The Miracle - Redone

The Miracle

By Lori Jean Finnila

I plunged both hands of mine into the water; it was shallow with darker sand than normal. The hands were face down with not one inch not submerged in the water. With little bubbles from the water that was rushing further out from me, I felt the release coming through my body - magic flowing through me as my body could feel relief. I don’t know if it was exactly all emotional or both physical and emotional – but it was definitely relief. I wondered if anyone could hear or see what I was doing. I could see some people from far out but I don’t think they noticed. I would always try to hide further into the woods along the river when I would do this. I would probably be put away if they did, but I had to do this. I knew this now. I reached someone.

My angels, a CIA matter, I don’t know, I was searching for a miracle and water always brought it. I was taught that water was freeing. When you’re so far out from others, as I was and felt everything matters, every little thing. I would see the angels coming in and out so often now flying through me and all the cracks in my head almost in full figure now. Sometimes I felt so superior to others; I wondered or at least was sure at times that dying is a goddess thing because it brings you closer to heaven and all the power in charge, and now I had it with me.

I kept getting sicker; my head kept throbbing. There seemed to be nothing anyone could do. That’s when the angels started to come. We conversed often too, me and the angels. I was friends with so many it didn’t matter to me anymore. It used to; I didn’t know who they were. Sometimes, if them, when they would come in they would look like aliens and suck and zap as they would draw energy to me by putting something down my throat as I would feel some sort of relief. I was so mystified, though I couldn’t belief I had the strength to even feel this as this instance of happening was taking me away on such a magical journey. I was always told to close my eyes so I wouldn’t get scared. Sometimes I would peek to see such large bug-like looking eyes that loved upon me and brought me hope of life. They always told me where to go.

The last and final time would be Amsterdam. I made that day with the boats in the river, the clothes on lines, my granddad’s presence being there. As I submerged my hands for life in exchange for a soul trapped the transformation of his body came through me, my hero transpired to a more powerful place, where he would always be – and here where I would remain. 

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Hours to a Coma

Hours to a Coma

By Lori Finnila

There was nothing around me giving me clues to the presence that I was in life. I remember the low glare of the fluorescent light of the time of day as I stare at the ceiling from my gurney.  I tried to guess the time of day; I made out it was probably two or three in the afternoon. I panicked at the amount of time that I had been in the operating room. The numbness of my body and the smell of chemicals through cold air breathing in through my nose scared me. I had already had an emergency C-section and now I was waiting my fate of seeing my son and to be sewn up. I look down at my white robe on me as it is distant from me as a person. It’s funny how you not become a person once you enter the hospital being so detached from people you hardly know. I suppose as hard as the help tries this happens anyway.

Is my body revealing too much as I worried feeling naked and inferior. I don’t know. I could feel the fogged path I was going down next; I knew it all too well – I had been there once before, in a hospital too. It was a similar situation too as this one where I was about to lose all consciousness again. Remembering the fog of waking up to a knife cutting me and then my head thrusting up and down upon the gurney fighting for air. I lost too much and ended up with a brain injury. Now my fate rested in God’s hands to this happening again and even worse this time.

I looked to the doctor’s strong glass frames for hope in his eyes and his stern look drew me away. I got nothing…, nothing from him. Did I say something he didn’t hear? I needed his feel, I needed this for comfort. But again …, I got nothing. Eyes so brown and so beautiful cradled in a tight white wrap were now brought out to me. The cold and emptiness around couldn’t take away the igniting feeling between me and my son and what was happening between us now.

But I was still too aware of my insides that I was told were now laying on the gray, dull, steel tray next to me as my son was taken away - I learned this from my ex-husband. The rustling commotion from my cousin and the staff left too much confusion for me to understand what everyone was talking about now as my cousin addressed should he be brought in now, or should I get him? So who was she bringing in I thought as my baby was now gone, my abuser? It is scary right now. How could my cousin do this to me I thought? I pushed my weak body to connect a short while. But this would not last. I would drift off into a state of prolonged unconsciousness of scares and odd sounds for 6 hours and never know what happened to me when I awoke. I was by now fast in a coma.

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Helicopters in My Yard

Helicopters in My Yard

By Lori Jean Finnila

I hear the roaring of helicopters up high as my little weary, tiring head tries to focus on what it is and the landing that it is probably making of what I know of helicopters in my young little head in the driveway of my small, unfinished rural home in my young little life. I can’t tell the age of myself, but once again for me, the cellar is cold again and for some reason I am on the foam piece used for my parents bedding in our van camping trips. I can’t tell if I’m tired or not then; I seemed to have just come to enough to hear the commotion of my mother yelling for the people in the helicopter to land. Then she laughs – seeming not to be alone with this laugh.

In my more structured, intellectual, processed mind of knowledge (yet weary at times) today, I see her just saying, “Drop it,” as the helicopters wings seem to come so close to our house for a landing. But then with some gibberish talk from my mother – about my aunt’s entrance at this time, it then rushes off.

I can now perhaps remember a man administering a needle of some of what it was that was dropped off into my arm and I am out again. Perhaps this was my journey, my venture in life that leads to the so many unexplained theories of situations that has happened. What was I and my mother a part of to go through such lengths to subdue me? What was I needed for? What was I used for? The perfect rural neighborhood where some of the old still existed. Why did they want to keep me so quiet and so scared most of my life and the lengths they went through toward me?

Come Dance With Me