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  While I was reading my get-well cards, I heard, "Yep, I like those flowers."

  I looked up to see the woman in the bed beside me push the curtain aside so she could see better. "Yep, I like your flowers," she repeated.

  My roommate was a small 40-something woman with Down's syndrome. She had short, curly, gray hair and brown eyes. Her hospital gown hung untied around her neck, and when she moved forward it exposed her bare back. I wanted to tie it for her, but I was still connected to an IV. She stared at my flowers with childlike wonder.

  "I'm Bonnie," I told her. "What's your name?"

  "Ginger," she said, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling and pressing her lips together after she spoke. "Doc's gonna fix my foot. I'm gonna have suur-jeree tomorrow."

  Ginger and I talked until dinnertime. She told me about the group home where she lived and how she wanted to get back for her Christmas party. She never mentioned a family, and I didn't ask. Every few minutes she reminded me of her surgery scheduled for the next morning. "Doc's gonna fix my foot," she would say.

  That evening I had several visitors, including my son Adam. Ginger chattered merrily to them, telling each about my pretty flowers. But mostly, she kept an eye on Adam. And, later after everyone left, Ginger repeated over and over, just as she had about my flowers, "Yep, I like your Adam."

  The next morning Ginger left for surgery, and the nurse came to help me take a short walk down the hall. It felt good to be on my feet.

  Soon I was back in our room. As I walked through the door, the stark contrast between the two sides of the room hit me. Ginger's bed stood neatly made, waiting for her return. But she had no cards, no flowers and no visitors. My side bloomed with flowers, and the stack of

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  get-well cards reminded me of just how much I was loved.

  No one sent Ginger flowers or a card. In fact, no one had even called or visited.

  Is this what it will be like for Adam one day? I wondered, then quickly put the thought from my mind.

  I know, I decided. I'll give her something of mine.

  I walked to the window and picked up the red-candled centerpiece with holly sprigs. But this would look great on our Christmas dinner table, I thought, as I set the piece back down. What about the poinsettias? Then I realized how much the deep-red plants would brighten the entry of our turn-of-the-century home. And, of course, I can't give away Mom and Dad's roses, knowing we won't see them for Christmas this year, I thought.

  The justifications kept coming: the flowers are beginning to wilt; this friend would be offended; I really could use this when I get home. I couldn't part with anything. Then I climbed back into my bed, placating my guilt with a decision to call the hospital gift shop when it opened in the morning and order Ginger some flowers of her own.

  When Ginger returned from surgery, a candy-striper brought her a small green Christmas wreath with a red bow. She hung it on the bare white wall above Ginger's bed. That evening I had more visitors, and even though Ginger was recuperating from surgery, she greeted each one and proudly showed them her Christmas wreath.

  After breakfast the next morning, the nurse returned to tell Ginger that she was going home. "The van from the group home is on its way to pick you up," she said.

  I knew Ginger's short stay meant she would be home in time for her Christmas party. I was happy for her, but I felt my own personal guilt when I remembered the hospital gift shop would not open for two more hours.

  Once more I looked around the room at my flowers. Can I part with any of these?

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  The nurse brought the wheelchair to Ginger's bedside. Ginger gathered her few personal belongings and pulled her coat from the hanger in the closet.

  ''I've really enjoyed getting to know you, Ginger," I told her. My words were sincere, but I felt guilty for not following through on my good intentions.

  The nurse helped Ginger with her coat and into the wheelchair. Then she removed the small wreath from the nail on the wall and handed it to Ginger. They turned toward the door to leave when Ginger said, "Wait!"

  Ginger stood up from her wheelchair and hobbled slowly to my bedside. She reached her right hand forward and gently laid the small wreath in my lap.

  "Merry Christmas," she said. "You're a nice lady." Then she gave me a big hug.

  "Thank you," I whispered.

  I couldn't say anything more as she hobbled back to the chair and headed out the door.

  I dropped my moist eyes to the small wreath in my hands. Ginger's only gift, I thought. And she gave it to me.

  I looked toward her bed. Once again, her side of the room was bare and empty. But as I heard the "ping" of the elevator doors closing behind Ginger, I knew that she possessed much, much more than I.

  Bonnie Shepherd

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  A Hair-Raising Experience

  The test of courage comes when we are in the minority.

  Ralph W. Sackman

  As an only child to two adoring parents, I grew up believing that life was good. Especially when my mom washed my long black hair. I loved it because I always got great head scratches! But on one particular day, a huge clump of my long hair fell out in my mother's hands, much to her horror. She thought she had done something terribly wrong. Little did we know this was the beginning of a nine-year odyssey.

  Over the next six years, I lost large amounts of my hair and was always trying to shield these bald spots from the world. None of the doctors could figure out the cause. Many theories were explored: allergies, vitamin deficiency, stress, lack of hormones, etc. I was even taken to Children's Hospital for a battery of tests, where they put me in front of 200 medical students to discuss my case. Along with the many theories explored, we also attempted numerous remedies: cortisone injections into the scalp,

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  daily scalp massages, mega-dose vitamins and oils and creams, but I just kept losing more and more hair. By age 13, I was completely bald and finally resorted to wearing wigs. As a young teenage girl, this was an extremely devastating event. Kids wondered if I had some contagious disease or if I were dying. Being called "Kojak's daughter" or being asked "Where's your lollipop, baldy?" was no fun either. I either ignored their teasing or laughed with them until I got home, then I cried my eyes out!

  The worst part was that wigs weren't made like they are today, so it was obvious that the wig was not my real hair and people always stared at "it" versus looking me in the eyes when talking to me. Fortunately, my Dad and Mom taught me to hold my head high and realize there were other children who had much worse conditions. But as a typical 13-year-old girl who was very active in sports and wanted to rough-house like everyone else, the situation led to some very embarrassing moments. The most embarrassing event in my life involved David Lane. I was totally in love with the 15-year-old, dark-haired, handsome older brother of one of my church playmates.

  On Sunday evenings, the church-group kids all got together and went roller-skating at the local rink. We looked forward to this weekly event because our parents dropped us off for three hours. On this particular Sunday, the "whoopie" was announced 30 minutes earlya game where three people held hands while skating and when "whoopie" was yelled everyone had to change directions. The moment had come! Kimmie and David Lane and I were going to skate together. This meant holding David's hand! I had heart palpitations just thinking of it. Three "whoopies" into it, an out-of-control skater suddenly came straight for me, collided with my head and my wig went flying 50 feet down the skating rink! I was completely mortified as I stood beside David, and he looked at

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  my bald head! The entire skating rink came to a standstill as one of my friends picked up the wig and plunked it back on my head. In her haste she put it on backwards so the long curls were hanging past my nose and the bangs were at my neck! What a sight! I was immediately surrounded by all my friends as they shuffled me off to the ladies' room to fix myself up.

&nb
sp; Once I was in that restroom there was no getting me out! I didn't want to feel the stares and hear the questions or, even worse, see David Lane's expression of revulsion! I immediately used the restroom phone, and through passionate sobs, asked my dad to come get me. To this day, Dad says one of the hardest things he has ever done was answering, "No, you wash your face of tears, straighten up your hair, and go skate the rest of the night away." I was completely devastated! My dad had always been my hero. Why wouldn't he come rescue me? Thirty minutes and three pleading phone calls later, the reply was the same, "No, you get back out there and skate."

  It was then, as I sat in tears on the bathroom floor, that David Lane appeared. He just skated right into the ladies' room, grabbed my hand and asked me to come back out to skate. I wiped my face, held my head high and skated the rest of the night away with the boy I loved.

  A few months later, a young doctor said I had "alopecia" (baldness caused by an allergy to the chemicals released by my own hair follicles). As an allergic reaction, my hair fell out. The doctor said that when I started menstruating, my chemical makeup would change and I would most likely get my hair back! Finally, a name to what was happening and a logical cause! Sure enough, at age 16, I started menstruating and my hair started growing! Within six months, I no longer had to wear a wig.

  Today I keep my dark hair very long down to my waist, making up for all those lost years. In fact, when I asked

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  my husband what was the first thing he noticed about me, he sincerely said, "Your long, beautiful, dark hair!"

  I have not had contact with David Lane for over 15 years, but if he reads this, I want to tell him and my dad, "Thank you. Your rescue of a 13-year-old bald girl transformed a memory of a most embarrassing moment into a memory of kindness and love."

  Debbie Ross-Preston

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  Money of My Own

  "May I help you?" I asked.

  It was one of the two jobs I held. But staying in college was worth it. The first job was cold calling, making calls to people's homes, asking them if they wanted a subscription to one magazine or the other. Since the calls were placed between five and 10 at night, most people considered the call an intrusion either on their dinner plans, their family time, or both. But my job at Wolfe's Department Store was a different matter. More like fun than work, here my task was to straighten the rows of beautiful garments made from the most refined fabrics of intricately woven threads and sell them to lovely women with manicured nails and salon-kept hairstyleswomen who could afford such thingsor who wanted to.

  "Oh, I hope so," she said wistfully. She was a pretty woman of about 35. Wearing a yellow sundress and sandals, her long auburn hair hung in soft curls around her shoulders.

  "It's my husband's class reunion in six weeks and I want to look absolutely wonderful for him," she said. "Six weeks ago I was here and saw a gorgeous peach-colored silk dress. Only after I tried it on, did I realize how much

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  it cost so I was almost relieved when the style revealed the extra pounds I was still carrying from my pregnancy. But the dress was so pretty, it motivated me to get back in shape, and now that I am, and with the reunion in just a couple of weeks, I told myself I better start shopping for a dress to wear. I was hoping that I'd find that dress, though I can't imagine that such an exquisite dress would still be here, but maybe, I thought, just maybe. Or, you might have something like it."

  I said, "Let's look around to see if the dress is still here." We walked through the four rows of racks of perfectly hung clothes, but the dress she was looking for was nowhere in sight. I could tell by her body language that she was really disappointed.

  Her heavy exhale was as lengthy as her deeply drawn inhale. "Oh gosh," she said, obviously let down.

  "Last week we received a new shipment of silk dresses," I said encouragingly, trying as much to please and appease her as to be helpful. "They're over here, if you'd like to look at them. Maybe we can find something similar, or maybe one you'll like even better." I led her to the rack of new dresses that had just come in. She looked through them slowly, carefully touching the delicate fabrics with her long graceful fingers.

  "Oh," she lamented, as she looked over the elegant apparel, "you should have seen that dress." Her eyes widened with her smile. She began to look around at other things, but still enchanted by the special dress she had seen some weeks back, continued to describe it in great detail. Suddenly, it occurred to me that we just might have a couple of these dresses still in the store. Several items had been moved to another department to make room for the new shipment of things in ours.

  "What size do you wear?" I asked.

  "Size 6," she answered.

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  "If you don't mind waiting," I said, "I'll have a look in another department. I'll be right back."

  When I returned, I found her sitting in a chair, patiently waiting for me. It was clear that the peach-colored silk dress with the cloth-covered buttons was the dress of her choice, and she would wait. When she saw me coming with the very dress she had described, she stood up, and with a look of amazement on her face, covered her mouth with both hands.

  "Oh," she said excitedly. "That's it! That's the dress!"

  "Size 6!" I said, gleefully holding it out to her. "And, it's on sale, 40 percent off!"

  The woman could hardly believe her good fortune. She took the dress and quickly disappeared into the dressing room. Moments later, she emerged to observe herself in the full-length mirror. Slowly she turned to observe herself from every angle, carefully scrutinizing the image in the mirror before her. She was right, the dress was absolutely beautiful, and she looked resplendent in it. But it was more than the transformation of the dress from the frame of the hanger to the frame of her body. She felt lovely and elegant in the dress, and her face radiated her joy. She looked at me, and smiled. No words needed to be exchanged. It was obvious the designer had a woman such as she in mind when it was fashioned.

  "Thank you, thank you so much . . . ," she squinted to read the print on my gold name tag"Bettie, and, oh, by the way, my name is Molly."

  Molly paid for the dress in cash; carefully unwrapping a bundle mostly of small bills, counting out the exact amount needed for the dress, then, laying it on the counter. I wrapped up her beautiful new dress and put it in an elegant shopping bag. As I handed it to her, Molly reached out her hand to touch mine, and in a soft, sincere voice said,

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  "Thank you so much again for all of your help, Bettie. I'm so happy you found this dress for me. I can't wait to wear it."

  I was even more sure that when I was married I would take delight in doing things to be special for my husband as she had for hers. It also dawned on me that helping others feel so happy was a better way to earn a living than interrupting someone's dinner plans and family time with magazine sales.

  The idea was short-lived.

  One evening a few days later, a very handsome man came up to my counter. He tossed a Wolfe's shopping bag on the desk and barked, "This is a return." Through pursed lips, he added, "For cash."

  I opened the bag and there lay a beautiful silk size 6 peach-colored dress. I flipped the tag over, and in my handwriting were the store code numbers, the date of the sale, and my register code.

  "All the tags are still on it," a woman's voice said softly. I looked up, and there, standing several feet behind him, stood Molly, looking meek and embarrassed. I didn't understand.

  "Oh," I said, surprised that the dress was being returned. "Is there something wrong with this dress? If so, we have an alteration department that can fix it for you."

  "No, there's nothing wrong with the dress," the man shot back. "No one in her right mind would pay this much for a dress." He went on to say other things, too, all designed for intimidation.