Dolly Parton just died, leaving over $400 million in an estate. Articles are popping up everywhere, trying to be the first to find out how that estate is divided. Knowing Dolly Parton’s business history, I bet she has it all tucked, puffed, and decided, wrapping it all up in a beautiful bow. She always knew what she wanted.

Designating beneficiaries is o…

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The Alabama Pet Pantry wants you to keep your furry companions with you always. We all think that our pets feel our emotions and stand beside us when few others will. In sickness and health, they love us without reservation…but do they really? Or are they just in it for the duck-flavored snacks?

Dogs reacting to our emotions is not a new concept. A well-known dog training book, The Other End of the Leash, talks in depth about how dogs react to the emotions of the person holding the leash. I have always thought that is why nervous people have nervous pets. My own dog, Sadie Lady, will respond to a person I have strong feelings about without hesitation. Until now, there have been few real scientific studies to support what many of us believe.

A very recent article published in Smithsonian Magazine has now provided evidence that dogs actually can tell the difference between human emotions. The article, “The Scientists Gave Dogs MRIs and Learned That They’re Surprisingly Good at Distinguishing Between Human Emotions, Even Some Negative Ones,” talks about just what the title says: dogs can distinguish between human emotions. They have an actual reaction that can be seen on MRI results.

When I read this article, my first response was—no way they got dogs to be still in an MR machine! Especially since it sounds like a freight train knocking when it scans!

BUT…they did.

My second reaction was—what kind of dogs did they use? Which breed? Could it be that this specific breed is more apt to read faces than others?

Then I got over my shock and read more deeply. They actually trained 12 dogs to stay still and awake in an MRI machine in Vienna. In the first test, they showed eight of the dogs happy faces and then scanned their brains. Holy moly—their temporal cortex and caudate nucleus lit up! An honest-to-goodness reaction in the parts of the brain associated with cognition and rewards.

The study didn’t stop there. A second test using the dogs showed reactions in appropriate areas of their brains to different pictures of people showing emotions. The dogs responded differently to sadness. Fear and anger lit up similar portions of the dogs’ brains, suggesting that perhaps the dogs need more information to differentiate between fear and anger, such as more physical cues, body language, etc.

Guess what—your dog really does respond to your emotions. I am very much in awe that someone got a dog, let alone 12 dogs, to sit there long enough to complete these tests.

Thank you to the neuroscientists at the University of Vienna! The next time your dog snuggles up to you when you’re upset, know that they really do understand.

Every year we do a fundraiser, Funnies for Furbabies. A benefit celebrating our companions and raising money to keep the pantry feeding our neighbors. Now we know for sure the dogs can laugh with us.

Mark your calendars!

I hope this year you will bring your dog along to enjoy the show! Hopefully, they will laugh with us all as we celebrate!

• Funnies for Furbabies —

• Thursday, November 5, 2026

• 630pm-9pm
  Siluria Brewing, Alabaster, AL

A comedy show benefiting all of us. The Alabama Pet Pantry has given out more than 150,000 pounds of free pet food into the communities in Jefferson and Shelby Counties. Tickets to the show will soon be available with any monetary donation to the pantry.

www.alabamapetpantry.com

“If you have it, GIVE it. If you need it, TAKE it.”

Pushing patients into one place where the resources are clustered is much cheaper. The hardship on the patients is of no consequence to those in charg…

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An author’s most exciting chats are with people who read and love their work.

My life is filling with these people.

Writing and working at the pace I am keeping means that—after giving my granddaughter time—not much is left. I have even been known to cut my grass in the dark. Flashlight pointing just in front of my mower.

PS—you will always miss a spot or two, but it keeps you mostly caught up.

This particular afternoon, exhaustion followed me, so I stopped for some coffee.

I was enjoying my cup of dark black liquid when a woman comes up behind me and says,

“Yuck, Squatch spit.”

I look up, somewhat confused.

She elaborates.

“Squatch spit on my shoulder. Yuck.”

Her smile broadens.

“But I love it.”

Realization covers my face.

“Oh my goodness. You read Doryto!”

“Oh, not completely. I want to enjoy it, so I am taking my time. It’s sooo good. I love his Mom.”

I’m smiling too.

“You know, this really makes my whole day absolutely amazing. I think I might just be a writer.”

She laughs.

“Oh my, you aren’t just a writer. You are a good writer.”

And just like that, I got all the validation I needed.

Five minutes. One conversation. One reader.

I could write for days without taking much of a break. I love it.

Sure, performing is great. But writing stories?

THAT is my jam.

It is so exciting to be doing this with my life. I feel filled with energy every morning I write.

But if I am going to be successful, I have to start looking at it like a business.

So…… I went to my first writing conference.

I will not tell you which one or where because, honestly, it was such a disheartening experience.

There is not much support unless you are willing to give someone else power over your work.

I asked questions.

Here are some of the answers I got.

Do I have to give the rights to my book away?

No, not necessarily. It is complicated.

They had agents there for us to meet with. Agents? Why do I need an agent? What do they do? How much do they cost?

Apparently, they take 15% of the contracts they secure for you. There are lots of other laws and things they have to abide by.

If they accept payment from you and later want to be your agent, they are supposed to return that money paid for any contract work.

I am guessing they are very important to book sales because they cost $50 for a 15-minute pitch session.

I bought one.

And I asked my questions.

How many book sales is a lot?

Could be 5,000.

But it seems most of the time, somewhere around 20,000 books sold and the agents and publishers come looking for you.

They had publishers there too. Why do I need a publisher? I already have been published using my publishing company.

My books are readily available for purchase, everywhere.

The big publishers pretty much squish everyone else out of the game, making it extremely hard to get any space in bookstores or get any real advertising without them.

Then there was the math.

A $4,000 advance minus the agent fee of 15% leaves $3,600.

And it isn’t paid in bulk.

It is paid in installments.

You kidding me?

That is no money at all, really. That’s payment for maybe 3,600 books at $1 a book.

Turns out the traditionally published author is really lucky to get a dollar or two a book.

I followed the money.

And I was so shocked.

But here is what I also realized.

None of that changed how I felt when that woman walked up to me and said, “Yuck, Squatch spit.”

None of it changed how I felt when she told me she loved the book.

None of it changed the fact that something I wrote had made its way into another person’s life.

And maybe that is the part I need to remember.

For right now, I am going to continue my word-of-mouth campaign.

I have no idea what I will do in the future.

I just want to write.

And write a lot.

I retire from nursing in 2028.

Then - I will write nonfiction and start a marketing campaign.

I may ride out into the sunset and work from one city to another telling stories.

But today?

Right now?

That ‘Squatch spit’ comment from a reader is exactly the encouragement I needed.

Hopefully, the business part will figure itself out. I will eventually understand agents and publishers and advances and contracts and all the other pieces of this crazy thing called being an author.

But today, someone who read my story recognized me in a coffee shop and told me I was a good writer.

For today, that’s enough.

It is more than enough - it makes me feel all warm inside. Feels like stepping out from the shade and into the sun….and I couldn’t be more pleased.

Live Well;

Sheila

He was a teenager, shot execution-style. One bullet hole to the forehead.

Somehow, he made it to the hospital and into the bed in front of Wanda.

He was not a large child, but he is one person she will never forget.

As nurses, there are some patients they will carry with them until they meet their own eternal ending.

This child is one of those.

At 3 a.m., the report came in.

“Male, teenager, single gunshot wound to the forehead, unstable blood pressure. Levophed, epinephrine, and vasopressin onboard. CT reveals the bullet still inside. The bullet bounced around inside his head. Police say it was a single incident and no danger to staff. Family to follow.”

As they moved him to the hospital bed from the stretcher, Wanda’s first thought was how beautiful he was.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Except he wasn’t.

The ventilator reminded her very quickly that he was dying. Delivering breaths ceaselessly in a timed rhythm, it alarmed when the respiratory therapist broke the circuit. He silently fixed the problem.

An aide helped her turn him, and she gasped at a tattoo of a monkey holding a big bag of money on his right shoulder.

Wanda put her hand up, but neither of them spoke.

They put clean sheets underneath him. The smell of old blood engulfed the room. A small amount of room spray was the only comfort they could offer his family. They applied it generously.

The aide removed the offending sheets.

His head was wrapped in gauze. A small red area was the only indication anything was damaged. The ventilator wonked now and again, rhythmically moving his chest up and down.

Wanda called for the family.

Usually, these cases bring tons of family, friends, and, here in the South, a preacher.

An older woman and her companion were the only visitors.

They met with the doctors, who told them the grave news.

He would most likely pass away before morning.

She asked about anything they could do.

There was nothing else.

Removing the bullet would kill him. His brain was devastated from the injury. He would most likely die anyway, but they would try their best. If he made it through the night, it would be a miracle.

They talked about his care and decided he would be a Do Not Resuscitate.

No chest compressions.

Once his brain swelled and herniated, he would die, and they, as healthcare professionals, would not stop it. Nature would take it’s course.

She didn’t cry.

She just stood at the bedside and stared at him.

Then she left.

She told her companion she needed to figure something out. Wanda stopped her in the hall, offering to try and make her more comfortable.

Surely, she wasn’t leaving.

She said, “I’m tired. Call me when he dies.”

Wanda was horrified.

She was leaving this baby to die alone.

As the mother left, tears streamed down Wanda’s face.

She was not yet a veteran of suffering, and her heart broke.

An older nurse tapped her shoulder, “Get your shit together. You’ve got a patient in that bed.”

Wanda, frozen in place, swallowed hard.

“His mother left.”

“You don’t know the whole story. It’s not our job to judge.”

Care changes when you know someone is dying.

She tried to make him comfortable.

She moved pillows.

She readjusted his arms and legs.

She gave medications to ease him, careful to give just a little.

She listened, changed drips, and watched.

Finally getting a few minutes from her other patient, Wanda just sat and held his hand.

The doctor came in.

He stopped the last drip, saying, “There isn’t anything else we can do.”

The same older nurse came in and turned off the monitor.

She looked at Wanda.

“The thing will make you crazy.”

Wanda just sat.

A curtain separated her two patients, and she leaned back occasionally to check the guy recovering from his surgery.

He looked at her.

“I’m fine. You just take care of that kid.”

You just take care of that kid.

Those words are so full.

Care, how?

All she could do was hold his hand.

There was nothing left to do.

So that’s what Wanda did for the next few hours.

She wiped his face, cleaned his mouth, watched the red spot grow larger.

The beeping around her from the many beds throughout the intensive care unit slid away until it was just her and this kid.

This child no one was here for.

A life gone and her, the only witness to its passing.

Eventually, everyone has to go to the bathroom.

Nurses are no different.

There was no one to relieve her vigil.

When death comes, it is unceremonious.

It quietly moves.

Wanda heard the ventilator from the bathroom and hurried.

It was just a few steps away.

He was gone.

Within five minutes, it was all over.

The doctor pronounced him and hit the switch on the ventilator.

A silence came that filled the air with finality.

His life was over before it had even begun.

The morgue kit sat on the counter.

She washed every inch of his body, pulled out all the wires and tubes, and covered him in lotion.

Gently as she could, she wrapped and tied his arms and legs so they wouldn’t get tangled during transfer in the heavy plastic bag.

This time, she didn’t cry.

Years later, in her dreams, she would weep.

She would weep for the moment she lost.

The moment she let a teenager die alone because she had to go to the bathroom.

If she had just stayed one more minute, he wouldn’t have been alone.

As far as she ever knew, there was no obituary.

She never found a news article.

No fanfare.

Just a boy who died in the night.

All but forgotten.

Today, Wanda has missed more moments like that than she could dare to count.

Some she remembers because they lived.

Some she remembers because they died.

And then there are the ones she carries.

She does her best and leaves most of it at work...but that one.

She never knew if he was scared.

She never knew if he understood someone stayed with him until the very end.

Time has taken many things.

It never took his face.

She remembers the smell of old blood.

She remembers the monkey tattoo on his shoulder.

She remembers the silence after the ventilator stopped.

People think nurses forget.

They don’t.

They carry the ones they couldn’t save.

Sometimes for a lifetime.

Wanda still carries him.

She always will.

Live Well;

Sheila

Döstädning is a Swedish word that means removing unnecessary items so your family doesn’t have a mess to clean up after you’re gone. Simply put, it’s getting rid of your stuff before you die.

I accidentally added this to my Audible and then listened to it while I was driving to New Hampshire. By “accident,” I mean I clicked on it without knowing anything about it. This is not my regular reading, but I did listen to the entire thing.

It is narrated by Juliet Stevenson, who I could listen to for years. It only takes a little over two hours to finish.

The basic premise is to think about our objects using different language than we’ve been taught.

“Does this object bring joy?” is a well-known phrase for getting rid of things, coined by Marie Kondo. In her bestseller, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, Kondo talks about downsizing using what she calls the Spark Joy Test and organizing by category. I remember what a huge hit that book was in 2014.

The change requested in The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning is much more drastic because it’s written by someone in her nineties. She recommends asking instead, “Will anyone be happy I kept this?”

I think it’s genius.

Having cleaned out many homes after someone’s death, I wholeheartedly believe this way of thinking is revolutionary. Imagine if we lived our lives knowing we would eventually leave everything behind, keeping only the things that truly mattered to us and passing along only the things people really wanted or that were precious enough to mean something.

The book is written in such a gentle way that you’re simply journeying along with this woman as she clears her home and settles into what she hopes will be a very comfortable last part of her life here on earth.

Think about it.

Do we really need all our stuff? Does anyone want it all? Do we even want it all?

What struck me the most was the shoebox.

She talks about limiting the amount of things you keep. Some of her most precious items fit into a single shoebox. I know so many people who wish their parents had left them one shoebox instead of an entire house full of things to sort through.

That would be such a precious gift to give the people you truly love.

I intend to give things away relentlessly, leaving only my writing and my voice.

Having lost almost all my possessions twice—once to a fire and a second time to a tornado—I know it is all replaceable.

What matters is our time together.

Live Well;

Sheila

The title reads, “Nearly 1 in 5 U.S. Adolescents and Young Adults Use AI Chatbots for Mental Health Advice,” and it is terrifying. This caught my attention after I read an article about a child taking his own life after a discussion with artificial intelligence. His name was Sewel Seltzer. A beautiful 14-year-old boy who needed someone to tell him, “Thi…

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This morning, I am sitting on my back porch writing away, pretending I am all sorts of characters, diving deeply into my imagination to bring forth another book about a woman—who just happens to have a squirrel for a best friend.

I actually met the squirrel this story is about in Chicago. I spent quite a while conversing with this squirrel.

Yup. The picture above is the same squirrel. She’s pregnant. She’s not the least bit scared of me. Actually, she was quite curious. We talked about how I was a little insecure about Chicago but found it to be very hospitable. She agreed that it was a nice place to raise a family, but the winters tended to be a bit harsh. I told her I will try not to visit after it snows. As I walked away, my imagination caught fire.

Then, I went on a deep dive into internet stories about squirrels. They are very smart. They live quite a long time. Now, before you think I am developing a mental defect, I know squirrels don’t talk.

But what if they do communicate in their own way?

What if a squirrel was my best friend?

What would it be like to have a companion that smart? One that is able to problem-solve? One that could perhaps help me problem-solve?

The first chapter and last chapters are written.

The cover is done.

Mona has a best friend who is a squirrel. I am now working on the story in between—the place where the real story happens. Mona is a person I know. Pictures form in my mind, and we dance until the full story unfolds.

Today, I am so grateful for the life I am building. Grateful I have the energy, time, and finances to make my world change into what I want it to be.

I love to tell stories in a way that honors the characters.

I have always been this way. Always imagined worlds that don’t exist. As a child, I ran through the woods, imagining what the grass said that morning, or what little birds were saying to each other. I built forts and defended them from monsters. I followed trails pretending to be characters I had read about in books or magazines. I thought about strange places I had never seen and dreamed about visiting them.

Today, I have traveled most of the United States, and even watched the salmon swim upstream in Alaska with eagles perched along the banks, catching and eating until their bellies might just pop.

I have seen parts of Great Britain and South America.

This year, I will visit Scotland and think about what it means to be a highlander. My life is amazing, and yet sadness lingers. It sticks to items like syrup dripping down a glass, slow and steady. My husband would have loved all of this. Every single minute.

I guess that’s why I drive all around. I feel him the most when I am on the road—smiling, thinking about how well he sees me keeping it between the lines. Between the things we say and the things we hide... and I write those into stories you hopefully enjoy.

Live Well;

Sheila

Before you answer that question, read my story.

I recently read an article that was filled with misinformation from a so-called expert. Now, I’m just a nurse with opinions, so check out what I found by digging around. I…

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Yes. I saw Miami.

Yes. I was there during the FIFA World Cup.

This is the day after the streets emptied, the day after Portugal and Colombia faced off and ended in a very thrilling draw, with both teams advancing to the Round of 32.

All I could think was, Wait... there are more than 32 rounds to this thing? Seriously? How many sports games do you want to watch?

I am not a soccer player, or any other kind of player. I’m known for straight shooting and have often thought I might have done well on a rifle range. So when I reached Miami, Florida, all I wanted to do was get to my book event on South Beach. Stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic and realizing I was not going to make it, I returned to the hotel and gave my books away for free.

Yes... I absolutely did.

I left 12 books in Miami and about 20 more on the way down to Miami and on the way back. People looked at me like I was insane at several rest areas.

I held out the books. “Do you want a book? Please read it and write a review.”

On this last trip, I put a QR code in the books to make writing a review easier and included my bookmarks or business cards for their perusal. It will be literally years before I know if this works or not... maybe I’ll get a big break, but for me, success usually comes after a massive amount of work.

The latest episode of Measured Differently is all about building more purposeful lives. Karen Osburn has done a massive amount of work to get where she is. Her résumé looks like a roadmap highlighting the road to victory.

I find it so interesting when people—who have obviously been beating the pavement for their success—list the simplest things... like the value of compassion.

This is definitely an episode to listen to... and you might listen twice because it is so packed.

I have two more to post, then the project will be one-third of the way finished. Time for Rachel and me to sit and mull over what we have learned. Already, it has been such a wild ride.

I am headed to New Jersey soon, and you never know who will pop up on this podcast. I guarantee I will have a few cards in my pocket for the elusive random stranger.

Live Well;

Sheila

Wild is always wild, even if you tame it. Cruelty is always cruel, even if you say it’s kindness. Violence is always violent, even if it’s justified. Pain is always pain, even if they tell you it shouldn’t hurt.

The truth doesn’t always set you free; sometimes, it ties you down.

Chapter One

Nothing in this world is better than a clean house, coffee, and time with my dog, she thought. Living alone has its benefits.

She smiled, the kind of smile that started on one side of the face and ended across the room.

The dog peered up from the floor, stretched, yawned, and joined her in the next room, curling up several times before finally settling on top of both of the woman’s feet.

Somehow, her smile brightened even more.

“Well,” she said to the dog. “You’ve finally taught me the greatest lesson of all: how to enjoy the moment in the middle of tragedy.”

She crossed her legs and picked up her coffee, barely disturbing the dog. Breathing deeply, almost as if the air itself had depth and weight, she murmured, “This is gonna be a long day.”

The phone rang. “Hello, oh, hi. How’s your morning?” Her smile was completely gone. She covered the receiver. Looking down at her dog, she whispered, “She’s gonna go on about what a good person she is; she doesn’t like me. Why did I even answer?”

The dog offered sympathy, just the way dogs do. Back into the conversation, it was obvious by her twirling hand motions that whoever was on the other end was, in fact, going on and on.

Walking with her phone in hand, offering a ‘yes’ or a ‘really’ every so often, she entered her bedroom and opened her closet. She pulled out a pair of pants, changed her mind, and put them back. Then she pulled out a dress, again putting it back.

Over and over, she chose and returned items, tears breaching the corners of both eyes.

Clearing her throat, she said, “I have to go.”

She hung up the phone, set it to silent and laid it on the bedside table.

The room was simple. A queen bed sat on one wall, with an old patchwork quilt on top. Old and worn, it always held its spot on top of the bed. The quilt had been a present from her mother and matched nothing in the room. On the other wall was a dog crate, and finally, a dresser.

No mirrors, nothing extra. She wandered into the adjoining bathroom. Looking up at the mirror, she said to herself, “I don’t know why I have to, but I know I do.” She drew in a very controlled breath. “Don’t you dare fall apart. You can do this.”

She stared at her reflection, taking in the gray curly hair tumbling around her shoulders.

Deep wrinkles from years of smoking ran beside her mouth, and crows’ feet spread from her eyes. Tall, strong, and just a bit heavy, she was built like the song from the eighties and she knew it. She grinned, humming, ‘She’s a brick house …’

Looking up, she said, “Dear God, you know I need help, and I’m done praying; it’s time for doing. Just walk with me, help me hold my place and throw no stones.”

She turned on the water, dropped her robe, and stepped singing into the shower.

Finishing, she toweled off, rubbed on the lotion from the counter, and took in the sight of herself again in the mirror. The dog had wandered in to lick the lotion off her legs.

Patting him on the head, she said, “We got this.”

The doorbell rang.

“Crap, I forgot.”

Jumping into the nearest outfit she could find and hopping into her socks, she made it to the front door. The doorbell rang again, almost insisting it be opened at once. She peeked through the eye hole. Her friend was standing there, holding two very large cups of coffee, tapping impatiently on one of the cups with her forefinger.

She opened the door. Her friend smiled and stepped past her, coming straight into the house. Setting the cups down on the small side table just inside the door, Sam hugged her.

“Sam, you forgot I was coming, didn’t you?” It wasn’t accusatory, but she added, “We’ve been friends longer than I can remember, and you always forget whenever you get overwhelmed. But this time, I thought I’d have to climb the back fence to get to you.”

Eyeing her dearest friend, she let a tear fall.

She nodded, just once. “It’s a lot, really. And it’s not how I wanted this to end.”

Her friend smiled, putting her hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Let’s have some coffee.”

Sam followed her friend out to the back porch. Flowers and edibles lined it, beautiful greenery too. While it remained somehow very simple, the large space was open and inviting.

The two settled into the high bar stools at a square metal table. On its top were three freshly baked biscuits with butter and orange marmalade generously applied.

Comfortable, they both sipped coffee, lighting cigarettes. The air was cool, even for March.

Sam reached across and picked up her coffee.

Her friend was lean and tall, with sun-touched skin and short blonde hair that never covered her ears. “Biscuits,” Ashley said, obviously pleased at their presence. “And that orange marmalade you’re so obsessed with.”

“Always my favorite,” Sam replied, matching Ashley’s smile with one of her own.

Ashley picked up a matchbox from the tabletop.

Pushing open one side, a simple smiley face appeared, written in black ink.

The matchbox was worn and weathered.

Ashley slid it the other way, pushing the matchbox open on the other side. A sad face appeared. Sam smiled and grabbed the matchbox from her friend.

Ashley said, “That little box always makes you smile, but you never tell me where you got it.”

Sam pushed the box open to one end, then the opposite side. “Smiley face, sad face, smiley face!” Sam giggled loudly. “Oh, Ashley, that’s such a long story from so long ago. If you have to know, it’s a game of sorts.”

Sam jumped at her friend, pushing open the matchbox, smiling, saying, “Smiley face,” before pausing, then saying, “Sad face.” Sam repeated the behavior over and over with great animation.

Ashley and Sam began to giggle, clutching their sides, trying to catch their breath.

They settled into the high-backed chairs.

Silence settled in like a blanket, as it sometimes would around good friends.

“Ashley, we’ve been through a lot over the years, but this one may be more than I can do.”

Ashley responded, “Then why go? It’s not as if they’re gonna be kind to you.”

“I don’t know, I have to go. It’s like taking your place at a table. I just have to be there.”

Silence permeated the space, thick with emotion.

Breathing out gray smoke, Ashley finally said, “You know I’d go with you.”

“I know you would, but this is a solitary journey, always has been. I’m just glad in a real way that it’s ending.”

“Sam, is it really? You’ll have to leave it there for it to end.”

Ashley tapped the table with two fingers.

Sam breathed in deeply, sighed, then said, “Well, I don’t know for sure what’s gonna happen. I do know I have to go, I just have to. And who cares if they like me or not? I’m good with me, and that’s all that really matters.”

“You don’t have to do anything, and you know it. You’re loved and cared for by so many people.”

“Yeah. But they’re not my family.”

“So what? Besides, your family loves you. In their own way, but they still do.”

“Hm, you think so? Because not one of them has called me this past week, just the joint text about times and dates. Not one has called to see how I am.”

“Have you called to see how they are?”

“Yes. Several times. No Answer.”

“Sam, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, Me too.” Sam let several tears fall and cleared her throat.

Silence again. This time, it was the type of silence no one would break. They sat there just being in the same space, comfortable with each other, watching the rain as it started to slowly mist down and fall around the covered porch.

They finished their coffee, also eating fresh biscuits with orange marmalade. They talked about old friends. They spoke about dogs, flowers, and planting season. When they rose, Ashley said, “Well, did you pick out your clothes yet? It’s almost time to go.”

Sam smiled; her friend knew her so well. “Yeah. I think so.”

She walked Ashley to the door. “See ya soon.”

Ashley replied, “Leave your phone on silent so I can text. And try not to lose it.”

Sam hugged her.

“Okay.” She closed the door.

Walking down the hall again to the bedroom, she picked up the last outfit she’d touched. Black slacks and a light gray shirt, long sleeves.

As she dressed, the dog stretched out across the bed, never taking his eyes off her.

Looking at him, she said, “I’m gonna be fine. You know I am.”

The dog meandered with her to the back doorway, stopped, his brown eyes meeting hers.

“Really,” she said. “I’m really gonna be fine. You have to trust me.”

The dog cocked his head this way and that for a minute, before sighing, walking out onto the porch through the dog door. He settled on a dog bed, positioned perfectly to not get rained on.

Sam chuckled. “I love dogs for a reason.”

She stepped back inside, grabbed her purse, keys and walked toward the front door. As she stepped out again, she yelled, “Oh, crap. Forgot my shoes.”

She headed back inside, changed her socks and slid her feet into soft black loafers.

As she walked again to the front door, she glanced right, pausing, taking in the picture in all brown undertones. It had a wooden bridge path circling across into a forest full of beautiful trees.

She sighed again. “A path that goes nowhere, or everywhere. Oh, wait.”

She wandered out the back door, picking up the matchbox off the square table.

Sliding it side to side, she said, “I may need you, my little friend.” Putting the matchbox in her pocket, Sam jiggled her keys, stepped out the front door, locked it—and finally headed out.

.

I sure don’t want to work my whole life and have everything I own go to pay healthcare bills. How in the world can I protect myself?

Are there really laws in place to take my estate if I owe healthcare costs? Can healthcare costs become very large, very fast? Can they really take anything back almost five years?

Yes. Yes. And Yessss.

New law will help Medicaid recoup money from estates – Alabama Daily News

Back in January of 2019, the Alabama Daily News published the article above. This law requires Medicaid in Alabama to be notified of any death and gives the governing bodies the ability to bill estates, going back up to five years before the person died. This means you cannot sell property or anything else of real value when someone gets sick and leave the medical bills behind.

Under Alabama estate law, your medical bills get paid first, leaving many Alabama families without any substantial estate left after nursing homes, rehab facilities, and hospitals take their share. They can go back several years and recoup money. This means that even if the property has been sold, the governing body has the power to reclaim those assets.

Alabama Estate Recovery

I am not an attorney, and every state has different laws. I can only share my very personal experience with this. As a nurse, I have seen million-dollar estates whittled down to nothing after medical bills are satisfied.

The first phone call I made after my husband was diagnosed with cancer was to an attorney. What I found out astounded me.

• Cars are not real property. They depreciate so fast it doesn’t really matter.

• You can’t sell real property or change names on titles without the state coming after that property. They can go back five years.

• Life insurance policies are generally not taxed and go directly to beneficiaries.

• Avoid opening an estate if at all possible. The estate is where the government goes to recoup its money.

I cannot tell you what to do. I can tell you about my final phone call to the hospital after he died.

Jim died on a Saturday. I called Monday to notify them. This was the conversation.

“Hello, my husband died on Saturday. I just wanted to notify you and check for a final bill.”

I gave them his birthday.

“You owe $____. Will that be Mastercard, Visa, or American Express?”

I told them I was unsure what I was going to do yet. His life had been whittled down into a very cold business conversation, just two days after his death.

Please take into account that we had requested his medical records in November of 2023 because the hospital did not notify us of his tumors in 2018. Yup... huge issue.

We have yet to receive the records, but a full listing of all charges arrived on Thursday addressed to the “Estate of James Montgomery.”

The bill arrived in just three days, but no one could send us the records of his medical chart in almost 20 months. Just fyi- in Alabama a lawsuit has to be filed within 2 years of the event or 6 months after discovery. Makes one wonder about a delay in getting your medical records.

Each state has different laws, and there are different kinds of trusts. The general rule is that if you have less than about $5 million in assets, a trust really might not be the way to go.

I will be dividing up my estate as I age, hoping to leave nothing but a few accounts with designated beneficiaries. But my house? What do I do with that?

This is not an article with answers—just a bit of education to get you thinking. I know I don’t want to lose the little I have worked all my life for because of one illness.

This is a call to action. Contact an attorney. I know it was the best $240 I spent for one hour... and I still have my house.

Keep Living;

Sheila

In Alabama, there is an animal welfare crisis happening. Here, if you stand still long enough, a dog or cat will appear, and it often needs help.

*Local shelters offer discounted adoptions and hold clear-the-shelter events.

*Rescues are overrun.

*Good-meaning people find themselves with far too many animals.

*Rural families living on dead-end roads open their front doors to find animals that have been dumped outside their homes.

Some animal shelters charge for drop-offs, and many rural counties don’t offer animal control, leaving some families with no good options for unwanted animals.

Coupled with a shortage of veterinarians, no enforced leash laws, and no statewide spay/neuter laws, it creates a recipe for disaster. It’s a disaster that plays out every month among the families we serve through our distribution lines. These are people doing the best they can to care for the pets they have.

Good people are struggling with gas prices, grocery prices, job loss, illnesses, and the constant reminder that suffering isn’t optional. As a matter of fact, it’s universal.

Our food lines are filled with people simply trying to keep their families together. Families struggle with veterinary bills, dog food prices, and other basic needs. We often see boxes from the food pantry they just visited, along with little children whose arms are wrapped around the pets they love so dearly.

The Alabama Pet Pantry is constantly working to help families and improve animal welfare across our state. In the two minutes we have with people, we educate them about spay/neuter and connect them with the resources that are available.

One of our favorite resources is the Alabama Medicaid Spay/Neuter Program

, supported by the Spay/Neuter License Plate Program. It verifies financial need through the presentation of a Medicaid card and limits assistance to two pets, promoting responsible pet ownership.

Here are the participating veterinarians in Alabama:

Spay/Neuter Participating Clinics – Alabama Veterinary Medical Foundation

Until the laws change here, this is about the best we’ve got.

So the Alabama Pet Pantry will keep standing tall, doing the best we know how. No judgment. No lectures. Just neighbors helping neighbors, making sure pets have food and families have one less impossible choice to make.

Sometimes hope looks like a bag of dog food, a voucher for a spay or neuter, or a child who doesn’t have to say goodbye to the pet they love.

Until Alabama does better, we’ll keep showing up.

Live Well;

Sheila

Please follow up with your primary physician.

This one sentence carries intense importance but very quiet context. You are not in the right part of the healthcare system for what you need.

The system is set up to rake in cash, to use your flesh to make dollars. The first thing you notice is that making an appointment …

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In life, love is everything. It gives us the courage to live, to work, and the willingness to sacrifice. As we journey through the world, losing the things we love inevitably changes who we are.

Grief is the journey through loss, a process that changes us forever. Often, that change is permanent. We become more compassionate, angry, deeply sentimental, or resilient.

Is loving deeply worth the cost of losing? Worth the pain of being reborn into a reality without the ones we hold most dear? What is evil, and why don’t we always recognize it before it kills us?

This last week, I did not post an article. I was finishing The Watershed Butterfly, a story about the mysterious drifter from The Feral Butterfly. Thomas finally has a last name—and a family he adores. I will post the first rendition of the back cover below.

The Watershed Butterfly is another psychological suspense novel about redemption. A man’s story about finding his way. This one is a very different kind of redemption, a very different road towards the place called home.

Here is the first draft of the back cover:

Before he became the mysterious drifter from The Feral Butterfly, Thomas Murphy was simply a man who loved his family.

In 1958 Brooklyn, Thomas has everything he ever wanted—a devoted wife, a spirited daughter, and a future filled with quiet happiness. When his young daughter disappears during a wedding celebration, that life is shattered forever.

As grief gives way to obsession, Thomas is pulled into a world of unimaginable evil where justice and vengeance become impossible to separate.

The Watershed Butterfly is a powerful psychological thriller and emotional family saga that reveals the tragic events that transformed Thomas Murphy into the unforgettable man readers first met in The Feral Butterfly.

I promise I’ll post more this week. I simply wanted to share this one with you first.

It will soon be available for pre-order, and I hope you love it.

This novel was written from a place of desolation and grief. If you find yourself crying through the final chapters, know that I did too.

Live Well;

Sheila

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Working in the adolescent psychiatric ward is always difficult, but it is especially difficult at night.

These kids don’t cuddle but most of them want, in the evenings more than any other time, someone who loves them. Someone who will be near them.

It is also especially hard for children whose parents don’t want them anymore. The system doesn’t want them…

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Inside the cover is an amazing story about a baby who refuses to go to sleep. She wears her entire family out... twice. She terrorizes the neighbor with her cries. Ultimately, she just wants attention.

I was actually enamored by this short read. It describes what every parent has experienced—a baby who never sleeps, keeps everyone up, and just wants more attention and love all through the night.

This treasure of a book came from: Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library. My granddaughter gets one book a month through the program for FREE. They are high-quality, popular books like this one that bring her so much joy and will make learning that much more fun in the coming years.

Look around at your little ones and check to see if Dolly’s Imagination Library is available where you live. It truly is an amazing way to engage the little ones in your life. The books they send are perfectly age-appropriate and grow right along with the children.

I promise next month to have finished The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell. It is the beginning of the summer, though, and right now, this time belonged to my little granddaughter.

Time is something you can never get back.

Live Well;

Sheila

I did a little b…

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Mel Robbins. Her guest: Barbara Corcoran

.

To say that I have never paid this woman any attention is an understatement. All I ever knew about her was that she was on some show that looks like a game show, with these tycoons bidding on each business, effectively capitalizing on other people’s ideas by investing. Boring.

Until yesterday.

As it turns out, Barbara Corcoran is absolutely amazing. She built and sold one of the largest real estate companies in New York and has rebuilt herself several times.

She said four things everyone should know, and I was left thinking I may just have a chance.

She said she can outwork anyone she knows. I knew I had a chance as an author the second Scott Dikkers said, “Writing is work.” Barbara Corcoran said work, and then work harder than anyone else.

Take risks. Barbara said she learned continuously from the things she didn’t do correctly. She would change directions whenever she felt the need. She tells a story about her greatest blunder becoming her greatest achievement. She had pictures made that she couldn’t afford. Instead of throwing the whole project out, she wound up using them on this thing called the web that no one believed in. Then BAM—she was one of the first people online with pictures selling real estate.

Be stubborn. She said maybe she just hung around long enough to succeed. Meaning, when you feel like quitting, you might want to stay in the game.

Finally, dress the part. Her first profit check was used to buy a coat that cost more than the amount of her profit. She says that coat made her feel like she had made it—and she had. She felt like a winner. She wore the coat for years.

I cannot stop thinking about this conversation. This might just be a masterpiece of podcasting, and you absolutely should give it a listen. I am not a Mel Robbins fan; I found this by accident.

This past month, I have very figuratively and realistically been in the weeds—doubt circling my life. Feet trudging in the mud, unsure if I can meet my deadlines. My third book is due to my editor in less than 30 days. Two books a year, plus my other projects, is a huge undertaking to build the life I want.

I see it ahead of me clearly.

I need to stay in the trenches, working. Risks don’t scare me. Stubborn, I’ve got. The clothing—well, I’m working on it. Feeling fabrics to see how they make me feel. Throwing away stuff that’s drab and uninteresting. Re-creating everything. Opening up my life and being vulnerable. Doing the things that scare me.

The words from Barbara Corcoran are all I need to keep moving. As I pulled those weeds in my garden bed and listened, possibilities opened. I have the rest of my storyline for Thomas in The Watershed Butterfly, and as of this morning, only about ten chapters remain to be written. One final reread, and it gets sent off. My beta readers are already following along.

Go weed your garden today.

Get up and get out.

Live well;

Sheila

The Secret to Building Wealth from Nothing (It's Not What You Think) | Barbara Corcoran

Now, before anyone gets upset, I’m not saying every feeling is a choice. Life is more complicated than that. But for many of us, especially when we’re dealing with the occasional blues, we can do things that influence how we feel. And it really is fun to engage.

Here’s an article about anxiety, depression and exercise for those in the back of the room that need extra data to believe.

The Centers for Disease Control just published an article in May, 2026 outlining the mental health crisis in the United States. Here is a PDF of what they are planning to do going forward in our communities. Suicide and drug overdoses are still leading causes of death, especially in young people. Some of it is related to the lack of available mental health care, but not all of it.

While movement isn't a cure for serious mental illness, it is one tool almost everyone can use to support their mental well-being.

Imagine if we taught our kids real ways to combat loneliness, stress, and sadness by using the one thing we walk around with every day—our bodies.

It is well documented that movement can improve mood and support mental well-being. Read this for more. Your body is a key part of how you feel.

The World Health Organization says:

“Mental health is a state of mental well-being that enables people to cope with the stresses of life, realize their abilities, learn well and work well, and contribute to their community. It has intrinsic and instrumental value and is integral to our well-being.”

That part about coping really stood out to me. If mental health is tied to our ability to cope with life’s daily stressors, then it makes sense that anything that helps lift our mood can also help us cope more effectively. When I feel better, I handle challenges better. I’m more patient, more resilient, and less likely to get stuck in stress.

Truthfully, I'd like to have a conversation with whoever taught us that ignoring our feelings was a good thing. Somewhere along the way, many of us learned to ignore our internal dialogues instead of paying attention to what our bodies were trying to tell us. Our bodies give us valuable information, and we need it.

Ever heard that feelings aren’t facts? Well... they kind of are.

Feelings tell you all sorts of things about your body. They can tell you when you’re stressed, tired, excited, scared, connected, or joyful. They may not always tell you what’s true about the world around you, but they often tell you something important about what’s going on inside you.

Movement—or the more intense word, “exercise”—has huge benefits. All the articles use the words “regular exercise,” making it sound like a chore. I’m going to try and make it easier for you here by getting rid of the idea of exercise.

Instead, we’re going to use the word movement and learn how to play again…

I’m going to introduce you back to yourself.

Ever notice the joy in children when they’re playing? You can have that joy too. As adults, we often forget to take a break, breathe, and enjoy our journey. Insert play, and movement into your day, and you’ll probably find yourself less stressed and a little happier.

Here are a few things that may help improve your mood immediately:

Look in the mirror and make a face at yourself. Maybe stick out your tongue or twist your face around. Then relax your lips and gently—or vigorously, whichever is safer for you—shake your head side to side.

Take a brisk walk. It can be very short, but it should be at least a hundred feet. While you walk, hum or sing a happy tune. It can be as simple as “do-do-do-it-do” as long as your voice matches your walk. Extra mood-lifting points if you swing your arms.

Dance.

I really think this says enough, but some people don’t. In the morning, right after my shower, I play music and dance. Happy tunes that lift my spirit. This helps immensely.

I hear you already.

“There is no way I am gonna be embarrassed like that.”

Think about the last time you saw an adult playing in a mud puddle on purpose or a teenager dancing around for no reason. People adore it. They watch and smile.

Get over yourself and give your body some good vibes—it needs it.

Keep Living;

Sheila

***This article is not meant to make light of any serious mental health issue- if you are feeling like hurting yourself or someone else- please immediately seek help..like right now. Click here to access more information..or just call 988. ***

_{****I am a registered nurse, not a medical doctor or psychiatrist, and the information I provide reflects my professional opinion for educational purposes only; it is not medical or psychiatric advice, does not replace evaluation or treatment by a qualified healthcare professional, and if you are experiencing a mental health crisis or believe you may be in immediate danger, contact your local emergency services or a qualified crisis resource immediately.****}