback from peers, family members, teachers, etc.

As a confident child, I appreciated my own looks and strengthened my self image as I matured. I can't remember criticizing other children for their looks. Of course, that's a long time ago. Let's break down how body image affects us.

~ Symptoms of unhealthy or negative body image may include:

Obsessive self scrutiny in mirrors

Thinking disparaging comments about your body and frequent comparison of your own shape and size to other people



Envy or a friend’s body, or just as commonly: the body of a celebrity or someone else in the media.

If you are concerned about your body image, here are some questions to ask yourself:

Is my perception of beauty distorted from years of media exposure that glorifies a very thin ideal that is unrealistic for most people to obtain in a healthy manner?

Do I find myself regularly criticizing my own appearance. ~

 Source: http://www.eatingdisorderhope.com/information/body-image 

At the age of 73, I'm unhappy with my body. My breasts have sagged and my stomach protrudes despite every effort I've made to eat less and exercise as much as I am able. I want to be young again. However, part of me knows I can't remain that way forever. I dislike the way some women artificially pump themselves up or have nip 'n tuck operations. I want to be natural, but don't want to be unattractive. Let me say right now the expectation is unrealistic. I perked up a bit when a health visitor told me I'd lost weight the other day. How pathetic is that?

So, nobody is immune to the ideal look that society pushes forward.

One important thing I treasure is my positive attitude. Despite trials that might have knocked me down, I've used them to strengthen and grow.

Perhaps the best we can do is to appreciate our health and ability, display a happy smile, and stop internalizing.

What? How come men take more exercise? It seems research from Sport England found two million more men than women regularly exercise or play sport. The poll, commissioned by property company CBRE, principal partner of England Rugby’s All Schools program, questioned more than 2,000 UK adults.

Findings show just one woman in six has exercised regularly since childhood, compared to more than one in three men. Three out of five women said they have never taken regular exercise, which is double the rate of men.

If you could take exercise pill form, it would be one of the most cost-effective drugs ever invented. Experts say regular exercise cuts the risk of heart disease, cancer, diabetes, high blood pressure and depression. 

We all know that. But our lives are busy, right? Or some people, like me, have disabilities that prevent strenuous exercise.

You might be among three-quarters of women who would like to do more. No need to let sweating in public or communal changing rooms put you off. There are lots of other ways to get more exercise.

Doing any activity including walking, gardening and cycling from four to six times per week carries the same reduction in risk compared to doing nothing at all. There’s evidence that regular physical activity can protect you from everything from obesity to Alzheimer’s.

Stop going through life with the minimum of physical effort.

That's what I do. I move the cup and the milk closer to the fridge and the door at the same time, without taking extra steps. This prevents pain. But, maybe more movement is the answer, not less. Modern society has taught us that saving effort is better, but this is not the case when it comes to physical activity. Stop thinking of exercise as something that requires a change of clothes and a warm-up. Neither of those things would cross your mind if you had to run away from a thief in the street or snatch a baby from the path of a speeding car.

Move a bit more, and soon it’ll become natural.

Always take the stairs, walk more, stand up more instead of sitting, carry heavy shopping balanced in each hand, sit on the floor to watch tv, and help other people like the elderly with their garden. See in-depth article at the Guardian. 

My husband and I form the perfect example. Although thin and ill, he's constantly active. Even when he sits in his chair to watch tv, he gets up to fetch something many times instead of relaxing. I take tiny steps, always afraid of losing my balance, always careful not to hurt my replaced hips more. My body is brittle and each fall has resulted in broken fingers. I sit at the computer every day, keeping my mind active, and relax for hours at a time watching the television at night.

How can women endure the shame of letting men beat them in the exercise stakes?

UK research for United Utilities revealed that one in 10 households had suffered blocked toilets and drains owing to baby wipes, make-up wipes and other non-flushables going down the pan. Many people put wipes down the toilet instead of in the bin. Packets are clearly marked so you can see if the product is suitable to be disposed of in the loo.

Wipes do not easily disintegrate and sewerage systems are not able to process them. They can block sewers, and when they are washed into the sea they can end up on beaches. The number of used wet wipes littering UK beaches has increased by 50% in the last year, according to the Marine Conservation Society.

The figures indicate that plastic is still the most common litter found on UK beaches. There was also a significant amount of rubbish from commercial and recreational fishing. Overall, the report showed a rising trend of rubbish on UK shores over the last 20 years.

The report, published as part of the MCS's annual Great British Beach Clean, was based on litter found by more than 5,000 volunteers on 301 UK beaches, from 19 to 22 September last year. Source: BBC News. 

That's just pure laziness, especially if people are aware of the final outcome. Do we want our generation to be remembered by the rubbish future archaeologists uncover?

You might have picked up on my passion for the sea by reading the visual clue on the header.

In my youth, I would take my three children and any others in my care, down the local beach in South Australia once a week. Armed with plastic bags, we'd pick up all the rubbish we could find and dispose of it in the bin. 
My children learned good lessons that way, as well as having the satisfaction of making their part of the world a better place.

Here's a short excerpt from Shattered Shells:

~ The regular pounding waves and the wind tugging at her hair, lulled Liliha. Nature invaded her senses. A quiet acceptance replaced her former rages against destiny while she followed her companion to a line of seaweed and shells left by the tide. Poor shattered shells. Once things of beauty, now unable to whisper secret possibilities—like her.

"Look at this plastic." Ellen lifted a piece of red material about the shape of a coin.

Liliha pulled her thoughts together. "Must have been a lid on a plastic bottle."

"Funny how the edges have gone."

"The constant pounding of the waves turns shells and rocks into sand. Even plastic might end up that way." While cool droplets of spume caught on her skin, Liliha drank in the view. Out to sea, the last rays of sunlight glinted on choppy water.

"Wouldn't it be great to have colored sand on the beach?"

"Everything changes over time." ~

What is the state of your closest beach?

Do you use the toilet as a waste disposal?

Yesterday, France passed legislation which granted doctors new powers to place terminally-ill patients in a deep sleep until they pass away.

Polls show eight out of 10 French people are in favor of allowing euthanasia and 96 per cent back the deep sleep law. Patients who are conscious but in unbearable pain will be targeted, as well as whose treatment is not working or who decide to stop taking medication.

The new law will also compel doctors to follow end-of-life instructions written in advance, if patients are no longer able to express their will or decide if they want to be kept alive.

I watched a repeat of Judge John Deed last night, which brought up the painful question of whether to allow a teenage boy his own preference of non-intervention. The subject caused pain to all those concerned in the trial, judge, prosecutor, and defense as well as the parents. However, we should be allowed to make our own decisions and take full responsibility.

Anti-euthanasia groups criticized the French legislation as masked euthanasia, but pro-euthanasia campaigners argue that it does not go far enough and would lead to terminally ill patients expiring because of hunger or thirst.

Five months before, the poignant suicides of two couples in their 80s rekindled the French national debate about euthanasia. One couple chose the romantic setting of a luxury hotel, Le Lutetia, to carry out their pact to end their days together. They first ordered room service. Later, staff found them lying hand-in-hand, with a typewritten note claiming the right to pass on with dignity. Source: The Telegraph. 

We need to release our desire to control the river journey from birth to passing over the waterfall. One follows another without fail. However, nobody wants to foresee future pain.

I remember reading a futuristic novel about old people going to their last holiday together. The accepted practice gave them a wonderful experience before they closed their eyes. Later, a factory churned out nutritious tablets which fed the population. But that's taking the concept a bit too far.

What are your views on this sensitive topic?

One third of us miss the most important meal of the day. A survey of 2,000 British adults found one out of every three miss breakfast.

The oat producer Flahavan's postulates this lack of food can leave you tired, moody, and lower the quality of your work. The word breakfast literally refers to breaking the fasting period of the prior night. It's origin comes from the Christian custom of fasting from food between the supper meal of one day and receiving Holy Communion the following morning.

Two in three people eat breakfast every day, but the study found one in 13 dispensed with a morning meal.

Of those who regularly abstain, two-thirds said they found it difficult to eat early in the morning. Other reasons include not considering breakfast important, not having time, preferring to stay in bed and having too many chores.

The results also pointed to more people missing the first meal of the day than they did three years ago.

While cold cereals, porridge, fruit and toast remain the staple morning fuel for the majority of UK breakfasters, the traditional fry up has now become an occasional treat. Source: Daily Mail. 

So what do small people, who need it the most, eat in the morning in other parts of the world?

'Breakfast for a child in Burkina Faso, for example, might well include millet-seed porridge; in Japan, rice and a putrid soybean goop known as natto; in Jamaica, a mush of plantains or peanuts or cornmeal; in New Zealand, toast covered with Vegemite, a salty paste made of brewer’s yeast; and in China, jook, a rice gruel topped with pickled tofu, strings of dried meat or egg. In Cuba, Brazil and elsewhere in Latin America, it is not uncommon to find very young children sipping coffee with milk in the mornings. In Pakistan, kids often take their milk with Rooh Afza, a bright red syrup made from fruits, flowers and herbs. Swedish filmjolk is one of dozens of iterations of soured milk found on breakfast tables across Europe, Asia, the Middle East and Africa. For a child in southern India, the day might start with a steamed cake made from fermented lentils and rice called idli. “The idea that children should have bland, sweet food is a very industrial presumption,” says Krishnendu Ray, a professor of food studies at New York University who grew up in India. “In many parts of the world, breakfast is tepid, sour, fermented and savory.” '
 Source: NY Times. 

No Champagne breakfast for me. I eat fruit consisting of four or five prunes in natural juice and a slice of fresh pineapple first thing. I leave a break of an hour so the fruit can cleanse my system, and then eat a bowl of porridge with honey squeezed over the top. But at the age of 73, I don't need more sustenance. Or more calories. 

Those of you who work will need more fuel depending on the amount of physical activity you engage in. 

I remember the days of eight hours hard physical work as a kitchen assistant. Always on the move, waiting tables, taking orders, washing dishes, and preparing food. On top of that, I walked to work and home again at the end of each day. During that time, I only ate cereal first thing, but topped my food needs up with a second breakfast at the first break. Consequently, hunger never affected the quality of my work. And no—I wasn't tired, grumpy or moody.

What do you eat for breakfast?

You know how it goes: Climbing over every rock on life's path makes you stronger. The struggle, the trial, once overcome helps to strengthen you. But here's one challenge that led to spotting something that would never have been found otherwise. Story from the Mirror.

A 30 year old man on holiday with his family in California stopped on the boardwalk at a hot sauce store and took part in its hot sauce challenge. Contestants dipped just a toothpick in the hot sauce and put it on their tongues.

Okay, we all know about the heat and discomfort really hot chili can give. When I eat particularly hot chili, the pain in my head is excruciating—enough to make me cautious before trying it again although a small amount daily is said to be beneficial.

The chili (chilli) pepper, of plants from the genus Capsicum, are members of the nightshade family. Deadly nightshade is poison, right? The fiery vegetable originated in the Americas. Brought to Asia by Portuguese navigators during the 16th century, many cultivars of chili pepper spread across the world, used in both food and medicine.

The vacationing man passed out within minutes of dabbing just one drop of the extreme chili called Flashbang on his tongue. An ambulance took him away. Surely the chili wouldn't lead to his death.

He woke up in hospital, gripped by a seizure. That must have been dreadful. I wonder if he remembered the chili he'd tasted?

Doctors performed an MRI scan and discovered he had a cancerous brain tumor—something that would never have been picked up unless he'd experienced those particular circumstances.

Fortunately, the condition was caught in time for the treatment that led to his recovery. He owes his life to the fiery sauce.

I love to hear about how something good comes out of something bad.

My shift to the other side of the world alone and without any contacts in the new country strengthened me. Never once did I think I couldn't do it—find a job and establish another life. Although the situation taxed me to the limit, I emerged a stronger person.

How did a challenge strengthen you?

Yesterday, A missing Scottish teenager, last seen walking towards her home after getting off a bus near Fife College's Halbeath Campus in Dunfermline, was found. Police have placed her safely back with her family.

But what makes teenagers rebel?

Adolescence denotes the stage of life when a young person moves from childhood to adulthood, from relying on their parents to independence. It's a time of great change not only physically, but emotionally, mentally, spiritually and socially. Teens are questioning who they are, what they believe and how they fit into the world. The strong individuals must place the hardest burden on their parents. Later, I'll share with you why I ran away as a teenager.

1958 South Australia. At the age of 16, with excess energy and at the peek of my fitness, I'd run along the Glenelg beach at night, and then up and down the shopping street jumping to touch overhead signs. My divorced mother and I adored each other, which gave me a solid base to stand on, and no reason to fight for my freedom.

The first job I found was working as a junior in a city advertising agency, hired by a very understanding boss. I didn't do much, obviously didn't fulfill the intended role, so after a year, he arranged a job with his friend on the other side of Adelaide, working as a doctor's receptionist in a quiet suburb. Boring but safe.

I joined gym in Adelaide and persuaded Mother to help me financially. This must have been difficult for her, but she managed, despite supporting my two younger sisters on her own.

Grandma, who'd worked as assistant Head Mistress at Church of England schools teaching history and English most of her working life, moved back to Glenelg. At 70 years, she was taking retirement at last. But she couldn't occupy her own home with her family home full to bursting with Uncle Pete and his two toddlers, as well as my mother and her three daughters. I often visited Grandma in her local flat. Her sharp wit and direct line of approach kept me on my toes. I got the feeling she didn't approve of the way I behaved although she never said so, rather, patting my hand and calling me 'a nice girl'. Perhaps she had become accustomed to girls from wealthier families—girls who didn't throw caution to the wind and live on the charm of natural good looks. I hope I wasn't conceited, but I might have taken my good fortune for granted. At last My Uncle Pete found another woman. When he left, Grandma moved into her own front bedroom.

The year rolled on to 1959 and I became seventeen. I made friends at the gym—boys of course. One slightly older bodybuilder called Trafford drove me to different places and never made advances. Another wealthy playboy whisked me away into the Adelaide Hills in his MGB. The iconic car charmed me, but when he made improper advances, I fought him off and insisted he drive me home, thus ending the relationship.

I had a brief flirtation with one of the local lifesavers, followed by a relationship with an entrepreneur, who finally wooed me enough to take my virginity during one of the fabulous parties he and I attended. Stupid, stupid girl. Why did I fall for his fancy words?

On the Glenelg beach the following day, I met Graeme, six months older than me, handsome, fit and the perfect male specimen. Just imagine wide shoulders, narrow hips, skin that shone with a copper gleam, and legs so well-muscled his calves stood out like triangles. As a younger man living at Sorrento in Victoria, he'd been a surfboard rider and a sailor. Not only his good looks charmed me. I loved the way he spoke, his voice, the way his words made me feel.

Neither Grandma or my mother liked Graeme and tried to point out his character flaws. Grandma banned him from the house, claiming he was a selfish, conceited upstart and would be no good for me. She was right. His jealousy caused many problems, especially when I admitted my earlier lapse to him. Much to Mother's annoyance, seeing as she'd paid for a full year at the gym, he insisted I stop attending. I'm sure it was because he couldn't keep an eye on me there.

My father drove over from Melbourne and found us wandering the streets after dark. I never found out how he heard of my plight. He suggested I come and live with him. That seemed a better option.

In Brighton, I started working for Lloyd, as my father liked to be called, as assistant secretary, and trying to learn shorthand after hours. He socialized a lot as an advertising executive and was rarely in the office. Perhaps his fatherly example of natural charm led to my undoing.

Then Lloyd and Mollie moved to Monbulk, in the Dandenong Ranges, 42 km east of Melbourne's central business district, past Fern Tree Gully. He gave himself the title of a Collins Street Farmer, because of the fruit trees on the farm around the house. In the office, his secretary, answered the phone by saying, 'Lord Brown's office'. Sometimes my father would drive me to Melbourne, but often I'd take the train to the city, only speaking to Graeme briefly on the phone. 


Had he separated me on purpose? Did he already have plans to move before I joined them? Despite everything, I knew he and Mollie loved me, but I was unhappy. I wanted freedom.

After a year of separation, I ran away—well, ran to the station and caught the train to Melbourne to meet Graeme. Funny how I never feared for my safety alone in the dark. That's the greatest concern when girls go missing nowadays. I don't think there were less predators around. Somehow, I felt protected, secure in my own being. I'm not sure my confidence would have worked if threatened.

Graeme's older brother intervened and convinced me to move into a seaside girls' hostel for everyone's peace of mind. With both my parent's knowledge, I settled into the YMCA residence on the Esplanade at Elwood. And so, I gained my independence. Too stubborn for my own good.

Did you ever consider running away?

With the news of thousand's fleeing Chile's forest fire, and a cyclone devastating the Pacific island of Vanuatu comes the surprising announcement that a tea grown amid the splendour of the Scottish Highlands will today be crowned the finest in the world.

That's the thing about Earth's weather fluctuations—we humans constantly balance the good with the bad, and face an uncertain future with tenacity.

Dalreoch Estate Smoked White tea, grown in Amulree, Perthshire, has won the Gold Award of the Salon du Thé in Paris, an achievement both impressive and improbable. But at £10 a cup at Edinburgh's Balmoral Hotel, you need to be among those to shop at the prestigious Fortnum & Mason to buy the loose tea.

Traditionally grown in India and China, the Scottish producers say its plantation benefits from the clean Scottish air, fresh spring water and good soil. The Wee Tea Company planted 2000 tea plants (Camelia Sinensis), making it one of the largest commercial tea plantations in Europe, and the only one in Scotland.

In its wild state, tea grows best in regions which enjoy a warm, humid climate with a good rainfall. Ideally, the plants like deep, light, acidic and well-drained soil.

The plucked leaves are collected in a basket or bag and after weighing are taken to the factory for processing, or "making", as tea manufacture is known in the tea trade.

But white tea differs from black tea because of the fermentation process. As I'm originally from Australia, and now living in the UK, I follow the English tradition of drinking tea. Not too much, mind you—about three cups a day of the fermented brew we know as a 'cuppa'. Imagine my delight when further research brought up the health benefits of black tea. As far as black tea is concerned, one cup of tea has about half the amount of caffeine found in a cup of coffee.

Black tea, renowned by its liquid called red by the Chinese, is actually dark amber or orange in colour. After being plucked, the leaves are set out to dry. When they whither, the leaves are rolled either manually or with the help of machines through exposure to high temperature.

Fermentation defines the quality of the tea and produces healthy substances.

Thearubigin, a kind of golden pigment produced in fermentation, has many health benefits. It can combine with cholesterol in stomach and intestines to reduce the amount of cholesterol absorbed from food, helping to protect your heart from hyperlipidemia and heart disease.

Black tea contains higher amount of flavone than other kinds of teas. Flavone is able to protect the heart and vessels. Source: Health Benefits of Black Tea.

I'm sipping a cup of tea with milk this morning as I pass on my message to you. The pleasant bitter tang on my tongue soothes me. No wonder English hospitals serve tea to ward patients. With the passing years, I've learned to take catastrophes in my stride. The weather constantly causes havoc with people's lives. Whilst I send my sympathy to all those suffering the tragic events today, I'm safe in my home, sipping tea. I wish I could share my well-being, my state of mind, my good fortune, even my tea. 

'Let us eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.'

Unearthed during an archaeological dig on the banks of the Danube in the German city of Regensburg, two badly burned pretzels could be more than 300 years old. The Bavarian office for historical conservation displayed the pretzel fragments this week at the museum.


The charring that occurred helped the knot shaped bread products to survive the centuries. Archaeologists believe the oldest pretzels ever found were discarded from a bakery that was once on the site. Carbon dating places their creation between 1700 and 1800.

Apparently, the form of the pretzel represents the crossed arms of monks.

The mayor of Regensburg, described the discovery as extraordinary because it depicts a snippet of everyday life. Source Telegraph. 

An illustration from the 12th century Hortus deliciarum from Alsace may be the earliest depiction of a pretzel. The variety of bread originated in Europe, most likely among monasteries in the Early Middle Ages. The traditional pretzel shape is a distinctive symmetrical looped form, with the ends of a long strip of dough intertwined and then twisted back into itself in a certain way. The pretzel dough is most commonly shaped into a knot, although they now come in different shapes, sprinkled with salt or covered with sugar, chocolate, glazes, seeds, or nuts.

There are numerous accounts on the origin of pretzels, as well as the origin of the name; most agree that they have Christian backgrounds and were invented by German monks. Likely, in 610 AD an Italian monk invented pretzels as a reward to children who learned their prayers. 
He called the strips of baked dough, folded to resemble arms crossing the chest, 'pretiola' (little rewards).

I guess learning must have been boring back in the day. No kind teacher to make the subject enjoyable. No laughs or fun—just head down and study. Children needed something to look forward to. Um … Pavlov's dog comes to mind.

But should reward come in the form of food?

We have few pleasures in life, food, encouragement, satisfaction, and love being the most important. I write because doing so gives me a sense of achievement. I experience the same warm glow after I've completed a difficult cleaning task and I step back to view the twinkling chandelier of my achievement. That far outweighs the reward of a pretzel.

I believe two angels accompany each one of us. No—I've never seen one. Never seen God either, but that doesn't stop me trusting. You may have noticed my statement on the sidebar about using news articles in my novels. The following story is very much like the one I used in my work in progress, which I'll reveal below.

Here's an article I read this morning: Cured by an angel. Source Mirror. 

Quote: Colleen Banton was devastated. Her daughter, born five weeks prematurely, had spent her life in and out of hospital fighting health problem after health problem.

In 2008, aged 14, Chelsea was back in her local North Carolina hospital and she was suffering more than ever before.

She had spent two months in intensive care and was now close to death after developing pneumonia.

Doctors told Colleen there was no hope at all and she made the heartbreaking decision to switch off Chelsea’s life support machine.

The doctors flipped the switch, but as just as Chelsea was about to take her last breath, something happened and she started to pull through.

It was then they saw an image on the hospital’s security monitor showing a glowing figure at the doors by Chelsea’s bed.

Colleen says: “They called me in there and when I saw it, I said it had to be an angel because you could see the wings, you could see the whole outline.”

To the doctors’ amazement, and against all medical reason, the teenage girl then started to improve and she was later allowed to go home.

As promised, here's how I used a similar story in a fantasy story. You see, Liliha wears a star moonstone ring which grants her visions. During a short time away, she whispers helpful advice to a person she contacts.

#Her state of mind pushed her over the edge of normal consciousness. The air became charged, and she sped, straight and true, along the passageway of dreams.

* * *

I peer down at a young girl, sitting beside a bed and tugging a prone woman's hand. People enter the room in small groups and greet the child with a kiss and hug. A regular bleep comes from medical equipment nearby. Two medics murmur outside in the hall.

The girl of about eight years old strokes the woman's hand. "Mommy, wake up." She gives an exasperated sigh. "Mommy, I've told you too many times already. Wake up."

The comatose woman lies pale and still.

"Don't you want to see little baby Ivy? She's nearly two weeks old." The girl blinks away tears.

I sense a spark of life inside the motionless form and wonder who would benefit most from my assistance. Previous experience has shown the difficulty of helping a comatose person. The child needs her mother now. Her outpouring of love can work miracles. Maybe I could help the child to contact her mother. Would God, the Guardian, want me to revive her? No time to wait for an answer. The children's needs are clear.

I meld with the girl and see the hospital room by way of her eyes. Her name is Trina and she's taut with fear as the medics enter from the doorway and approach the bed. The relatives step forward to say goodbye. They stand, watching, waiting. With somber intent, the female medic nods and turns off the life support. When the peeps cease, most of the family follow the medics out of the room, leaving just the grandfather beside us.

Mom's weak labored breaths tear our heart.

Grandpa strokes her head, "You can go now, daughter."

In a firm voice we blurt, "No, not yet. She's not ready."

I cross my virtual fingers and whisper, 'Think about the time your mother held you tight after you won the prize for running. Remember the love you felt right then. Hug her inside your mind.'

She does what I suggest with remarkable swiftness. Two other entities radiating with shining light surround us. Angels? Soft whispers of support strengthen my message. The three of us might make a difference.

"Don't go yet, Mommy."

Although conflicted about reviving someone, I whisper to Trina, 'Pretend you're crawling between tight bushes. You have to push forward to reach the sunshine and your mother's love. Push.'

We tense and screw up our eyes. "Please live, Mommy."

I urge, 'Give one huge effort. Use every bit of strength you have. Make your love loud and clear.'

"Mommy." Desperation makes our voice squeak. With innocent, pure beauty, we whisper, "Open your eyes."

Muffled shouts come from the central station in the corridor. Doctors rush into the room again to examine her, shine a light into her eyes. "Look. There's a response."

Without regaining consciousness, the prone mother sucks in a soft breath.

I can do no more. I feel a surge of hope from Trina before I disengage and hover overhead. A porter wheels equipment close. The doctors' movements are swift and sure.

Tears run along Trina's cheeks and her face changes from uncertainty to joy.

The female medic reaches out to prevent the child moving, but Trina drops her head onto the covers beside her mother's hand. "You're coming back to us, Mommy."

The medics gaze at each other. The male medic says, "I can't explain it."#

* * *

Have you heard of a similar experience? Do you believe angels exist?