“Oh,” my mom says as she claps her hands together. “Don’t you look just like an airplane pilot!”

“You really think so?” I asked, as I button the blue polyester blazer. In 1976, it was the in-thing.

“Now just remember, the Johnsons will meet you in Dallas. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Okay.” My smile revealing my confidence.

I was about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. A ten-year-old, on her own, flying half way across the country to visit her grandmother. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. And my new navy blue bell-bottomed pant suit with the big gold buttons was the classy garb to get me there.I’d made this journey before with my family. Fly from Philadelphia to Dallas, change planes at the airport, and arrive in Oklahoma City a few short minutes later. As a big girl, I knew I could do it on my own.

The first flight landed in Dallas right on time. A flight attendant sat next to me. We chatted about swimming and the fun I would have going to Branson, Missouri with my cousins. And, just as my mom promised, the Johnsons were at the gate to greet me.

The Johnsons were my parents’ friends. They participated in each other’s weddings. They had sons. Cute sons. This I knew. We strolled through DFW easily. Mr. Johnson flew for the airline and wore his uniform as he shook hands with everyone and was treated like royalty. I wondered if he thought I, too, looked like a pilot, but I didn’t ask.

After a leisurely lunch, they pointed me to my gate and waved as I stood in line for security. On the other side was the same flight attendant I’d met earlier, waiting for me.

I put my small tote onto the scanner belt and moved to the metal detector. The man on the other side motioned for me to walk through. I did.

Buzzzzz.

A loud signal chimed. The man motioned for me to return through the security screen and try again.

Buzzzzz.

He stopped and looked at me. He scowled. He studied me as heat crept from my belly, into my chest, and up my neck.

“Hold out your arms,” he said sternly.

I watched. Arms outstretched, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks as teardrops hovered over my eye lashes. I bit my lips. I sucked in my cheeks. I wiggled.

“Stand still, Miss.”

He grabbed his electric wand and waved it in front of my face. Tears, falling in earnest now, slid from my eyes and onto the floor. He moved his machine above my right arm and around my head and across to the left. Down my back. Over my torso. Buzz. He stopped.

Buzzzzz.

He waved it again.

Buzzzzz.

Buzzzzzzzzzz.

The sound was deafening, echoing in my ears, shouting at me. A sob was about to break loose. I couldn’t hold it back.

“It’s your buttons, Miss.” He smiled at me. “It’s fine, you can go now.”

I stood still, shocked. I ran my sleeve across my face and dried my eyes as best I could before walking slowly to the conveyer belt and snatching my Barbie bag, tucking my chin in shame.

I don’t remember the rest of the flight or if I ever wore that navy blue bell-bottom pant suit with the big gold buttons again, but to this day, I can’t walk through a security gate without a flinch. And if it buzzes, heat rises in my belly and flutters slowly towards my cheeks. So while other people complain about full-body scanners, I silently smile and think, at least they don’t beep.

“Yeah, but what’s it like?”

Wait, what? Was I really on a date with a guy who just asked what it’s like to be a young widow with children? If my BFF were nearby, she would have thrown up a red flag.

[Pause—let me give you some backstory. My first husband died of ALS when he was 40, leaving six- and nine-year old sons behind. If you have to stand in line and pick a disease, don’t stand in Lou Gehrig’s, it’s about as bad as they come. Now back to the jerk.]

“Really, I want to know, what is it like?”

We were sitting at this hole-in-the-wall restaurant with a handful of tables, a small French menu, and dim lighting. Outside, the Houston traffic rattled on while the sun slowly sank into the ground. There’s no answer to his question other than the one I offered: “It sucks.”

A counselor once told me I was suffering with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Today, there’s a general acceptance of traumatic stress in a variety of situations, however, PTSD was a buzz term in 2005 and I shook my head. “No, that’s for soldiers coming home from the Gulf.” I was just a mother who still had laundry sitting in the washer and happened to have a husband pass away.

When I later dissected the comment, I reluctantly agreed that the words fit. I wasn’t a soldier who watched my buddies run over an IED, I didn’t see a motorcyclist fly off his bike and into on-coming traffic, I didn’t witness my home burn to the ground. What I did experience was a strong, determined man lose his ability to talk and walk and blink and breath over a slow three-year period. It was stressful, it was traumatic, it was over, and it sucked.

I looked out the window as the Houston highway reflected orange and red in the setting sun.

I added, “Like the sun, you rise the next day and survive all over again.”  To me, that’s what it’s like to be a young widow, or a soldier coming back from war, or a witness to a horrible crash, or a survivor of a house fire. My date continued to ask questions. His need to experience my journey was uncomfortable. I had no words of wisdom to offer and was left with the sick knowledge that people want to know what horror feels like; they wonder if they could endure it. “Well put it this way,” I snarked while trying to decide if his inquisition was full of adulation or bewilderment, “it doesn’t make me a superhero.”

In reality, there’s no way to predict how someone will handle stressful situations. And while there is lots of advice on the topic of stress and PTSD, know this one thing: Just like the sun, you’ve got to rise tomorrow and survive the day all over again.

I sent a message to the universe that I wanted to be a Ghost Writer. Several friends hounded me to write their stories. It sounded like a cool idea, I’d already been writing for associates and family on a small scale, why not turn it into a career?

I met with a fellow writer who offered some pointers about becoming a Ghost Writer.  In case you are wondering, Ghost Writers do no write about séances and haunted houses, they write other people’s stories. His first assignment: ask my friends if they really wanted to tell their stories. They didn’t, so I set the dream aside and went about my day.

One month later, I received the mysterious email from Scott Headley, a man I didn’t know, about writing his memoir. “How did you even find me?” I asked Scott after our first meeting.

“I just found you on the internet.”

His answer didn’t really give me an answer but I’ve learned not to question the universe. At the time, I didn’t even have a website and yet he still found me on the internet. Call it the universe or call it luck or call it God, but make no mistake, there are things that go unexplained in the world, like how Scott Headley picked me to write his memoir.

We talked, signed a contract, and began to collaborate his story. And, as far as stories go, his was a writer’s dream. It involved gruesome details and terrifying events. It included emotion and depth and grit. And it was spoon-fed to me by a great story teller. Scott’s narrative was not one that was easy for him to tell. He started having panic attacks and privately, I questioned the book’s completion. When he disappeared for several months, I decided to push through. My sole role as a Ghost Writer is to put his thoughts on paper, I would finish his story then he could publish it or lock it away on a shelf.

He resurfaced about five months later, ready to complete our project. He had spent his missing time at a facility for PTSD, addressed his demons, and changed his outlook on life.

Now, one year after signing our agreement, I’m looking at a book cover with my name on it. I might be prejudice, but next to my graduate degree (which is prominently displayed on a wall in my library,) it is the prettiest piece of paper I’ve ever seen. My name is in itty-bitty font, but nonetheless, it’s my name. The universe or luck or God might have directed Scott to find my name on the internet, but it was my hard work that’s allowed this cover to come to fruition. And yes, I might be bragging just a little bit, but I’m damn proud of it.

On December 13, 2007, in the small town of Lake Wales, Florida, Leon Davis, Jr. walked into the Headley Insurance Agency with a gun, duct tape, and gasoline. He demanded money, wrapped two women in duct tape, doused them with fuel, and flicked a lighter.

In what is considered part of the worst killing rampage in Polk County history, Resolve, Courage, Hope tells the true story of how Scott Headley picked up the pieces after one of his long-time clients deliberately and viciously killed two of his employees and the aftershock of Davis’s murderous rampage including court trials, night terrors, and regaining his sense of self.

Available in Hardback, Paperback, and e-book in early Summer 2016.

Preorder @ alison.nissen@aol.com

*Interested in receiving a free copy in exchange for an honest review on Amazon or Goodreads? Contact me at alison.nissen@aol.com

Never be too lazy to change the toilet paper roll.

Why you ask? If you are too lazy to change the toilet paper roll, what else are you too lazy to do? I understand the philosophy of not changing it. Heck, I have even left it sitting on top of the empty roll myself. But I believe that this is a metaphor for life. It’s a short cut.

Short cuts are okay sometimes. Have you ever walked across the grass instead of following a windy path from the sidewalk to the front door? It might be quicker, but you might also ruin your shoes. Is the risk worth it the risk? Sneakers….maybe. Five inch heels…not a chance.

However, it’s not the quickness that counts. Bothering to take the windy path is respectful. If it’s your house, you are respecting your own property. If it’s someone else’s, you are respecting theirs. The path has a purpose and so does the toilet paper roll. The toilet paper roll deserves to be respected. Change it when necessary, even if it’s not your own…and always remember, the paper should fall to the front; it’s the right thing to do.

“Mom!” I shouted as I walked from the runway into the air conditioned building.

I had just stepped off a cramped 25 seat propeller plane at the Reading Regional Airport in Pennsylvania. The airport has a single terminal with a small restaurant, a few ticket takers, and virtually no security. I had flown in to and out of RDG many times with Allegany Commuter Airlines.

Reading is about 75 miles northwest of Philadelphia via the Schukylkill, otherwise known as the Sure-kill, Expressway. As the nickname intimates, it is a highway fraught with hills, turns, and lots of stop and go traffic. It was something we tried to avoid—so, we often flew in and out of Reading on itty-bitty airplanes.

During the summer of 1993, I packed up my suitcases, my two golden retrievers, and my apartment and returned to my family home in Shillington, a small suburb of a small city. I had just moved to Oceanside, California where the unemployment rate was over 9.5% and my military husband was sent on deployment.

The house I grew up in was affectionately known as Camp Brown. Life there was always an adventure and we learned to expect the unexpected. If we weren’t mowing grass or playing tennis, we would be chasing gophers from the yard or birds from inside the house. The last time the dogs visited, a swarm of bees stung them until they jumped into the pool.

The trip from San Diego to Pittsburgh was on a standard large plane with lots of people, several flight attendants, and plenty of peanuts. The flight from Pittsburgh to Reading was noisy, cramped, and bumpy.

Landing on the tarmac, the flight was greeted with stairs attached to a large golf cart. I made my way down and followed the line of passengers into the terminal. The stale air filled my lungs while the day’s heat was visible on blacktop.

Mom and I hugged and chatted while waiting for my bags and dogs. Rather than a conveyer belt, there was an open window where luggage was placed. My bags appeared but I wondered where I’d meet the dogs.

“Ma’am, your pups are ready to greet you in the front of the terminal,” the bagman said.

“Great, we’re ready to go,” Mom replied as she bounded off to get the car. She had a choice of three: a pickup truck, a roomy Cadillac, and a Mercedes coup. I assumed she brought the truck.

Excited to see the dogs, I raced to their crates where I was presented with problem number one. Flying didn’t agree with them. They didn’t seem to mind as tails wagged and they pranced with joy over feces and excrement.

I opened the crates and slip leashes over their heads while doing my best to not let them touch me. Glad to be free, they stretched and looked for a place to do business. Fortunately, a man tending flowers nearby had a hose and offered the dogs some water. They slurped and panted and rolled on the freshly cut grass.

As my mom pulled her tiny blue car forward, I noticed problem number two.

“Well this is interesting,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve got a roll of paper towels,” she added slyly as we both started to laugh.

We borrowed the hose and gave the dogs a good bath. The dogs, my mom, and I piled on top of one another leaving the crates to be picked up later. I wasn’t sure what Mom was thinking when she came to pick us up, but I knew I was about to have another adventure.