I am gazing through my office window looking over the treetops to the other side of the cold creek that lies who-knows-how-far below my house at the bottom of a rocky cliff.  Remnants of snow lay on the ground and blasts of cold air are trying to push the cedars to their breaking point.  My wind chimes have not rested all morning.  Birds are pecking at the hard ground looking for anything to satisfy their hunger.  It's the kind of day that implores you to stop working and curl up under a blanket on the couch with a mug of hot cocoa.  I'm trying to resist the appeal...

Sixty seconds never went by without a machine beeping.  It was usually signaling that her oxygen levels had dropped below the parameter set on the machine.  Respiratory therapists would come and do their treatment on her, which was similar to when a massage therapist performs a percussion-type regimen on your back.  She never found her "massage" quite as relaxing as I do.  Her oxygen levels would improve if I held her up to my chest with her face squished against my collarbone.