Have you ever walked into a room on a mission only to find you have no idea why you came in the first place?

For me it's a constant occurrence. I find myself blind often, my glasses misplaced on the top of my head. The car won't start because I've lost my keys, usually in the black hole I call my purse. Midway through countless stories, one of my four children is bound to roll their eyes and loudly interject that they've already heard that one before, a million times. My four children are close to disowning me for this, and many more forgetful habits I've developed. But, by far, my worst offense is I never seem to get their names straight.

Sure, every parent does this from time to time. We get caught up in a tirade and our tongues spit faster than our thoughts do, but sometimes I wonder how its even possible to forget the only one male nestled among three sisters? I'm sure being called Jenni for several years could give any growing male an identity crisis, and possibly even make therapy necessary later in life.

I wonder if I'm totally losing it. Once upon a time I was sharp. I could dot my "i's" and cross my "t's." But as mid-life crept in, my brain seemed to be swept away on a mother ship for galaxies unknown.

On my worst days, I'm fearful I'm developing Alzheimer's. But when I think of what I deal with day-to-day, I'm shocked I remember anything. Between my job's check-off list at Alain Pinel Realtors, caring for my 94-year-old father, calming my children's occasional emotional out bursts, and my own personal challenges, I'm shocked I can think at all. So what's a woman to do before her family completely disowns her because of something she can't control?

Then it dawned on me. Just like every other muscle in our body, I needed to exercise my brain before it atrophied. Unfortunately, I can't take it out of my head, throw it on a treadmill and retrieve it forty-five minutes later all pumped up. To make my mind look like Super Woman, all I had to do was stimulate it with thought.

I began with reading. Then I took a writing class. Before I knew it, I found myself in the middle of heated conversations regarding politics and religion. Talk about a mind marathon! But, I soon discovered that the best place to pump my mental iron was trapped in my car. Now whenever I'm driving, I turn off the radio and just let my mind wander. To my past, how I feel about life and, finally, to what I truly want. These quiet moments help connect me with me and when there's a traffic jam, I have no time for road rage. I'm too busy solving the problems of the world.

Technology helps us stay informed, but what about keeping in touch with the most important person in the world - yourself? Learn to let your mind go. Relish your memories and allow yourself to dream. With all the mental over-stimulation we all face everyday, who knows what you'll conquer. You might even be able to remember your children's names.

In March of 1973, Los Altos was experiencing the explosion of springtime. Hillsides were awash in emerald green. Fruit trees were laden with pink and white blossom and the hint of ensuing warm weather brought excitement to city dwellers, but not to my mother.

Lassie Pearce Madden was an intuitive woman. She always sensed the trouble her children were about to get into - even before they thought of it. She also knew her body. While women of her generation occasionally went for annual physicals, my mother never missed a beat.

"Doctor" my mom implored. "I know there is something wrong with me."

Swaying side to side on the examining table, fidgeting with the paper coverlet draped over her body, she said, "I've heard of something called a mammogram. I think I should have one."

"Lassie, you don't need one," the doctor replied. "I don't feel anything."

"This is my body," she demanded. "I want one!"

The appointment was scheduled and she experienced this innovative procedure which made it's modern debut in 1969, but wasn't commonly practiced until 1976. Within a half hour, her fears were confirmed. Instead of the typical lump, there was a thin sheet of cancer that spread across her entire chest. A week later, a radical mastectomy was performed. In the early 1970's, breast cancer was a death sentence, but because of early detection, she survived.

Ten years ago I discovered a lump under my left arm. At first I ignored it, but then remembered my mothers resolve. I made my appointment and was told it was just a fatty deposit.

"Well, if it's just fat, can we shift it someplace else on my body where it might fill me out," I jokingly remark, trying to mask my fear.

"Jackie, don't worry," my doctor again replied. "If it's not gone in a month, call me."

Life got busy and two months later, it was still there. I made the call and insisted it be removed. Once again, the breast surgeon told me "it was nothing to worry about," but she would honor my request.

Remembering my mother's plight, I was resolute. The procedure was done at Stanford Hospital and two weeks later I received the phone call I dreaded.

"Jackie," the doctor nervously began. We were wrong. Fortunately, the tumor is benign, but this form of lesion left untreated becomes cancerous." Taking a deep breath, she continued, "We got it just in time."

As my shaking hands hung up the phone, two things became crystal clear. Doctors are human and make mistakes and it's imperative we become advocates for our own health.

The human body is a miraculous instrument and signals when something is not right. We all must learn to sit up and take notice of  any warning signs. Don't be lax and think it will just go away. Take charge and protect the one life you have.

One Hundred Percent Irish

When I walked into the Cover Story Boutique on Main Street last week, my eyes were instantly awash in an emerald haze. I was happily swept back in time looking at all the adorable decorations for St. Patrick's Day.

As a child, knowing I was Irish made me feel like I was one of the chosen ones. My father, born to Irish Catholic immigrants in 1916, loved to remind me I was special.

"Jackie, you're 100% Irish," he'd proudly state. "That means you've been blessed."

For years I believed this. I felt that St. Patrick's Day belonged to me, more so than my classmates. The world was my treasure chest because of my lineage until one day my mother burst my bubble.

"Honey…," she started slowly. "I hate to inform you, but you're not exactly 100% Irish. Half of you comes from me." Fearful I was about to hear that my whole life was a lie, she continued, "You're English too."

I stared into her sympathetic eyes. All I could say was, "Huh?"

"Well, I know your dad would like to think you're only Irish, but I had something to do with your legacy too."

For years, I wondered why this fixation on his heritage was so important. Heaven knows there are enough jokes circulating about his nationality to make one wonder.

Irishmen drink too much, spend too much time on their knees in church, eat nothing but boiled food and sing "Oh Danny Boy" at the top of their lungs, even if they don't know all the words.

But being Irish also means having an indomitable spirit and a quest for justice and freedom. My grandparents were dirt poor when they came to San Francisco, in the late 1890's, and fought to be recognized in this country. They survived the Great Depression and my father was the first in his family to obtain a college education. He certainly did have a right to be proud.

While my own life has had it's difficult moments, I have never known such adversity. My parents made sure of that. I was given a childhood where all my basic needs were met. I never wondered where my next meal would come from and parochial education was standard.

So why so I still get so jazzed about this one day in the year since discovering I'm a 50/50?

Some friends might say it's just another excuse for me to party. While I must admit, I love parties, I get excited about March 17th because I see it as celebration of mankind's unconquerable will to survive and thrive. The human spirit should be rejoiced.

So this St. Patrick's Day, I plan to paint shamrocks on my face, wear green clothes, sing "When Irish Eyes are Smiling," even though I don't know all the words, and drink green wine (I hate beer). I will dance a gig until I have holes in my shoes and then get down on my knees and pray for everyone who is facing a personal struggle. My dad was right, I've been blessed.

Selfless Angels

It was a brisk December morning in 2008, and I was having my nails done. I was enjoying letting my mind wander when a small voice next to me interrupted.

"I know you," she said.

I panicked. Whenever I hear that phrase, I'm taken back to my twenties, in the 1970's, when such recognition often came after I'd been dancing on some table at a local bar. As a mature, fifty-seven-year-old woman and mother of four, I no longer do those things but, I'm always fearful I'm going to be forced to relive some embarrassing moment I've expunged from my mind.

She smiled. "You taught my daughter dance over ten years ago."

Whew! The tension in the pit of my stomach relaxed. We chatted  - about growing older, raising children, joining the work force again and, finally, divorce. I felt relieved that I was eight years past mine.  Hers was just beginning.

"I'm so sorry," I responded. "It's not easy."

"How did you get through it?"

The healing process is unique to every individual. Mine came from writing my life's story. A simple tale I wanted to leave behind for my children.

"It helped me rediscover the woman I lost long ago." I explained.

As we readied to leave, she asked for my business card. I was thrilled to hand her my Alain Pinel information, letting the realtor in me hope for a possible transaction down the road. Two months later, I received a phone call that changed my entire life.

"Jackie, it's Susan Longworth," she started. "I've just opened a new store in Los Altos called the Scarlet Boutique and I want to host a book signing for you!"

I nearly dropped the phone. A book signing meant that my story would be seen by more than my immediate family. It also meant that a hobby I loved, and a healing process I relied on, would be validated.

"What do you want in return?" I inquired, knowing we live in a world where we never get something for nothing.

"Nothing," she responded. "I just want to see you successful."

On April 28, 2009, I sold over 300 copies at that signing. In an instant, my world transformed forever and all due to this selfless angel, who seemed to have flown into my life to offer me a golden opportunity.

"Sometimes, we just need that one break," she said. "I'm happy I could do it for you."

I'll never forget that act of kindness by a woman I barely knew. It made me realize how one simple gesture can alter a person forever.

I believe it's time we all took notice of our neighbor and extended a hand. Just think of the possible miracles we can create by channeling our inner selfless angels.

Point of View

The total obliteration of a parent's ego can begin with just one sentence.

"MOM, you're not wearing that - are you?" Lauren screamed. Standing before me enraged, my child spit fire as she insisted I change my outfit. The year was 1998 and we were getting ready for her Confirmation.

"What's wrong with it?" I sheepishly asked.

"It's orange for God's sake. It'll clash in the picture with our red robes," she hissed. "Besides, it's too short and you look like a Spice Girl. Can't you just look like a mom?"

Crestfallen, I gazed at the image in the mirror as she stormed out of my room. It wasn't that orange, plus it was the one dress I had that hid a multitude of flaws. And what was wrong with looking like a Spice Girl? You'd think that would be a compliment with the band's recent popularity?

In their younger years, my three girls and I battled over my appearance. At first, they wanted me respectable, but as the years went by I was encouraged to look like some babe out of "Teen Hottie" with jeans so low on the hips I didn't dare bend over.

"Michelle and Jenni, I can't wear those," I implored, looking at the pants they expected me to paint on my legs. "I can barely pull them up, plus I look ridiculous"

"Only you think that," they retorted.

Over the years, it's amazed me how my four children and I can view one topic only to come up with five opposing opinions. So the question remains, who's right?

While writing my memoir, it also hit me that we can view the past in dissimilar ways too. I looked at my history only through my eyes. I wanted to blame others for my shortcomings, but found my three brothers saw our childhood, and me, completely different.

As a little girl, I was pure and innocent. I was my parent's "rose among the thorns" and the perfect child, or so I thought. Unfortunately, my younger brother, Tim, informed me that I wasn't always "miss sweetness and light." Reminiscing our sibling spats, he reminded me that I could throw a punch just as hard as the next kid when annoyed. The proof was left for all eternity in the middle of his face with a crooked nose.

We're all entitled to our point of views. I'm thrilled my adult children have become independent thinkers and not some clone of their parents, but I find myself reminding them that there're always at least two ways of looking at everything. Life should not be seen through tunnel vision, but with telescopic range.

While we may not always agree, by allowing others their say, we become open to a variety of possibilities and gain new knowledge, maybe even about ourselves. It permits us to become fully connected to this world we live in, tolerant and forgiving. And that's something I think we can all agree upon.