What the HELL is Wrong with Kaiser Permanente Hospital?




I’m going to do my best to keep this short because it’s my least favorite road to go down.

I used the word “hell” in this blog because when you’re in the hospital with a very ill relative and the staff seems like they’re doing their very best to kill them, the hospital becomes hell and the doctors and nurses become demons. At least that’s how it felt on three separate, consecutive occasions.

I’ll warn you now – this is going to be depressing. In fact, I don’t really mind if you don’t read it. I’m only putting it down to get it out of my system, and to make a public record of Kaiser’s horrific ineptitude. I don’t even like to use the term “hospital” in referring to them. They should be out of business, and many of the people working for them should be fired or jailed for torture.

The first incident was when my mother-in-law had a stroke at the age of 52. It started with the ambulance driver, who didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Then, at the Hollywood Kaiser on Sunset Boulevard, everyone seemed to move excruciatingly slow. We found out later they didn’t administer medicine that might have slowed the first stroke and prevented a second one that occurred in the hospital, the one that ended her life. The doctor in charge, a tall Sikh with a black beard tied in a knot at his chin, wearing a turban, with no bedside manner whatsoever, actually chuckled and said “there it is” to his associate when he saw the MRI showing the second stroke or “bleed” as they called it. He didn’t know I was standing behind him. I asked him angrily why he laughed. He denied it. This is what I meant about the doctors and nurses seeming like demons. That is demonic. 

All we could do after that is wait for her to die. To say this lady was a saint is an understatement. She was selfless to the extreme. My wife loved her more than I’ve ever seen a child love a mother. Called her several times a day every day, no matter where we were. It was a true nightmare. A trip to hell – because she died, but also because the hospital staff clearly didn’t give a damn. Even after we knew there was no hope, nurses and others would walk into the room laughing and joking about this and that, like they were walking into a public bar. I got so angry, security was called on me multiple times for yelling at them. 

A few years later, my dad got pancreatitis. They shipped him off to what they call the “Cadillac Kaiser” in west Los Angeles. Another hell hole run by demons. He had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease and Dementia a short while earlier but hadn’t started showing significant signs yet. The combination of the drugs they gave him and the unfamiliar environment caused severe Sundown Syndrome. He lashed out at staff because he didn’t know where he was, or who he was. They had to tie him to the bed. I didn’t disagree with this because he was like a wild animal. What I did disagree with was when he was moved to the ICU, a circular room with doors on its perimeter, and the staff couldn’t seem to even try to be quiet. Maybe I’m old fashioned or I’ve watched too many movies. You know, the kind with CLASSY nurses and doctors who actually care about their patients. These geniuses were actually telling stories and laughing out loud in a group in the middle of the nurse’s station. One of them was dancing to entertain the others. I finally couldn’t take anymore, walked out of my dad’s room and said, “Do you ****ing ***holes realize that people are trying to stay alive in here and need to get some ****ing sleep?” They all scattered like cockroaches when someone turns a light on. It was incredible. Of course, this isn’t uncommon. They say the worst place to get some sleep is in a hospital because a variety of people are always waking you up to give you medicine, change the bed, take vitals, etc.. but because of that fact, one would think the callous, insensitive, self-centered pricks would do their best to be quiet the rest of the time! In the old days, I’m pretty sure they did. I’ve seen old movies when hospitals actually had signs everywhere that read “silence please” or “quiet – patients resting”. Back when humanity still had some class and people still expected some civility from each other. 

The grand finale of this was when he got a stint put into his chest and I had to keep fighting to keep him in his bed because he wanted to leave, but didn’t know or care he had the stint connected to a major artery (for easier drug delivery, to avoid numerous injections). If he pulled it out, he could bleed to death. At least that’s what I thought. It was also painful to put it in and I didn’t want him to go through that again. When I called the charge nurse, a white woman in her forties (can’t recall her name now), she said, with a blasé expression and tone, “Let him.” I asked her what she meant. She said, “Let him pull it out. When he sees how painful it is, he’ll stop trying.” 

Aghast, I said, “He’ll bleed all over the floor and possibly slip in the blood and break and arm or leg. That’s your advice?” She unashamedly answered yes. I told her to get the F out of the room. That wiped the smug look off her face, which is what my goal became every time I encountered one of these burned-out, heartless bags of shite. When you know you’re dealing with a demon, and you can’t vanquish them (i.e., beat the hell out of them), which is the only way to handle a demon, the only alternative is to say something shocking to wipe the smirks off their faces. 

We finally got out of that pit of hell and my father returned to normal somewhat. Normal is a word I can’t stand usually. For instance, if I submitted a story to a publisher and they wrote back saying “we found your work very normal”, I wouldn’t be happy about it. We don’t realize what a beautiful word “normal” is until it comes to matters of health. “Your white blood cell count is normal.” “Your MRI came back normal”, etc. 

Over time, however, those diabolical diseases Parkinson’s and Dementia, would gradually pick apart my father like vultures. My father, who had always been the life of the party, an entertainer of his friends, the singer and joke teller of the group. Kaiser dropped the ball at every step. I begged my mother to let me switch insurance plans for him but she refused. She loved Kaiser for some reason, probably because she had never been seriously ill. Kaiser is apparently good at the small stuff but God help you if you have anything serious wrong with you. It’s as if their goal is to decrease the population. 

After five years with Parkinson’s and Dementia, my father broke his hip in four places. He went to the Kaiser “hospital” in Panorama City. I hoped that things might be different than the previous two experiences because this was a new hospital. Nope. It was worse here than at the other two. One mistake after another. I think we were in what they called “3 west”. I won’t go into all the details except to say that this bunch of geniuses screwed everything up – blown IV’s constantly, failed attempts to insert lines and throat tubes, overdosing and underdosing, you name it. Of course, there was also the usual loud-mouthedness when he needed to rest. There was a “respiratory therapist” whose name I also thankfully can’t recall – a ghoulish, pale, bald, white man who seemed to have had his soul vacuumed out of him – who made his little rounds every day and looked into my dad’s throat, mainly because he couldn’t talk and his breathing sounded like someone trying to start an old car. He kept saying everything looked fine but a week later, when his health became worse (which of course is inevitable at any Kaiser hospital), he was taken to the ward between a normal room and the ICU, and suddenly couldn’t breathe. A nurse came in and pulled two lumps of hardened phlegm from his throat that looked like large pieces of steak. He said, “What the hell? This shouldn’t be in here after a week in the hospital?” He said they were stuck to the sides of his throat, in plain sight. Why didn’t the respiratory therapist notice that during those five or six examinations the week before? I mean, aside from the fact that he was a demon. 

I started filming the staff because I was sure at this point that I wanted to sue the hospital. I set my iPhone on a table facing the bed and would start the video any time someone came into the room. A Pakistani or Hindu, female doctor came into the room and said, “So I hear you like to film my staff?” I told her, “Yes, I can film my father anytime I want to, and I’m preparing my lawsuit. Your staff hasn’t done anything wrong yet, but 3 west was a nightmare.” My dad continued to have respiratory distress but every time I called for help, the respiratory therapist or nurse (if the RT wasn’t available) would walk infuriatingly slow, even though I was screaming that my father couldn’t breathe. 

That’s another thing about modern hospitals, especially Kaiser – doesn’t anybody run anymore? Again, I’ve probably watched too many movies, made during a time in America when people did their jobs right, cared about each other, expected a certain standard of behavior and job performance, etc. You know, before America and the class it once had went swirling down the crapper. 

Inevitably, my dad ended up in the ICU again. I don’t know why but I thought, “At least he’ll get better attention here.” Hope springs eternal. Again, every mistake in the world was made, from big to small. A young, female, Asian doctor inserted a tube into his throat so his medicine and food could be delivered directly to his stomach, something the other wards were unable to do after numerous attempts. She was a hero for a day or two until the line became clogged. Another doctor was called in and he determined that the line she had spent 3-4 hours struggling to insert was TOO SMALL! Again, why doesn’t a doctor who does this every day know what size tube to use? I asked the new doctor this after he had inserted the correct sized tube. He said, “Good question.” 

Again, I had to beg the staff to be quiet so he could get some sleep in between interruptions. I had a friend who was in the hospital and had finally fallen asleep when a nurse came in and yelled, “Hello, Mr. _____, it’s time for your sleeping pill!”

It was becoming clear that my father wasn’t going to make it, but the mistakes and inconsiderate treatment continued, anyway. Another empty-headed nurse came in while he was sleeping, free from the pain they had caused him for a few, brief, blessed moments – and shouted “Good morning! How are we doing today?” I asked, “Why can’t you people come into a dark room quietly? I mean, seriously, what the f*** is wrong with you?” Her dopey smile fell and she left the room. Another nurse came in and asked how I was doing. I said, “I’d like to leave a big, black crater of scorched earth where this hospital used to be. That’s how I’m doing.” 

Apparently, you can’t make jokes like that anymore. She told security and a detail of men was attached to me every day for the last week of my dad’s life. I told them I wasn’t actually planning to blow up the hospital and was only angry – you know – about their torturing my father to death and all – and the manager of security said, “I can tell you’re not a lunatic and I’d be mad if it was my dad, too, but we still need to stay with you because of what you said.” So I got used to the company following me around. If there’s anything I can say in the hospital’s defense, it’s that they didn’t escalate this to a terrorist threat and make it impossible for me to be with my father during his final days. However, since they were partially responsible for his death, or at least made his final weeks on earth a living hell, it was the least they could do.

My father was not in good shape when he went into that hospital, but because of all the botched tube placements in his throat, they took away his ability to talk, and his right to say goodbye to us. They tortured a man who suffered from confusion because of Parkinson’s and Dementia, which is like poking an animal in a cage with a sharp stick. If someone is healthy mentally, they at least know why they’re experiencing painful procedures in a hospital, but when someone has Dementia, they don’t even know where they are or why they’re there. That makes it torture to their minds. So for patients with brain diseases, compassionate care is even more important. There were procedures I couldn’t even be with my dad for – procedures that took hours – tube placements that were certainly very painful. If they treated him so poorly when I was around, I don’t even want to think about how they treated him when I wasn’t. 

The quality control people – two ladies I had a meeting with because of my complaints – at this hospital (Panorama City) admitted their staff had “dropped the ball” and asked me if I and my wife (a registered nurse at UCLA children’s hospital in Westwood – a real hospital that actually cares about people) would be willing to come back later and help train their staff. I said, “When I get out of here, I never want to see this place again.” 

Three different Kaiser hospitals – three trips to hell. I looked into a lawsuit but two different attorneys said that because my father wasn’t very well when he went into the hospital and because his death was the result of “a thousand cuts” and not just one major mistake, the chances of winning would be very small. Thanks to Governor Jerry Brown, another absolute idiot who isn’t qualified to govern a chicken coop but somehow never goes the hell away, a cap of $200,000.00 was put on medical malpractice claims in California many years ago. He even admitted it was a mistake but hasn’t reneged it because the medical lobby contributes so much to his campaign and keeps him in office. More clear, obvious, blatant corruption that nobody does a damn thing about. A single Kaiser hospital probably make $200,000.00 in an hour. My goal in suing them wasn’t to get rich – it was to make them blink – to stop a second and hit them in the only area they really care about – their money. But I couldn’t even do that. I couldn’t protect my father from their bungling callousness and I couldn’t avenge him.  

Kaiser is still in business and isn’t going anywhere. Other elderly people are being tortured to death by their inept staffs as I write this. There are many exceptions, of course. There are absolute saints working at Kaiser hospitals. There were a blessed few in the hospitals described above. But I pity them for having to work for this evil organization. 

Again, the reason for writing this blog isn’t to depress anyone. I usually try to stay light and inspiring. But sometimes we need to call out gross incompetence, especially when it’s paired with heartlessness and corruption. 

I also post this as a public service. If you have insurance with Kaiser Permanente, or have elderly parents who do, please consider changing it before it’s too late. If it were only one hospital, I’d write it off as coincidence, but it was three – three hospitals with staffs that – except for a few exceptions – seemed like demons. I’ve heard it’s because many of the nurses are elderly, Filipino women who were actually trained in the Philippines to NOT think for themselves and do their jobs like ants, so they never learned how to think outside the box. This was told to me by a young filipino woman, by the way. She said, “As they retire or die off, the care patients receive at Kaiser hospitals will improve.” 

Imagine that – vast numbers of people needing to see their loved ones die horribly as they wait for ineptitude and lack of independent, creative analysis dies off. Maybe Kaiser should put that in a TV commercial – “Don’t worry, folks. You and your loved ones will get better treatment gradually as our idiotic staff reaches retirement age.” If only there was any truth in advertising. Instead, I have to suffer through commercials about how caring and conscientious Kaiser is. I know different. To use an old cliche, I learned it the hard way. 

In case you think I’m exaggerating, here’s a page – one of many like it – with complaints by people who suffered similar nightmares with Kaiser Permanente –


On Writing Well – The “Show, Don’t Tell” Rule



The “show, don’t tell” rule is the very heart of good writing. It’s difficult to avoid, especially when writing a memoir or some other type of nonfiction. But rather than saying a character is unselfish, show them doing something unselfish. If the story is told well, the reader will figure out that the character is unselfish without having to be told he/she is. Readers want to do some of the work. They don’t want to be told what to think, they want to think for themselves and make their own discoveries.  

The same is true of settings. Instead of simply writing “the diner was filthy”, a good writer will write something like, “I walked into the diner and was immediately assaulted by the stench of old meat. A hostess approached me who was too old to still be working, forced a smile that unintentionally revealed unfathomable world weariness, and led me sullenly to a formica table with chipped edges. As I sat and slid into my seat, a rat scurried over my foot. I looked under the table just in time to see its tail disappear into a ragged-edged hole in the ancient drywall.”

One might argue that writing “the diner was filthy” is just fine because it says it all, it’s brief, and the reader can just fill in the rest with his/her imagination. The problem is it’s boring. It’s also lazy. It doesn’t engage the readers’ senses or put them in the room. It doesn’t inspire the imagination or pull them into the story.

Besides, it’s a heck of a lot more fun to paint a vivid picture and transport yourself and the reader to another world; a world they can see, hear, smell, touch and taste. 

But here’s the catch – always leave more for the reader to discover for themselves. Don’t spell everything out too much. As Stephen King said, “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.”


The Depth of Our Loneliness (poem)


I found this old poem by accident yesterday, excavated from a tattered, 25-year old notebook, written during my single days. I’m happily-married now with two girls (4 and 7) so though the poem is sad, there was a happy ending to the story. My heart is full every day. I shudder to think where I would be if I had remained that Steppenwolf out there in the cold, circling the campfire.


I was twenty-one years old
alone in an all-night diner
after another bad date
with a woman who couldn’t love me
no matter how much I gave
or how hard I tried.

Looking back, I know now
that I was asking the impossible.
We can never be more than we are
no matter how badly
someone else wants us to be.

There are a billion and one moments
that make us who we are.
Who could ever sort them out,
let alone rearrange them?

She was older than me
and had been hurt before
She was broken
and I could not fix her.
She had folded in on herself
and I could not unfold her
but I wanted her so desperately,
I couldn’t stop trying.
I saw a paradise
that she couldn’t see.

So I kept returning,
like a colt to a trough
too cracked and beaten to hold water.

After enough nights like that one
and a very bad ending;
after the storm had cleared
and the debris was swept away,
I returned to myself
and it finally dawned on me
how uncomplicated love really is.

We know when someone really cares.
We even know if someone can’t love at all.
It’s built in.
But the heart and mind
have never been much for communication
and the depth of our loneliness
can be measured
by how much we make it not matter.

I understand her now.
Time has humbled me.
The world has destroyed my delusions.
I am more mature, safer.

But now, I am afraid
that I will never love as hard
as that kid
who sat alone in an all-night diner
tasting a new kind of pain
deeper than he’d ever known.

Now, the world has broken me, too.

Royal Blood / Innocent Blood

I’m usually not interested in the royal family because of a combination of:

A) Having watched Braveheart too many times and seeing what they got up to in the past. (Mahatma Gandhi once said, “If two fish are fighting at the bottom of the ocean, the English probably had something to do with it.”) 

B) My disdain for inheritance, and being given vast wealth for nothing more than being born. This irks people like me who have had to struggle for every penny.

C) My parents are Irish Protestants from Belfast, Northern Ireland, which is part of the United Kingdom. They had photos of the royals around the house for years. I never understood that since Ireland, like Scotland, was not occupied nicely, either. I even asked them one day, “It’s one thing to not want to declare war on England or bomb civilians like the Irish Republican Army did, but do you need to like the royal family so much? Doesn’t occupation demand resistance of some kind?” My father was a very erudite man so I expected an intellectual answer, but he and my mom actually didn’t know why they accepted and even celebrated the royals. “We just do” was their answer. It was very unsatisfying. 

But today, for the first time in my life, I actually enjoyed the royals, too. I watched the royal wedding, but doubt if I would have if not for the following headlines in my home, America.

Ten High School Students Killed in School Shooting in Santa Fe, Texas.

(That last one was enough, of course, but there were also the following bizarre occurrences in the land of the free and the home of the brave.)

Woman Jumps Off Building with Seven Year Old Son in New York.

Man Punches Pregnant Woman and Her Service Dog on Flight.

Shunned Jehovah’s Witness Mom Kills Her Entire Family

Father Leaves 18-Month Old Daughter in 120 Degree Car. (A daily occurrence in America.)

There was another shooting yesterday at another high school somewhere in America but only one precious, irreplaceable child’s life was taken so it didn’t get much attention.

There were also the usual daily robberies, beatings, car chases and murder-suicides in Los Angeles, where I live.

Don’t get me wrong – every news day is bad in America, but yesterday was particularly awful, and it just happened to coincide with the royal wedding. I expected to see a headline that read, “England Celebrates the Royal Wedding! Meanwhile, in America, There Were Two More High School Shootings.”

Growing up in America, I never once imagined that my country would become so hopelessly lost. I maintain the stubborn belief that the vast majority of Americans are getting along great and the screwed up one percent just gets all the attention, but that one percent sure can do a lot of damage to morale. 

Then again, when I hear “music” thumping from car speakers and even in restaurants and bars with vile, psychologically and spiritually toxic lyrics (rap and death metal leading the way), and think of how these “artists” get rich preying on lost children and making them even more lost, I wonder if it’s only one percent of America that’s totally screwed up. (To heck with Joe DiMaggio. Where did you go, Simon and Garfunkel? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.)

So yesterday, in desperation to remove the headline images from my mind, for the first time in my life, I celebrated with the royal family.

I needed to see a wedding. I needed all the things weddings make me feel along with the betrothed – love, hope, faith, courage.


I needed to see the cool, clean air over Windsor Castle.


I needed to hear a choir sing a beautiful, hopeful song.


I needed to see the stained glass windows of St. George’s Cathedral.

st. George's Cathedral

I even needed to smile at the silly, whimsical hats the ladies wore.

I needed to see a house of God.


I needed to escape, but since I couldn’t buy a plain ticket and flee in terror to someplace that happens to be more sane at this point in history, I turned on the TV. 

When the darkness in my soul had been brushed away a little, I looked at my two young daughters and Googled “home schooling.”




People Every Writer (and songwriter, singer and musician) Should Know – Mac Davis

People often say, “When you live in Los Angeles, you never know who you’ll bump into.” Well, I found that out quite literally (and the hard way) one day when I bumped – okay, crashed – into country singer and movie star Mac Davis.

For those of you too young or just unfortunate enough to not know who he is, this is him in his prime –


I used to watch The Mac Davis Show when I was a kid and was amazed and entranced by his many talents. He was a natural performer. Pure charm. The segment of his show I enjoyed the most was called “Audience Improvisations” when people would give him random song titles and he would write the song to go with it right on the spot. It was incredible to me and one of the things that made me want to be a writer. Here’s an example. Mac’s a bit older now but as sharp and talented as ever. You’ll see my favorite song title improv in this clip. It goes like this –

My girlfriend burned her bra today.
It really was a shame.
Cuz she ain’t exactly Dolly Parton.
That sucker hardly made a flame.

I was driving down Sepulveda Boulevard one day and had just crossed Wilshire going into Westwood when there was suddenly a stopped car in front of me. I went right under it and scooped it up onto my hood. I would find out later that the woman in front of Mac realized she had missed her on-ramp to the 405 freeway and slammed on her brakes. He was able to avoid rear-ending her but because I was glancing left and right in the intersection, I saw Mac’s rear bumper too late. Mac got out – actually, climbed down out of his car – and he was not happy. Because he was one of my heroes, I recognized him immediately. I apologized. He immediately relaxed and said in his Lubbock Texas accent, “It’s okay, kid. It wasn’t your fault.”

As we waited for the police to arrive, he told me a story about how he crashed a Cadillac (I think) he called his “In The Ghetto Car” because he bought it with the money he received after Elvis Presley recorded the song he wrote by the same name. Mac wrote a ton of hits in addition to that one – Baby, Don’t Get Hooked on Me, It’s Hard To Be Humble, Texas in My Rear-View Mirror, I Believe in Music, etc. He told me he was going to star in a Disney Christmas special at Disneyland the next day and said, “I’ll wave to you.” A pretty damn cool thing to say to someone who just wrecked his rear bumper. 

I tell this story for many reasons – to show that not all celebrities are jerks, particularly those as seasoned as Mac, and those who grew up in Texas, not L.A. Mac is old school not just in terms of writing songs that actually make sense, have a clear beat, and are impossible not to like, but in terms of intelligence, class and charm, too. I was nobody to him. He didn’t say, “Hey, you’re that guy who wrote twenty stories for Chicken Soup for the Soul, aren’t you?” Nobody recognizes writers. He could have easily been unfriendly to me but he wasn’t. In fact, quite the opposite. He smiled and waved at me from Disneyland. Mac Davis is country, in every sense of the word.

So if you ever read this, Mac, thank you for your kindness, especially to someone who messed up your car. It’s easy to be nice when everything is going right, but one’s true character is revealed when things go wrong. You certainly passed that test. I hope to bump into you again someday – when we’re not driving.

You’re the One That I Want. Wait a Minute . . . Who Are You?

I love the movie Grease for the nostalgia and catchy tunes but it contains possibly the worst message for young girls ever.

Sandy is doing so well with Danny that he ditches his leather jacket for a letterman sweater to impress her. His friends give him a hard time about it but he says, “Come on, guys. You know you mean a lot to me. It’s just that Sandy does, too, and I’m gonna do anything I can to get her, that’s all.”


But despite both of them being hopelessly devoted to each other, Sandy decides to shed her Sandra Dee sweetness, start smoking and transform herself from the wholesome girl next door to a hussy anyway.


I suppose the writer pondered whether he should have them break up and then have Sandy alter her basic nature out of her desperation to win him back, but realized that would make her appear pathetic. Why then? I never did get it. The message to girls is, “Wholesome and innocent are stupid. You’ve got to become a slut to really get the boy of your dreams!”


To top it off, the entire high school dances around to celebrate her transformation. The happy energy is enough to make just about everyone completely miss all the destructive psychological programming.


But maybe there was a deeper meaning to this in the mind of the writer, such as the loss of innocence America experienced shortly after the 1950’s? The shedding of the restrictive social mores of that era that shocked all their stodgy, old parents so much in the following decade. i.e., free love, the sexual revolution, drugs for “mind expansion”, etc.

Or maybe the writer was saying loss of innocence is inevitable so we might as well embrace it.

Or maybe I’m just overthinking it and this was just a cool song and a cheap gimmick to give Sandy a character arc.

There’s no point denying sexuality, either, as many of the movies from the 1950’s did due both to censorship and to the fact that America and art was simply more innocent then. For instance, in bedroom scenes, both actors had to have at least one foot on the floor. Open sexuality was so frowned upon, in fact, that Jayne Mansfield’s career was ruined when she exposed her breasts in a bathtub scene in her increasing desperation to dethrone Marilyn Monroe as America’s #1 screen siren.

Censorship finally ended and the pendulum swung back the other way. It’s still swinging and will never swing back, just as surely as innocence, once lost, can never be fully restored. We can only taste it in flashes, like the aroma of something sweet carried on the wind from far away, and savor it for a moment before it evaporates again, always too soon.

Sex is part of life, of course, especially for teenagers wrestling with the mystery of love and the questions of self-worth and desirability that accompany it. But I’m always surprised when I see a local library or mall hosting an outdoor screening of Grease. Overthinking has got to be superior to not thinking at all.



Coincidence: God’s Sense of Humor?

Okay, this is too weird not to share. 

My eldest daughter has reached that age where her teeth are falling out.


Her first lower incisor came out and she took it to school to show to some friends. This is big news in the first grade world, as is how much dough they took the Tooth Fairy for. Of course, there is no agreed-upon amount between parents so some kids end up feeling like their teeth are more valuable than other kids’ teeth. 


Anyway, she was having a little picnic on the front lawn of the school with some friends when she realized she had dropped her tooth. Tragedy strikes! She started crying because she was really depending on that Tooth Fairy moolah. About a dozen parents and even more kids started looking for it. After five minutes or so, the father of one of her friends found it so there was a happy ending. I told him I didn’t know how to thank him, he really saved my little girl from a lot of heartache, blah yada etcetera.

A few days later, he told me his daughter had lost the exact same tooth. My daughter and his daughter and all their friends were doing their usual picnic on the lawn when she lost her tooth somewhere on the lawn, too! Everyone started looking for it and I found it, in exactly the same spot where my daughter had lost her tooth several days before! So I got a chance to repay her dad, after all, and in exactly the same way. Talk about a tooth for a tooth!

There are hundreds of kids at the school, the front lawn is vast, and over a dozen people searched both times. What are the chances? I can’t help thinking coincidence is one of the ways God entertains Himself, that old prankster. He probably told the Tooth Fairy all about it.