Merely Musing

Ruthless...

2012-02-08T20:40:00.001-05:00

I did it.
I ripped off the band-aid in one fell swoop.

I just lugged out to the recycling bin 27 binders worth of research--three trips of lugging. Twenty of the binders are in good shape, so I am going to try and find a home for them. We will not discuss the three bankers boxes I have of empty binders that could also use a home. SIGH. It is hard not to think up possibilities for them. We will also not discuss the additional 300 top-loading sheet protectors I salvaged during the process as well.

Twelve of the binders still remain on the shelf, most of which are lesson plan ideas. I would like to go through them, transfer the good ideas to my computer, and then get rid of them as well. The two binders I could not yet relinquish were the ones with my dissertation research in them. All that effort garnered just one shelf of space because of how I had them stacked.

I feel as if I just trashed my Ph.D., truly.
I feel as if all that work was for naught.
I feel as if I am acknowledging the simple-minded oaf I have become.

I was rather ruthless with myself in the process.
I am feeling rather blue now.

Truly worth watching...

2012-02-08T16:12:00.001-05:00

This is a hard video to watch. Doing so takes time and a willingness to not turn aside from an evil that exists in this world. This is not a video on how horrible is the Catholic church, though the actions taken by its leadership are shameful. They are the same actions, however, that are, sadly, all too common.

I have never seen such a bald look at a pedophile. I have never seen such a raw look at the impact childhood sexual abuse can still have years later. I have never such an honest look at a topic most people avoid. As I wrote before, sexual abuse is everywhere...even on the mission field.

Sin will always remain in this world until the fullness of time arrives and Jesus calls His church home. However, this particular sin, and its devastation upon the lives it touches, could be dramatically reduced if more people were willing to look, willing to keep this uncomfortable topic in our public and private discourse, and willing to act against it.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

Be it in or out of the moment...

2012-02-08T01:41:00.001-05:00

One more article popped onto my radar. Now, this one, I could have written as well. It is about how distraction can help with pain. This I understand. Deeply.

Again, though, I think it takes a kind and merciful soul to sit with you when you are in pain, to talk with you or text with you, to help you step outside the moment and let it pass, as Inara advised on Firefly.

I have many blog entries on pain. The nerve pain I have experienced has been so hard to endure. The worst, when the moment has passed, seems to be when it feels like fire is racing up and down my legs just beneath the skin. Of course, the frightening agony of a spine so stiff from arthritis that I can hardly breathe is a close second for worst pain. But joining the world of migraine victims--for surely they are an assault--I would say that the combination of imploding and exploding and throbbing and searing pain in your head is most assuredly the worst. Only when I am writhing on the bathroom floor, skin bare from chest to hips because my abdomen hurts so badly even the weight, the touch, of the thinnest shirt is agonizing I think that this must be the worst pain I must endure.

I have always had a high threshold of pain. I think that is how I endured the terrible pain I have had over the past few years because of the problems I had bleeding so much and then constantly. However, the surgeon mentioned something to me at my last visit when we planned to meet again to start exploring reconstructive surgery. I am to make another pros and cons chart, along with my questions. If I end up on medicare, the surgery would be covered then. So, if I choose, if we choose to wait, it doesn't mean I am losing the opportunity for this help. But the surgery is a serious, serious decision before me. One I should admit that I worry I shall not be able to navigate...were I to be honest about the matter.

The biopsy was so very overwhelming to me. I honestly would never agree to such again without first being sedated...completely. The first sample was an explosion of pain I thought impossible to endure. There were two more samples taken. I felt like leaping off the table at the first. That she had started was the only thing that kept me on the table. I thought that that is how it is for all women. The surgeon mentioned her main concern for me to find a place on my pros/cons chart: my pain receptors are highly...something. I do not remember the word specifically, but something like over-reactive or over-charged or misfiring. In short, they are broken...like the rest of me.

This past summer, I was talking with my internist who was trying to find a solution for my innards, not yet understanding it was neurological rather than system-based. I was telling her that I never had a problem before with a medication she had targeted as a possible culprit. She very bluntly said that my life is no longer what it was. Before no longer matters.

That really was the very hard lesson I just swallowed about eating. Foods that have been no problem before no longer are safe. I have to remember this truth and stop trying to live in before. I am no longer who I was physically, cognitively, mentally, emotionally.

Perhaps migraines are so devastating to me because of wonky pain receptors. Perhaps the migraines others experience are far, far, far worse than mine. Perhaps those with dysautonomia would be thankful for my moments on the bathroom floor. Perhaps.

In any case, distractions are helpful to me. Now, I know "experts" agree with me! How reassuring.

For those who have served as a distraction for me, even if doing so is uncomfortable or hard for you, I am thankful. Truly. If you know someone who struggles with great pain, consider being a distraction for them. In my personal experience, both active and passive distraction helps. In my personal experience, simply not being alone with the pain is a kind of distraction. In my personal experience, having someone simply be with me in the moment I am struggling to step out of is a kindness, an act of mercy beyond description. You do not really have to do anything. Talking or playing a game through my moans and groans is certainly a kindness, but merely being with me in some fashion...even virtually...is a marvel, a wonder, a gift.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

I could have told you that...

2012-02-07T19:29:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I mentioned several articles that were...well, rather obvious to me. I could have told you what they said. And I wouldn't have minded being paid for the research and the writing, as well as garnering the recognition for the research and byline. I found a couple of others.

But, before I note them, I would like to note something that is surely utter conjecture: Cheerios has curative properties when you have at least two medical conditions affecting your innards, especially when one is neurological in nature and the other is a system condition.

I have had Cheerios every day since Saturday, since Leslie was my innards hero. Yesterday, I was rash and had a second "dessert." When I had the asparagus, I was also rash and had two slices of french bread, dipping it in the seasoned olive oil that I used to saute the asparagus. [I have to limit how much bread I eat.] Despite being rash twice, I have had no instance of low blood sugar or nausea or writhing on the bathroom floor in the wee hours. A cup of Cheerios a day keeps the misery away!

Of course, I have also had the glass of Ginger ale and cranberry juice as well. I am, by the way, low on Ginger ale. I do not plan on going out until Thursday, but I have but one can left. I wonder if I should risk not having that Wednesday evening...

That silliness aside, one of the articles I found was on foods that could make you happy. One of those foods is...can you guess...ASPARAGUS! And I quote:

This vegetable is one of the top plant-based sources of tryptophan, which serves as a basis for the creation of serotonin, one of the brain's primary mood-regulating neurotransmitters. High levels of folate also add to asparagus's happiness-promoting profile; research has shown that up to 50 percent of people with depression suffer from low folate levels. Like tryptophan, it's a necessary factor for creating neurotransmitters.

So, it is not merely the organic garlic salt that I use on the asparagus I eat that has made me an addict. I was helping not only dysautonomia and its effects on my blood sugar with the salt, but also the strain that has been my emotions and facing the difficulties that have come my way with the asparagus itself. I guess that means that I am justified in trying to have asparagus on hand all the time. I do only like to eat the skinny stuff. Did I ever mention the fresh-from-the-ground, blue, straw-like asparagus I once bought from a farm? Oh, the glory of that asparagus! Oh, the memory!

The other article I found was about research that meetings can actually make us dumber. I totally could have told you that by experience alone. At the past three jobs I had, I noticed a few things about meetings:

1) People tend to ignore start/end times.
2) Few actually pay attention to the agenda.
3) Project members rarely have their piece/work completed on time.
4) Meetings are prime feeding grounds for bullying, disrespect, and taking offense, even where none is given...primarily because meetings are prime locations for peacocks to strut their stuff.
5) The work of meetings oft becomes bogged down by the need to not step on any toes with regard to the person(s) who is(are) usually responsible for such work slated for the meeting.
6) Rarely are meetings productive in the way a gathering of two, perhaps three, committed employees can be.

At countless meetings, I was appalled to see folk saunter in around 10:15 or even 10:30 for a 10:00 meeting, usually with cell phone in tow. People would bring other work to do, while tuning folk out. Presenters would not have rehearsed their presentations or given thought to the layout of their handouts with regard to reader understanding and use...and paper conservation. And teamwork/ team projects were a joke. Usually, one or two people did all the work. Primarily, the pervasive mentality to meetings were all about individual, rather than the company/organization/department/team. The ego really drove all interaction and interfered with productivity.

Of course, if I had a quarter for every minute of my life spend in a faculty meeting discussing copier paper, I would have absolutely no worries about paying for my prescriptions!

I would like to do a few research studies of my own. I miss research. I miss studying. I miss delving into some topic with other fine minds. At this point, I am fairly sure I have mere mush for brain cells.

SIGH.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Everywhere I look...

2012-02-06T23:59:00.000-05:00

When I was in graduate school, I learned the word ubiquitous. And, as is wont to happen, that very word became ubiquitous. Not really, I suppose. But over the years I have found that when you learn a new word, really learn it, that word seems to start popping up in text everywhere.

My working theory behind this is that we are becoming more and more lazy as readers. By this I mean that with the decline in emphasis on building a strong vocabulary, with the dumbing down of the reading level of all public texts (like a 4th grade reading level as a guideline for the newspapers adults read), we glean more and more of our meaning from context, skipping over unknown words without thought or guilt. It is not that the word you learned is coincidentally being used by writers the world over right after you learn it. It is that you never noticed the word until you actually learned the meaning. It was not important to you.

My theory began when I started my own word book about a decade ago...after receiving my doctorate. I was reading along and realized there were several words that I did not know, did not have a clue as to meaning. I decided to tackle this problem. So, now, as I read, I write down words I do not really know. Afterward, I look up the meaning of the words and write them down in a blank book I chose for the process. I learned over 1,000 words in a relatively short period of time. I was stunned by how much word-skipping I was doing. Stunned and humbled and have striven to keep up the habit of noting and learning new words.

[Would that it were that doing so were not so difficult these days....]

Anyway, well, I am wondering about the ubiquity of a certain topic in the news of late. To me, it seems that I cannot go long without stumbling upon an article of some kind about sexual abuse, particularly that of children.

I have not publicly said so, but I fled Facebook, in large part, because of the breaking news at Penn State last Fall. I couldn't bear the omnipresent topic, nor could I stomach the seemingly trite observations about sexual abuse that followed. In my experience, if you try to have a serious conversation, people become uncomfortable. In my experience, the topic is best kept at a distance, where one can opine on the matter. However, pontificating about what a shame it is that such happened and how abuse victims can always find a safe place in the church, how they need only to speak out and they will get help...hurts...me. That is not the way the world works. Speaking out does not always garner help...not as a child, nor as an adult.

Article after article after article appeared before my eyes. I fled Facebook. I eschewed the Internet. I avoided the news...especially after the recent slaying of a child here in Fort Wayne. Yet the articles keep appearing...how child abuse costs the victim more money over a lifetime than those who are not abused, how more children are hurt by child abuse than SIDS (I could have written that one with my eyes closed), how adult survivors are affected by news stories such as Penn State and then the Citadel, how 1 in 5 women are sexually abused, how sexually abused children are more likely to face mental illness as an adult (well, duh!), a teacher here...a principal there...two teachers even, the prevalence of severe child abuse, the recent rise in child abuse being tied to the economic downturn, and dozens of charges of sexual abuse in towns that I think might never have appeared on the national news level...save for Penn State.

To me, it feels merely like the topic of the moment, rather than a turning of the national mind that has long ignored the fact that children are not safe in America. Abused children rarely find a safe haven. Those removed from their home (something that is generally much harder than it should be, even in egregious cases) are oft placed in the foster care system, a place rife with abuse and lacking funds necessary to ensure that abused children get the counseling and support that they need. The brave ones who speak out can find that schools, churches, communities actually prefer the silence. It cannot possibly happen in our back yard.

I personally know of an abused child placed in a foster family who ended up raping his foster sister. When he was finally removed (the social workers tried to deal with the problem in-house rather than follow the law and report the incident), he admitted to his new social worker that his foster mom had been sexually abusing him for the past two years. A good family in a good neighborhood in an affluent county weekly monitored by a social worker and a foster care organization.

It happens in our back yards.

A while ago, I wrote, for me, a rather blistering blog entry on hunger. Where is the outrage that the rate of children living in food insecure homes has drastically risen during the recession, from 1 in 10 to 1 in 4? Who thinks about the millions of children who gain their primary nutrition from the free breakfast and lunch program going without that food for the entire summer? Hungry children are all around you. Everywhere.

So are men, women, and children who are either being abuse or who have been abused.

A while ago, I was rather daring. Back when I was on Facebook, I posted a link to this video (sadly, I do not have it since I am on computer no. 4 since that time, I believe) that a friend sent me. It is an unflinching look at adult survivors of child sexual abuse by a Catholic priest. It is not a diatribe against the Catholic church, thought the cover-up and denial in his case is appalling--especially since he was ultimately relocated to Ireland, living near a school. Rather it is a haunting look at how childhood sexual abuse affects the adult and a rather disturbing first-person portrait of an abuser. He smiles at the end. He really sees the whole thing as merely an expression of love.

One of the seemingly unbelievable aspects is that he abused both the daughter and the mother of a family who took him in as a single priest. How could that possibly happen, you ask. All to easily is the answer.

Frankly, I thought the video was a valuable window into the world of childhood sexual abuse for those whom have never experienced it. And...for those who have and who wonder why, wonder how, a man could possibly do what he does to a child. Because of this, I wrote a rather passionate plea for folks to take the time to watch the video.

No comments.
No response.
Silence.

That is why, in large part, sexual abuse is still an egregious perfidy being committed daily against thousands upon thousands of children in our country. Silence. Even in the best homes, the best schools (both public and private), the best churches, the best youth programs, the best summer camps, the best colleges and universities, etc. Pedophiles are no respecter of age, race, gender, socio-economic status, or location.

Everywhere.

And everywhere there is silence, of one type or another. We are to care for our neighbors. But I have found that with this issue, the popular response is to leave such care to professionals, if counseling is even an option. Do not get me wrong. Do not mistake my words. Counseling is important, is necessary. You do not just get over it. But counseling is not all the one wounded in such a manner needs. Neighbors willing to help. Neighbors willing to listen. Neighbors who will not try to fix you, but rather show you mercy and give you grace as you move through your pain, as you bear the burden of your wounds. Ah, but there's the rub. Remember what I wrote about how we story to process our lives, our losses, our griefs? And remember how I said that I believe the difficulty in listening to hard things is our tendency to want to put ourselves in the story as we listen?

Well, who wants to be in a story of sexual abuse?

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

All hail the Cheerio...

2012-02-05T16:39:00.002-05:00

No nausea, no low blood sugar, no innards writhing last night! All hail the Cheerio!

Silly, I know. Still, I just finished my bowl of Cheerios for today. Later, I shall have my Ginger ale with natural cranberry juice. Breakfast was a cup of lentils with a slice of cheddar cheese. I shall have some asparagus later and after that a fried egg or maybe two.

Yesterday, I had the Cheerios, crackers and Havarti cheese, 1/2 chicken breast and broccoli & cheddar rice mix, and a salad. I need to grill more chicken breast meat.

Did I mention that Leslie brought me not only one but two boxes of Cheerios? If they are really helping to keep things on a more positive keel when it comes to my innards, she wanted me to always have a box on hand. So, when the first one runs out, I will have a stash whilst trying to remember to purchase another box.

Because I was so bloody exhausted after virtually no sleep the night before, I went back to bed twice today...much to Amos' confusion. He is used to my feeding him early and then going back to bed, but the second time was not all that high on his agenda. So tired was I, I barely even registered his protests. I honestly do not remember much after he perched across my hip to whimper in my ear as I curled on my side once more. However, the World's Greatest Puppy did allow me to then sleep until just after 1:30 PM...meaning four extra hours after his breakfast.

I wonder if I can talk him into a late afternoon nap with me...........

From one floor to another...

2012-02-04T14:07:00.001-05:00

After making my way upstairs last night, I was only in bed for a short time before crawling to the bathroom. Both problems in one night is just not fair. I want to stomp my feet and have a right good temper tantrum, only I was too busy writhing on the floor in agony.

I have been doing so very well, so very well. I have been eating smaller amounts and more frequently...never gaining the 6-8 small meals a day goal, but consistently 4-5 time of less than I had been eating when I had 1-2 meals a day. Weeks have passed without awaking ill and spending a few hours writhing on the bathroom floor wishing Jesus would just come and fetch me.

Waves of nausea, terrible abdominal cramps, vomiting, shaking, and dizziness all plague me as my innards object to whatever work they are doing at the time. The pain in my abdomen is so bad that I cannot bear even a t-shirt touch it. There is no comfort to be found at such times. All I can do is endure, for I know it will pass. I will be tired for a while and then it will be as if the trial never happened.

I texted Leslie and asked if she could bring me some Cheerios. Someone suggested that I could have that kind of cereal once my beloved Fiber One cereal started making me so ill. Eventually, I remember to purchase a box, and yesterday was the first day I did not have a bowl. So, yes, I was desperate enough to think that I would have felt better had I not broken the routine I had established with what I have been eating. Plus, I have been drinking a Ginger ale with cranberry juice every night. I had run out of juice, too. Leslie brought me both.

I have just had a bowl of cereal. Later, I will have some Ginger ale and juice. Tonight will be better!

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

Would that it were not this way...

2012-02-04T03:35:00.001-05:00

Lying on the kitchen floor, afraid........

My blood sugar crashed, but I am so nauseous that I really wasn't understanding what was happening. Amos, though, dragged me out of bed to go outside. I tried to ignore him because I feel so wretched, but he refused to get back in bed and did his patented bark/growl/whine until I got up and dressed for the snow that is falling outside.

He watered nearly every plant in the yard, sort of just puttering about. I was having a hard time standing, while waiting for him. And then I finally realized that beneath the nausea was brewing that odd mix of anxiety/trembling/fading. Sure enough, the last test strip in the house told me I was crashing.

It is hard enough to shove food into your mouth hand over fist when you are panicking and weak. It is even harder to do so when you are also nauseous. I had had two ginger candies for the nausea, which--along with my puppy's need--probably saved me from that point of no return. I've been there a few times, but always with someone to rescue me...half drown me by pouring juice down my throat. I am so fearful that this is happening when I am alone.

The doctor worked out that entire shifting of my medications just so this would happen during the day, instead of the middle of the night. I do not know why it is happening now, especially after a day of copious protein and few carbohydrates.

In any case, I am lying on the kitchen floor, afraid, waiting for my body to stop this nightmare so that I might crawl back into bed. I think that woman writing about her illness was right on target with her choice of metaphor. My life has me trapped on a carousel that I cannot seem to get off. Would that it were not this way.

To add insult to injury, the regular testing of my blood pressure has shown multiple times of where my pulse pressure, the difference between the systolic and diastolic readings, is 60-75 points. It should be 30-40. I thought I would be charting my low blood pressure moments, which I have been. However, I am also charting these wild spikes (consistent in both arms).

I am too weary to face yet another battle with my body. And too poor to fund another round of doctor's visits and tests. I cry, "Uncle!"

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

If I ask you...

2012-02-03T15:30:00.002-05:00

If I ask you, "Do I like couscous?" while out at a restaurant or shopping at a grocery store, please answer (emphatically):

"Nope! You had it once and did not care for it and not remembering this had it a second time. You really care not to ever taste it again!"

From the womb...

2012-02-02T21:11:00.003-05:00

[Caveat: another fumbling about something I am trying to find the right words, the best words, to say.]

The other night I was lying with my head on Amos and was struck by how noisy his body is. And then I started thinking...

We like to think of the womb as a peaceful dark quiet place, a perfect place marked by absolute serenity. However, babies are actually surrounded by the constant noise of life: beating hearts, grumbling stomachs, gurgling intestines, swishing lungs, swooshing blood, vibrating vocal cords...not to mention the sounds of life external to their mothers' bodies, such as music and voices. From the very beginning of their existence, babies are surrounded by a veritable cacophony.

So, in a way, from the very beginning, babies learn that life is sound; sound is life. They learn that life can be found in hearing. Babies spend all their time seeing very little in the womb, but once their hearings developed, they experience a plethora of different sounds, all pointing to life. Could you not, therefore, conclude that from the very beginning, the idea of the spoken Word being life is epitomized, made tangible example to babies as their own bodies become complete?

And then there is the generally accepted recognition that hearing is the final sense to go before death. Not taste. Not touch. Not sight. Sound. Perhaps this is because of all that we gain, all that we can receive by hearing.

It is no fluke that the Psalter is filled with the encouragement and admonition to have the Living Word on our tongues, in our mouths, falling from our lips, and filling our ears, despite being penned by different men. It is no casual happenstance that God spoke to Moses, spoke to those at Jesus' baptism. It is no coincidence that Christ spoke to God from the cross, asking Him to forgive those who did not understand what they were doing in the crucifixion, and spoke to Paul. The message of the Gospel, from the beginning, has been a spoken Word. And that Word is a living Word.

In the Large Catechism, Luther tells us that the Word "has and is able to do all that God is and can do" (BOC, LC, IV, 17-18). This is why it is the Word that makes the Sacrament, the spoken Word. The Word combined with water is Baptism. The Word combined with bread and wine is the Lord's Supper, the true body and blood of Christ. The Word combined with proclamation by a called and ordained servant is absolution. Our bodies feel the water, taste the bread and wine, see the undershepherd before us, but our ears receive the forgiveness, the sustenance, the healing, and the life renewed, refreshed. We hear them.

There is no mystery, then, to how it is that when I am caught up in hurt or pain or confusion or frustration or despair, that speaking the Living Word to me can and will calm and soothe me, even if I am not particularly completely open to being calmed or soothed. Even when I am filled with doubt, unable to see a future and certain there is no possibility of hope, hearing the Living Word breaks through the darkness, the death, surrounding me and brings the light, brings the life, that changes .

Of all the destruction the devil has wrought upon creation through sin, surely the most egregious perfidy committed is the deafening of mankind, is keeping God's children from hearing the Living Word. Not that deafness can thwart God from bestowing the gifts of Christ upon His beloved. Still, I weep at the thought of never being able to hear sweet, sweet Gospel.

Being an avid reader, I have always thought the worst thing that could happen to me would be blindness. I could not fathom a life where I was not able to read. Now, by far, the greatest loss to me would most assuredly be deafness.

Strange thought to be had whilst starting to fall asleep on my puppy's body, eh?

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

Like a baby...

2012-01-30T23:42:00.000-05:00

I cried like a baby today. I wept the whole way through canceling the high speed Internet, cable, and home phone, as well as drastically reducing my cell phone plan. I am switching to the least expensive (though still not economical) DSL Internet because I cannot imagine life without blogging and without being able to at least serve someone by the communications work I do for Lutherans in Africa.

Best case scenario, to make it until I would hopefully qualify for medicare, I need $55,000, which covers merely quarterly doctor's visits and monthly prescriptions, providing none of them increase in cost. This does not cover a single other living expense...and...don't laugh...that there shall be not a single medical crisis over the next three (and a half) years.

Math.
It always stinks.
It is never in my favor.

The sacrifice of my biggest two distractions from what my life has become will net me not even one month's prescriptions per year. But even that is better than nothing.

The change-over will be February 11th, since all technicians were booked until then. That gives me time to research and purchase an antennae for my television...and learn how to use it. No more of some of my favorite shows, since they are not online (though I am told streaming will require...patience...due to buffering). No more free On Demand. No more pausing live TV to take Amos outside. No more DVR. No more recording anything. No more easy uploading. No more simply eBlast work. No more breezy surfing. No more lightening downloads. No more unlimited talking. No more keeping me company as I drive home from yet another wretched court trip or yet another discouraging doctor's appointment. It is STUPID to weep over such things.

Now...no more European butter? Well that's a thing to throw yourself off a cliff over. However, at the moment, I refuse to think of the ways I need to slash my already meager groceries budget. Good thing a hermit only needs gas for doctor's appointments.

SIGH.

Feeling sheepish...

2012-01-26T23:50:00.000-05:00

Version 2.0 mattress, which actually was my first choice originally, was delivered yesterday (per the lovely photo on the last entry). By night's end, my arms did not hurt, even though I sacrificed the pillow-top feature and my back was much, much better after my first nocturnal stay upon its plush-top-firm-individually-wrapped-coiled infrastructure, resulting in the longest "asleep" period I have had in longer than I can remember.

But...I have learned that Amos is a bit smarter than I.

You see, after leaping up on the bed and abruptly finding himself back on the floor without achieving his goal, he rather quickly figured out that he could access the bed from the antique trunk that sits at the foot of the bed. Being an active little fellow, all last night and each time today that he needed to leave or get back up on the bed, he used the trunk as his launching and landing pad.

Me? Well, twice last night I fell out of bed. And...a third time...I fell getting into bed. I am wondering if I need bed-rails for my new mattress. Frankly, I don't think climbing in and out of bed via the trunk is an option for me. I suppose I could figure out some sort of steps for crawling into bed without landing on the floor, but can you imagine the catastrophe of my trying to walk down steps in the middle of the night when the needs of my body call? The number of times I get up to be ill in the bathroom has gotten better, but I still need to leave for other purposes in the bathroom and sometimes I end up using all six ice packs between the first time I get into bed and when I finally admit that I am up for the day. That means six trips out of bed, down the stairs to the kitchen, and back into the bed. A veritable disaster in the making.

Who's bright idea was it to make modern mattresses so stinking lofty in stature? I am 5' 7" and I struggle with accessing the bed. What do those more vertically challenged than I do?

I wonder if the difference is magnified by the new box spring I was gifted. However, I am sure it is far too late to ask for my old one back.

Bed rails. ARGH! I am a middle-aged woman! Shouldn't I know how to navigate a bed by now? I do not need to buy yet another item when I got a rotten little letter today telling me that the last $2,268 of unemployment will no longer be forthcoming. That was a huge blow to me, especially since I went ahead with the replacement of my seventeen-year-old mattress.

Given that nary a single response to the well over 100 resumes I sent out garnered a response and that my body is hourly falling apart, I suppose I should accept the admonishment and advice that I should begin the disability application.

I am just a silly girl. I really am. But, to me, just the mere thought of working on that application makes me feel like I would be declaring that my life is over. Stupid, I know. Especially one who spends far too much time on Amazon looking at travel chairs (lightweight ones really designed for a friendly person to push you around). A few folk have pushed me around places with those free-use wheelchairs in stores and museums and such this past year and not struggling to walk about sure was nice. Really nice. I was thinking it would be oh so convenient if there was one in the back of my car when folks visited in case they were interested in skipping the gym and get their exercise by pushing me about during trips out-of-doors longer than a few minutes of walking here or there.

Even so, even though I already technically am, I do not wish to be disabled. Nor do I wish to spend the next two years (or so I have been advised) arguing with the government that I really do have a body that sort of no longer likes me.

Stupid mattress.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Wondering...

2012-01-26T00:22:00.001-05:00

Which is louder: Amos' snoring that is currently blaring in my ears or the auditory result of my roiling innards that is currently filling up the rest of the room? Too bad I cannot upload an audio file for the popular vote to decide. I suppose the embarrassed part of me hopes that it is Amos. I suspect it is not.

I wonder just how many pages Faulkner could have filled up describing the cacophony emanating from my abdomen? There would certainly be no discussion of symphonic melodies....

Good things and bad things...

2012-01-25T19:06:00.000-05:00

I would be lost without Amos. No matter how miserable I am, Amos' snoring makes me smile, if not outright laugh. He is my ever constant companion, even peaking up over the side of the tub whilst I am showering. He has never complained about any of my health issues or how restricted his life is at times. We are two of a kind, for I am not sure if he likes curling up on me for a nap more than I like for him to curl up on me for a nap. And I am daily thankful to my Creator for creating such a fluff ball puppy dog (albeit a bit of an overgrown beast for his breed), who has more affection in him than even the loneliest heart on earth could desire, and then sent him my way.

I love Sandra's mind. She has the bestest thoughts for me, not the least of which was ice packs for my headaches turned migraines. She also told me about a place where I could get an $11 haircut to clean up the continued whacking I have done in an effort to lighten the weight of my hair and yet still have something left on my head. My follicle burden is currently ever so much lighter, without sacrificing any more length, since I am now sporting a crop full of layers with a distinct lack of the former crookedness and choppiness. And it is not just for me her fine mind works...check out this awesome chore system she created for her son!

Dysautonomia is the most wretched, most vile, most difficult part of my existence. I have really only begun to scratch the surface of this disease, this condition that has nothing but a distressing, discouraging, and dismal future ahead for me. I did find the most wonderful--to me--blog by a woman battling dysautonomia. It is brief and stopped short, with the most heart-wrenching last post...probably because, as you can see, how devastating the disease had become to her life. I believe her most creatively titled blog is a rather interesting glimpse into the wretched state of life with dysautonomia. And reading through it made me feel slightly less alone, especially the post on migraines.

I need to strive for more Myrtle victories. For example, I finally managed to soap the drawers in the built-in cabinets of the servants' storage closet and the bathroom. This made opening the 92-year-old drawers much, much, much easier. [Freshly folded towels add a bit something to the visual effect of the closet, don't you think?] I also finally remembered to add rubber "feet" (oh, the things I have had tucked away in my toolbox for ages on end) to the bottom of my small vintage Dr Pepper tray I keep on the kitchen counter so that stray water will no longer make the bottom rust and leave a pesky ring on the counter top. And accomplishing something, anything, makes for a better day or week for me, when so much of my time is spent uselessly huddled in the GREEN chair simply trying to make it to the next moment.

My amazing home keeps getting better. Having another visitor helped me learn a couple more things about it. First, you can be creative in making space for others. In the bathroom, since there is no vanity with space for people to put their things while visiting, I cleared out the top drawer of the built-in storage for my guest. This way, she did not have to cart all her getting-ready things back and forth from her room each day. In doing so, I rearranged my own stuff so that when people are not there, I can have all my medications quick-at-hand in that drawer, but can easily move them to the one below when someone visits. [There is far more storage in the bathroom than a single person--even one with six diseases--can possibly use.] I also learned that my stove is truly a marvel. An original ad for it can be found here. Can you believe that in 1969, you could buy a self cleaning oven that also had a built-in meat thermometer tied to a timer, a rotating roasting spit, and a griddle? My visitor helped me figure out that the front burner was not broken, but rather that my understanding of how to use the four features of it was broken. The sensi-temp burner can be used as a 4", 6", or 8" burner or as a base for a griddle. [I have ALWAYS longed for a griddle.] I found the instruction pamphlet for the burner, as well as the oven instruction booklet, and a separate double roasting pan sized for each oven. All of these special parts to the stove were in their original packing, having never been used! I find myself continually blessed by the added features of this home that were rather inexplicably not included in the sale listing. And I marvel at how much of a sanctuary it has become to me.

Fort Wayne has a place worth taking visitors! You can read about the botanical gardens, located in the heart of downtown, just a hop, skip, and a jump from my home, here. With 25,000 square feet of indoor gardens, this place is a wonder of cactus, tropical, and garden plants from all over the world. They have complimentary wheelchairs for those unable to traverse the long walk, an altogether too tempting gift shop and eatery, a research library, several interactive educational areas for children, and wonderful outdoor gardens for when the weather is warmer. I found this place to be equally impressive as the National Botanical Gardens in Washington, DC, when you consider what a small city Fort Wayne is. And the wonder of this spate of nature is truly an oasis of beauty and peace to me.

The longer I look the greater the beauty I see in Fred and Ethel. It is strange to me, to think that I have only known them for a brief time and have yet to meet. I kept coming back to this flower again and again, because there were so many fantastic features in it. I love variegated leaves and finely veined petals. The center stack is most wondrous, even as it is such a strong contrast to such delicate outer-structure of the flower. And the best part is that the whole of the flower, as is that of a friendship with Fred and Ethel, is even richer and fuller than all the individual features.

The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa the bad things don’t always spoil the good things or make them unimportant." ~The Doctor, "The Doctor and Vincent," Doctor Who

Yes, last night was a misery. My future truly does look grim. And another migraine is lurking just on the edges of my senses. The strain of the visiting puppy trauma was hard on me, primarily because of how very much it reminded me of the pit bull attack. I did not nap at all. And I really do not like being so ill in front of others as much as I do crave some company. I am oft still lost and confused, even in spiritual matters. I am fairly sure I have nerve damage in my foot. And I am frightened over my impending dire financial state. But my Good Shepherd has provided me a new-to-me, rather fantastic oven range, a new bed with beautiful new sheets, new friends who have heaped kindness and mercy upon me, a newish puppy who loves me rather fiercely, someone to help me straighten out some things in my past and learn to face my difficult future, the best, most kind, unbelievably encouraging doctor who listens to me and is working very hard to figure out a way for a best case scenario in a complicated, compromised, rather ill body, and a home that is actually a palace to me.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Just one moment more...

2012-01-25T00:32:00.000-05:00

I have been battling a migraine since late morning (now officially yesterday). The wretched thing seems very attached to me. And once again I am so very...discouraged...by both my utter inability to face this new enemy with anything other than despair and how weak I am in handling the pain, the nausea, the problem with sounds and lights and moving and thinking and anything else save for surviving just one moment more of abject misery.

I talked with Bettina some this night, shoving the agony in my head aside and maintaining a firm grip on my nausea...though...oft I thought I sounded a tad harsh or unfeeling or terse. During a vacuuming break, I rose to go to the bathroom. That movement was enough for me to lose my grip on the nausea and all the ginger ale I had been sipping, as well as the bacon-lettuce-mustard-mayo-buttermilk toast sandwich I had for breakfast, came spewing out of me.

Throwing up while your head feels like it is ready to explode and implode all at once is not something you wish to experience.

I have a pros and cons chart for my visit to the surgeon tomorrow regarding my progress on the Loestrin. Despite this day, I absolutely do not want to give up the combination hormone treatment. Perhaps...I might be willing to try the even lower dose of this low-dose hormone option, but it is different hormones and different probably means fighting new side effects.

Plus, the very dramatic change the hormones have wrought--completely eradicating 7 terrible symptoms that were greatly diminishing my quality of life and 1 irksome symptom--is so very remarkable to me that I am not ready to say that the three problems the medication has brought negate its value: the headaches and now migraines; the low blood sugar episodes; and its affect on how the Theophylline helps the near fainting and fainting episodes.

However, when the migraines occur, I sometimes find myself unable to see myself hanging on for just one moment more. A little while longer until the 2nd or 3rd dose of Imitrex takes effect. A 3rd or 4th ice pack to make waiting a bit more bearable. The utter loneliness I feel when being engulfed in the pain that is seemingly inescapable. The dejection I battle because I really am a mere animal at such times, sorely lacking in any shred of humanity or decency, caring for nothing more than the migraine to end.

Pain is such a funny thing. I have had years of pain now, between multiple sclerosis and arthritis. Nerve pain is wretched stuff, both in the variety of type and location of agony it can inflict. However, apparently, my very high threshold of enduring pain, masking it even from others, does not count toward pain in my head.

The thing that is driving me crazy, absolutely crazy, is that this is happening mid-pack again, as if it is another ovulation migraine, the surgeon had me skip the brown pills, not have a single break between packs this time to ensure there was no chance of ovulation. If I am right as to the cause of this day's misery, then the lower dose would offer no hope of avoiding this.

I could have surgery, either an ablation to try and stop the bleeding or go straight to the hysterectomy. However, the former may very well not work and both would not negate the need for the hormones and would most likely make all the problems I have on that side of the equation actually worse if I were to have my ovaries removed during the hysterectomy. The surgeon sees that as a last option, the poorest option. Only migraines are not acceptable to her either.

I suppose a part of me feels, truly feels, as if I have failed by not managing to tackle the headaches before the three-month trial of Loestrin is over. To have, in fact, so spectacularly failed by moving from headache to migraine, by adding one more wretched, horrid, difficult, debilitating medical battle to my plate.

And time is running out. I am spending so much money trying to address this issue when I have no more hope of income. I am down to just five months more of COBRA insurance that at least lessens the financial burden of pursuing this. Five months to find an answer. Honestly, I cannot imagine paying for 40% of what the surgery would cost, but truly I could not do so when my cost would increase to 100%.

Five months and my only option, should there be no victory here, is to go back to being trapped in the prison of wild emotions, constant bleeding, and the other problems that made life just that much harder.

With no abatement after over twelve hours, I suppose I shall not be sleeping this night. In less than ten hours I shall be dragging myself to the surgeon's office, most likely dizzy and nauseous and weary and in pain and beg her to find that seemingly impossible solution whereby I am not back in that prison that I fear with my whole being nor am I huddled in this new misery that binds me even more.

I suppose, given my condition, it is a good thing it is only three turns to her office....

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Nothingness...

2012-01-22T22:42:00.001-05:00

I have done practically nothing since Thursday at 10:15 AM. I have slept, napped, dozed before mindless television, and avoided even the smallest thought.

The doctor said I had a virus, albeit a pernicious one. Her own husband was going on Week Four of battling this particular foe. She advised what over-the-counter medications might best soften the effect of the symptoms best in my own battle. More importantly, though, she also took the time to reorder my medications so that I could shift the Loestrin to the morning. My blood sugar has been plummeting most nights and this is most concerning to me...at night...worried that it might happen when I am sleeping and helpless to help myself.

Taking it in the morning confirmed the medication was the cause of my blood sugar issue because I plummeted the first day mid morning. At least now I know that it is not a failure of my insulin resistance mediation, but rather the side effect of another medication. So, I merely need to remember to eat with the Loestrin and again every few hours throughout the day. Remembering...though...is no longer my forte.

SIGH.

I failed in my hosting endeavor in that I failed to nap a single day. I drove myself to be out and about and up and active when my body really cannot do that. I suppose it is the combination of both the virus and the exhaustion that has made the past four days pass primarily without notice. Amos, being the best puppy in the world, has spent most of the time curled up in my lap in the GREEN chair or beside me in bed. He has not minded all the sleeping and resting and nothingness. It is my plan to continue to pursue this path of sleeping, napping, and dozing in front of mindless television.

However, I should add that in the past week, I learned something I would rather have not known, something too large in agony, too large in reality. I did not hear what I longed to hear. And I cannot bear both the speaking and the silence. I know that my Savior can bear it, but I cannot figure out a way to lay the burden down. So, amid all the sleeping and napping and dozing, I have sought the nothingness of eschewing all thought...even here.

However, one small thing both comforts and irks me. And I wonder if the latter should be happening. I wonder if it is merely another sign of how much my perspective is skewed. Here is the thing: I now have two glass pitchers that have GREEN tops to them.

I love the color green. I just do. I love it in nature (especially all the lovely, rich shades found in moss) and I love having it on things that I use. The sight of that particular color--nearly every shade of it--simply brings a bit of pleasure to me. A while ago, I replaced my decades old Brita pitcher with one of the new ones. Of course, I chose a GREEN one. Each time I get it out of the refrigerator to use it or to fill it again, I savor the sight of it, of owning a GREEN pitcher.

When I was picking up my prescriptions, I saw this holiday item sale of glass pitchers and was excited to see that the soft rubber stoppers were colored. I bought a GREEN one, since I actually do not own a pitcher any more. I turned them sideways for the photograph so that you could see the pretty ridges in the glass and the rather helpful indented place to grip the pitcher. What you cannot see is that there is a lip for easy pouring and that they are skinny enough to go in a refrigerator door shelf. I found the first pitcher so perfect (I very much prefer glass over plastic any day), that I rashly spent another $5 and bought a second one. My rationale was that I need to be drinking more juice, so I now have one for orange juice (no pulp) and once for cranberry juice (no sugar added). Just opening the refrigerator door brings such pleasure to me at the sight of these very handy pitchers that are quite pretty and are a bit of GREEN in my kitchen. Plus, by putting the cranberry one in the center, the light shines through it casting a lovely glow whenever I open the door.

When my blood sugar plummets, it is far better to use juice than soda. So, now I can get to some rather easily. Following the juice with nuts and cheese helps ensure the plummet is not repeated. But, also, when I am shaking and sweating and scared, I find a small smile creeping across my face because that is what the sight of GREEN things do for me.

But they are just things. Should not their color matter so much????

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Things are brewing...

2012-01-14T23:35:00.000-05:00

Things seem to be brewing up in my head. Nope, not some good thoughts. That would be amazing, with the fog I've been battling. Instead, what has been brewing seems to be some pesky germs. Raging sore throat. Stuffed nose. Painful ears. Now, a fever. I suppose I shall drag my weary bones to one of those clinics I have heard about here that are a part of the Lutheran Health Network on the morrow. Sandra texted me the closest location, but I could not motivate myself out the door soon enough tonight to see if I might qualify for some germ fighting antibiotics.

Here is my poor, snow-and-ice-encrusted puppy from last night. He has not learned the term "time-out," but he has learned the phrase: "No poo-poo, no Momma." Such words strike terror in my puppy. But...well...Amos had not yet asked to go outside last night when I was trying to get him to do his business. I just had decided he was ready. Clearly, he was not, given that he had already endured one time-out session. Poor Amos. If I had not realized his entire coat was laden with frozen material, he might not have fared as well as he did after being bundled up in warm towels and held before the fire for a long while. He just sat in the snow, not knowing what to do, since if he did not do something, I had threatened that he would be all alone in the kitchen. Abandoned. Separated from his beloved Momma.

Late last night, Amos did his bark/whine/growl as his way of asking to go outside and take care of business. The entire process took but a moment or two. The terrible battle that took place earlier, practically killing my poor puppy was entirely unnecessary. SIGH.

Here is my beloved puppy this afternoon, longing with his entire being to be playing with his tiny canine house guest. He clearly does not understand how fragile she still is, that she survived is a bona fied miracle. Amos, as he is wont to do, stretched his body enough to peer at whatever has captured his attention. If he were to study the matter, he would realized he could easily leap over the quilt-covered baby gate. Thankfully, my puppy is but a young pup and has not yet developed all of his critical-thinking and problem-solving skills. Still, it is very, very hard on him that the little mite of a dog he was playing with is now off limits to him. He doesn't understand. And she smells very good to him.

I, for one, am glad that we are on the downside of puppy trauma. Truly the little girl was critical. However, Amos' male bits being frozen to his belly was hard for me to see, especially how long his skin remained rather red. [Yes, it was hard to see because of the guilt I felt over having caused it.] Perhaps the drama that always seem to accompany trying to play host has passed and the rest of the visit will be...smooth.

We saw a movie today: Iron Lady. Meryl Streep is truly gifted. Gobsmakingly gifted. However, the movie was too sad for me. Much of me wanted to leave immediately. Much of me wants someone to wipe the memory of the movie from my mind. This is because the movie is not so much about Margaret Thatcher's incredible life, but a glimpse of the ravaging of cognitive decline on such a formidable mind. The loneliness of dementia/Alzheimer's/cognitive dysfunction is harrowing to experience and harrowing to see...if you are willing to actually look at it. It is my experience that not many people are willing to do so. Another movie title comes to mind (not that I saw it): Eyes Wide Shut.

We look, but we do not see. We listen, but we do not hear. My personal theory is that in listening, at least in part, what we do is try to picture ourselves in the story we are hearing. Somehow. In some way. Think of the parables and how man spends so much effort trying to not just figure them out, but figure out what part, what role he plays in them. I suppose because man is all about trying to figure out what we must do. Who is my neighbor?

Robert Coles, a child psychiatrist, has this fantastic book: The Call of Stories. Another day would be the time to plow through its illumination in full, but suffice it to say that he talks about how we process our lives through stories. His book about this arose from the shocking revelation that he was not actually listening to his patients. He had to learn to listen to what they were actually saying, not what he thought what they were saying.

We tell each other--we tell ourselves, for that matter--stories. The seminal, pivotal work of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross is based on this, really, when looking at grief. She talks about how people will story their loss. They will not always start in the same place. The beginning of their story--even among those who share the same loss--can be as varied and idiosyncratic as there are people on this planet. But the story of our loss--the telling of it--is how we can process and survive it.

I have wondered, at times, if this really is at the heart of why couples who lose children often break up, why marriages dissolve. Both have different stories to tell even though they shared the same experience. There has to be a sort of betrayal in that, the terrible realization that the very one who should understand does not really understand, does not wholly understand, because that person has a different story to tell. No matter how much we wish it were so, no one ever really shares the same grief, for no one ever really shares the same life, not even the person lying beside you for the past 65 years.

We tell the story because we need others to hear it, we need others to listen. Kubler Ross teaches the importance of listening to all the times we tell the story, that if you listen for a while, but are no longer willing to listen that 10th, 17th, or even 36th time the one grieving needed to tell the story, you have actually negated the help, the value really, of the other times you listened. But listening repeatedly, especially when we do not understand the necessity of the repetition or the amount of repetition, is hard.

Again, it is merely my admittedly biased opinion, but I believe we are not always willing to listen to those stories of grief or loss or pain or illness because we do not really want to be in them. And it is difficult to continue to deny that natural tendency to insert ourselves into a story of which we want no part.

The story I wished not to listen to today is a story too close to mine, too harrowing for it made real the fears I have, the things I cannot seem to have anyone else hear. Except the person who watched me do so dismally on the cognitive assessment a year ago and the one who has spent the past year professionally listening to me and notices particularly the repetition of the questions I ask and how hard it is for me to grasp the things she is trying to teach me. Not because I am not trying. Not because I do not want to do so. But because of the neurological disease in my body, in my mind.

And it was harrowing because of it is about a disease I fear is yet to come to me, yet to be added to the list of things wrong with my body.

My father can no longer feed himself; he does not know what to do with the food before him. The fine mind that had him working on the first space shuttle program is no longer functioning even at a basic cognitive level. Its autonomic processes are continuing, but the thinking, the processing, the connecting is gone. I thought his mother was young when her mind fell victim to Alzheimer's in her late 80s. My father is just into his seventh decade. The leaving of his mind, however, has been a long time coming. He was/is young for this.

Many years ago, we went to Wal-Mart on one of our $5.50 DVD hunting trips. We always hung out at the $5.50 bin, but I would also check the $7.50 ones just in case there was a good find worth the extra money. This meant moving among the racks set up around the bin. That day, I had stepped away without my father noticing. I would like to say that I will never forget the abject fear on his face, the terror in his voice as he cried out for me. But I will. [At least it is here, in my external memory, for me to hold.] My father was lost and alone and disoriented. But this is not what haunts me. What I struggle to bear is the look on his face after he found me, realized where he was and what he was doing and becoming oriented once more. He knew what was had happened, what was happening to him. I suppose the blessing of Alzheimer's is when the patient moves beyond the knowing, when the patient forgets for all time that she is lost.

In psychological terms, what I receive when I try to tell the story of this particular loss is a Yes-But. [And, yes, I know I am well versed in that response myself.] Yes, but you are still so smart. Yes, but you are doing so well. Yes, but you look so good. To me, that is a denial, a rejection, and a dismissal of this very real, very harrowing battle that I am facing, a battle that is really but a small part of a larger war. A war I know I will inevitably, inexorably lose. Too young.

To me, there is an exquisite beauty in Streep's performance. It was a honor to see her wield the gift our Creator bestowed upon her. Her eyes, her hands. Micro movements and micro expressions. Harrowing ones, if you are willing to look. I wonder just how many will only look in passing, walking out of the theatre remembering the life Thatcher lived, rather than the life she is living right now.

Still, I would have rather I had been a bit smarter about seeing that movie. I wish that I had avoided it the way I have avoided the movie Momento. I was not ready for it. I am not ready for what is happening even now...especially because the wind is the only one listening to my story.

It should be a comfort for me that when I no longer remember that I am a child of Christ, He will remember for me. It is not. Not yet at least...I hope. I hope one day, before I am lost for all time, that I find comfort in that knowledge. For, now, I am still harrowed by the knowledge that if my cognitive function continues to decline in the manner in which I have experienced thus far, one day I will no longer even have that knowledge, that connection within my grasp.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Is there a happy medium...

2012-01-14T01:35:00.001-05:00

In the past six nights, I have had three migraines, three unbearable headaches, one scary episode of very low blood sugar, and one miserable episode of low blood pressure. Much of these nights also included trembling, sweating, nausea, and/or vomiting. In case you were wondering, I have not yet discovered the secret of being a suffering saint. I am wondering, at this point, if there is a happy medium between a godly example of a suffering saint and the disgrace of a miserable, wretched faithless sinner.

I have not had a nap in seven days either, so I am more exhausted than words can describe. I would proffer that I have done more work in the past seven days than in the past seven weeks. But perhaps that is a slight exaggeration.

Because my life is still that wild roller coaster ride, in the past few days, Amos fell down the full length of the main staircase and my visitor's tiny puppy was crushed in a very bad fall. Thankfully, it seems that she is going to survive.

Should I add that one trip to the emergency vet hospital meant a long slippery slide on snowy streets? Or perhaps I should mention that tonight I tried to commit puppy murder by hypothermia with a snow and ice encrusted Amos resulting from an insistence that he accomplish something outdoors his body was not yet ready to do? He seems to have forgiven me.

These days I'm actually in need of copious amounts of forgiveness. And grace. And mercy. SIGH.

Because I've been on my poor foot so much trying to be at least a decent host, Monday night I was in such agony that I broke down and purchased the better walking cast from Amazon.com. The progress in the healing of my foot had actually regressed some, with bits that shouldn't be moving starting to move around again and the aforementioned pain. While the jury is still out regarding the new walking cast, I will say that my foot is more stable than it has been since I smashed it back in September. Perhaps there is hope for my poor appendage, but I am fairly sure the light at the end of the tunnel is still a far ways off.

I would be remiss if I did not add that in the past five days I also had some delicious food, some generous help with cleaning, and some thoughtful additions to making my abode homier.

All in all, if you were to give me a report card on my current attempt at having a guest, I would probably receive a big fat F. I simply don't know how to rest and eat the way that I need to do so in order to deal with a body whose warranty has so obviously expired and still feel like I am being a proper host. I guess I need an instruction booklet on how to accomplish that successfully. Well, a booklet and probably many moons of study and practice. And sticky notes about the house. And several reminder timers in my iPod. SIGH.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Uncomfortable math...

2012-01-08T12:34:00.002-05:00

The other day, I picked up a retail value of prescriptions for three months totaling: $4,005 (rounded to the nearest dollar). Strangely, that included three generics, which I do not particularly care to take but do because of the cost. Come August 1st, my insurance ends and the $517 I paid in co-pays will rise to that retail amount. I simply will not be able to afford my medications.

I have been trying to find a reputable discount prescription plan, for a monthly fee would be worth it, given what I need. But most of what I have found have been ones with complaints and poor reviews. I checked out Wal-Marts $4 generic plan and two of my generics are not on it! I honestly do not know what I will do.

I have tried, from time to time, skipping some of my medication, just to see what I could go without. I was hoping, perhaps, the Singular since that is not a generic and is expensive. But missing a single dose leads me to waking up coughing and tipping over into an asthma attack. Since my asthma has been ever so much better here, I tried again last night. Same results. Lots of nebulizing needed for that bit of folly.

Celebrex is the single most expensive drug at $905, but without it I am completely non-functional with arthritic pain. Missing a single dose of that is enough to make me have thoughts of becoming a junkie. A second dose missed leaves me huddled on the floor. Really nothing else helps, but I suppose I could just take a prescription level of Ibuprophen and see if that takes the edge off of the pain enough to endure it. Naproxin, Aspirin, and Tylenol all do not touch the arthritis at all.

I was very dismayed to see that the generic of Imitrix, which is what I picked up, was only $100 less than the Celebrex. How can I keep taking the migraine medicine at that cost? Of course, if I still have migraines by August, I might just have thrown myself off a bridge somewhere and all of this would be moot thinking.

The Theohphylline is $485. Surely I cannot go back to fainting all the time. Though...perhaps I could since fainting does not hurt, per se, except for when I hit my head or something else. I have this at the top of my list of what I might possibly skip.

The other wildly expensive--in my opinion--generic is Acarbose. It is $492. However, unregulated blood sugar is probably not an option. I wonder if I ate only protein, avoided every sugar and carbohydrate known to man, if I could go without this prescription. Of course, we know how much will power I have. Would I ever be able to manage that?

Probably the most likely candidate to skip is the Lipitor, which just had its patent end. However, that generic was $433. In my opinion, that really is not so much savings there for taking a generic. This I take actually for MS, but I have terribly low good cholesterol, so its benefits are multiplied in me. And I do come from a generational history of heart disease.

I know that I have seven more months before this is a problem, but it is one I have struggled not to worry about since I first lost my job and the COBRA clock started ticking. It is one thing to just eschew doctor's appointments and try to avoid as much medical care as possible. It is a completely different thing to not take the medications that make my life as endurable as it is.

Yes, in the middle of last night, while nebulizing, I sat in front of the computer and looked at the math. No matter how I try to make it work out, it does not. Even if I went back to fainting and gave up the Lipitor as well, I still cannot afford the over $3,000 left.

Is it not insane that only one of my medications is less than a month's mortgage payment? Or put it this way, I could pay my mortgage for ten months for the retail cost of prescriptions I carried home this week.

It is not that I do not believe that God cares for me, but I cannot see this kind of money coming my way...$16,000 or so a year for prescriptions alone dropping in my lap. Having worked my whole life--apart from those periods of unemployment--and having had health insurance my entire existence, I cannot fathom the life I will be beginning come August. [It is hard enough to swallow the end of unemployment without a single nibble to any of the resumes I sent out in the hope there could be a job for me.] And I cannot see a way out of this mess.

I truly would have no real quality of life without the prescriptions and trying to pay them will drain my very meager retirement funds, which I will be losing a significant portion to early withdrawal penalties, in just a short time.

Math was never my favorite subject. These days I loathe it.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Roller Coasters...

2012-01-07T14:45:00.002-05:00

With the Imitrix, I do have some time that is headache free, but only respites. Since the directions seem pretty specific about how much and how often you can take the medication, I am also still trying the extra strength aspirin and ice packs, the combination most recommended by others who have battled hormonal migraines. And, yes, I am still that rather base form of myself. Truly, I never would have thought that migraines would be so much worse than anything I have experienced.

It would be a gross understatement to say that I am exhausted. I sleep in spurts, awaking to stumble down stairs for a fresh ice pack or for more pieces of this ginger candy that I found on line. To say that it is strong would be another gross understatement. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I do believe that it is helping my nausea. So much so that instead of ordering another bag or two, I took the far, far more economical route over the long term and ordered a case of bags. So, should you visit me, you are required to consume at least one. That way, everyone in the house has the same...strong...breath!

I have not really done all that well on increasing my water intake, all liquids for that matter. Is it possible to be too tired to drink? I have not really done all that well in transitioning to 6-8 small meals a day. However, I have significantly reduced the amount of what I eat each time that I eat. Yes, the glutton in me is finding that rather difficult to do. And when I have had a more normal sized meal while eating out, I have not eaten again afterwards. I will say that I have not had an early morning writhing in agony session since Sunday, I believe. I have had two uncomfortable and nauseous times, but those were much more manageable. Perhaps I should have realized that I need to make a much slower transition, need to give myself more grace. Perhaps I should allow that it is okay for me to struggle not merely against the change in eating but the necessity of doing so and the future that most likely awaits me and my innards.

Aside from that future, I am worried about the immediate future. In less than a day, my guest will be here and not a smidge more cleaning has been done. Nary a wipe or sweep or scrub.

SIGH.

My pastor talked with me about names the other day. I would give most anything in the world to have his words written, but, alas, he was speaking about something that was on his mind, not a sermon he had written. So...fair warning...another butchering the sweet, sweet Gospel is forthcoming.

He was thinking about names. Names, he said, establish a relationship and an identity. They form a bond, a connection, between people, especially between the one who gives the name and the one who receives it. So...don't laugh at my appalling ignorance, but he asked me if I knew what Jesus means. I told him that if I ever did, I do not now. He told me that Jesus means: He saves.

I then asked him if Christ meant anything. He told me that it was not a name, but a title, a proclamation of Jesus' status: His royal lineage, a king.

So, my pastor was thinking about the fact that in our baptism, Jesus gives us His name. He places His name upon us and, by doing so, establishes this relationship, this bond, this identity. We are family. We are family to the One who saves. And in giving us His name, He also gives us His status: We are Christians. We are royalty.

So, when I call upon the name of Jesus, I am both asking for salvation and proclaiming that I have been given salvation because He is the one who saves...saves all...saves me. When I identify myself as a Christian, I am proclaiming that I am royalty because of the relationship established when Jesus placed His name upon me.

Upon the sinner.
Upon the one who wails and worries.
Upon the one who struggles to believe, to accept the wonder, the miracle of every for you of the sweet, sweet Gospel might also be for me.

I have written why I gave Amos his name. Thinking about what my pastor said, in giving him the name I chose, I was establishing a relationship and identity for him. He is my beloved puppy dog and he is a gift from the One who promises that there will one day be a time when the plowman will overtake the reaper and when the mountains will drip sweet wine. He is a tangible, daily, loving reminder of the promises of God.

The name of Jesus is a tangible, daily, loving reminder of the promises of God. How is a name tangible? Because not only did Jesus give the sound, the knowledge of His name, but He gives His very body and blood, the tangible embodiment of His name, each and every time we come to the altar...or the altar comes to us.

I hate roller coasters. If you know me, you know this. I avoid them, would never venture upon them at a theme park. Yet I live on not one but many: digestion, blood sugar, hormones/emotions, and now migraines. And it has been firmly established that I am no suffering saint. I do not have my first act be to call upon the name of Jesus. Truly, it is my fifth or sixth act. I tremble and shake in fear. I drown in misery. I despair over how I will face the next minute, much less the next day or month or year. I castigate myself for my lack of faith. But at the beginning, middle, and end of my wild, horrid ride, there exists within me a great longing for the Living Word, particularly the words of the Psalms in my ears, poured over me and spoken to me.

This is not because I am a suffering saint. It is because I was given the name of Jesus. It is because of a relationship established by Jesus, not me. Established by the God who established the convenant with Abraham, not Abraham. Established by the God who came to man, not man to Him. Established by the God who lived and died and rose again to save man, a sinful man incapable of saving himself.

It is not me, but Jesus.
It is Jesus, not me.
Jesus for me.
Even on roller coasters.
Even in my weakness.
Even when I am my basest self.

Because given to me is the name of Jesus. The One who saves. Active. Certain. Promised. The One who saves, not the One who might save. The One who saves me!

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

May it last...

2012-01-06T13:34:00.001-05:00

Christ be praised!

At the moment, I am headache free, though still groggy from my "cure." The surgeon called in Imitrex for me yesterday evening. The first dose did not stop the pain, and so I took a second dose. You are only allowed four doses per headache. I was already worrying about that. Then the muscle cramps set in, a side effect of the Imitrex, which resulted in more weeping and wailing on my part, along with heaping amounts of despair. Then, I thought perhaps a Zanax might help, since a single dose basically knocks me out and leaves me groggy for nearly 24 hours. I finally fell asleep and managed 5 hours of uninterrupted rest. [Though, I did have this rather disturbing dream where I left Amos behind at the house alone while I took a bunch of low-income girls camping for a week at a cabin some wealthy person let us use. We ate French toast for every meal.] I awoke four more times after that spate of rest, but I slept most of the time between 12:30 a.m. and 11:30 a.m., which has helped my perspective move a bit away from the gutter where it has been.

Yes, muck and mire have been covering all my thoughts.

Last night, I managed to successfully make the rice pilaf packet I purchased. It required sauteing the mixture in butter first and then cooking it in a sauce pan with a lid. I was very thankful, at that moment, that a few years ago my mother purchased two sauce/frying pans for me, both of which have glass lids. This was the first time I used one. When I moved, I actually contemplated donating them. Thankfully, I held on to them! There was one bad moment when I couldn't remember if I had put one or two cups of water in, but I guess correctly when I thought the liquid looked only to be about a cups worth. I need some sort of counter I can use when measuring things so that I am not relying on my brain. Making the pilaf, even though it was a mix, was hard work for me!

So, around 10:00 last night, I had a 1/3 of a chicken breast and a small bowl of rice. Incidentally, that is what I had for breakfast today. [Sadly, my latest batch of grilled chicken is all gone now.] The rice did not seem to bother my innards, nor did I have my early morning writhing episode. I suppose you could say that this is thanks to my sister and my mother!

A part of me wants to race to the store to get more of the rice packets. But since I made two trips to Target for prescriptions in the span of just two hours, I am more inclined to engage in a thorough investigation of how it feels to lounge in the GREEN chair without having a migraine.

In case you were wondering, rice flour is NOT a good substitute for flour in deserts. I had purchased these oatmeal cinnamon bars that are gluten free, having oats, rice flour, and soy in them. They were iced and everything, but eating one was like eating oatmeal flavored cardboard. I mentioned the culinary debacle to Sandra and she suggested Amos might not object to them. She is probably right. I shall have to investigate that, maybe see if they could become training treats or something.

Of course, that would mean I need to actually train him some more. You know I keep waiting for Sandra to do it for me since she is the greatest Alpha Dog I have ever met!

Amos is very much enjoying the new mattress. At this point, I am wondering if we need a larger bed...not that I would do such a thing. He has this decided preference for the middle of the bed. And somehow he has this strange ability to stretch himself out much, much longer than he actually is. I find it to be a fascinating phenomenon. I mean, if you look at him on the ground, for example, you would never have suspected he would have been able to get the butter off the counter like he did.

While you cannot really see it, I am off to the side on the left, lying on a mere sliver of mattress. What you can partially see is that he has a paw holding on to his Flower Baby as he sleeps. See the stem sticking up beside his head?

The plain white cotton blanket next to him is how I try to keep warm. I wrap myself up like a burrito to try and trap some body heat when the chills begin and then pile more blanket atop me.

It is very strange for me right now. I am fearful this non-headache-pain-free existence is not going to last. Yet I am also marveling how much better life is without the agonizing explosions going on inside my skull.

Ethel has been in pain. Would you pray for her as you have prayed for me?

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Not quite yet...

2012-01-05T20:34:00.001-05:00

I still cannot really tell you about the mattress, for my head still very much objects to its presence in this world. Right now, so do I.

A short while ago, Sandra went to Target with me via Sprint while I picked up a new prescription for migraines that does not have caffeine in it. Here's hoping that although you are to take it at the onset, the medication still might have a positive effect.

Sandra had a good idea about my failure over drinking water: Koolaid. I had but two options, either cherry or grape, so I bought three packets of cherry. I also bought a pitcher since I actually do not have one. I was pleased that there was a glass one with a green top left over from Christmas for just $5. That's my kind of price point. I am trying an experiment, though. I did not put any sugar in the Koolaid. The cherry stuff is kind of strong. So, I am wondering if just the flavoring alone will suffice...if ice cold. Many drinks are tastier, in my opinion, if they are ice, ice, ice, ice cold. Just short of actual freezing is good to me! Plus, any drink out of a container with GREEN in it will most certainly be good.

I also picked up some cranberry juice, the tart, plain stuff. I forget that I like to have a small hit of that. If I were to drink some cranberry juice, double my Gatorade, and drink perhaps two cups of cherry water, then I would have made a significant step forward. I also thought I should get back to drinking tea, since I actually know how to properly brew the stuff. It is just that I forget these things...cranberry juice and tea...that I could be doing that would be less work when it comes to changing my intake to a mixture that is easier on my broken innards.

My sister also had a good idea for how to get more sodium, since I really am failing at that, too. She suggested those flavored rice packets. [Surely I couldn't ruin those, right?] Now, as a youth, I had so much rice in my life that some time around 30 or so, one day I awoke and realized that if I never had another grain before I died, I would still have a great culinary life. From then on, no rice for me was my M.O.

Perhaps this long hiatus will make rice more palatable to me. But, in any case, my sister pointed out that those rice mixes are very high in sodium, yet not overly salty in taste. You see, I cannot just douse my food in salt. I spent most of my adult life not even cooking with salt. Unless a food is supposed to be salty, such as bacon, I truly struggle with the taste of salted food. So, I really do need that stealth sodium...such as that most wonderful Panera salad that has 1320 mgs in it! Even a Taco Bell bean burrito has 1,100 mgs, I believe. In any case, I could have rice with my grilled chicken as an alternative to having potatoes.

I have been rather morose, extremely grumpy, and downright discouraged. Frankly, I am a bit appalled at how poor a migraine patient I am. I honestly do have a high tolerance for pain, except for, as it turns out, pain in my head. Even Amos is getting tired of me.

I would really, really, really, really, really, really like a bit of relief....

Perhaps it is ending...

2012-01-04T20:13:00.003-05:00

The migraine is over, but I still have this lingering headache. I am hoping that by tonight it will be gone, gone, gone.

I cannot say for sure how sleeping on the mattress was or will be, rather. I forgot my breath right strip--which is very unusual for me--so I did not sleep overly much between that and the headache. However, while sleeping on both sides, I did not have pain in my arms. I suppose you could say that I am a bit hopeful. I have 30 days to decide if I want to keep the mattress.

Amos LOVES it.

I have company coming on Sunday, so the house needs to be cleaned. I am rather fatigued after the agony of a three days running migraine, however. Today, I cleaned the main stair case (the steps get dirty even though I do not use them), took out all the recycling that had accumulated on the back steps, washed, dried, folded, and put away three loads of laundry, and dusted my bedroom ceiling fan. I have been seriously contemplated polishing the silver (it really needs it), but that is a standing job for me and standing for long periods hurts so much and makes me even more tired.

So, right now, I am ignoring the silver and enjoying a fire, hoping against hope that I might have enough of a respite from pain in my head to actually sleep this evening.

Before Sunday, I would like to:

clean the bathrooms (including the basement sink and toilet)
clean the floors (sweep, vacuum, and steam mop)
dust...well...everything
give Amos a bath
polish the silver
scrub the kitchen sink
dump ashes down the chute in the fireplace

Doesn't that make you tired just reading those chores? It sure does me writing them. Too bad I cannot train Amos to clean. About all he does pre-clean dishes for me. He is particularly skilled at pre-cleaning the crusty stuff left over from chicken enchiladas.

DEEP SIGH.

And more...

2012-01-03T23:28:00.000-05:00

Last night was truly the worst I have ever experienced. Even trying to find a comfortable spot for my head on a down pillow felt as if I was lying against concrete. And it felt as if any moment it was going to explode from the pressure building inside. Inside. Outside. Pain all over. Specific. Diffuse. Agony. I do not know how anyone lives with regular migraines.

Tonight, I am better, though my headache is still here. For a while, I had hoped the easing and other symptoms meant that it was passing. However, heat and aspirin, two suggested remedies, have not really banished this foe that has felled me so low.

So low.

The miracle mattress arrived today. Perhaps, my high hopes for better sleep will not be misplaced. Perhaps.

I wish I were stronger. I wish...truly...my cry was more faithful than desperate.

Lord, have mercy...even as I begged for my life to have ended last night...even as I did not think I could make it one minute past 4:30 a.m. today...even as watching the clock turn round again was no victory for hanging on when I was sure I could not.

Christ, have mercy...even as I am frightened for the support I have lost right now...even as I stand alone facing battles on so many sides and something I fear will fell me further.

Lord, have mercy...even as I head up the stairs in fear, terrified at the thought of another battle of pain or nausea or both....even as wish for a moment free from this wretched body of mine...even as I cannot imagine that You created it for good for me.

In sin, I deserve the agony. In sin, I deserve the nausea. In sin, I deserve the fear. Yet I beg for mercy...even if that mercy is merely the grace to endure another night.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

One of the great mysteries of the universe...

2012-01-02T22:19:00.000-05:00

Why is snow ever so much better than wet grass?

Amos, my darling puppy, is just plain terrified of wet grass. I find great humor, at times, watching how he tries to stand on just two feet whilst looking about for a place to do his business. Even funnier is how he will straddle the corner where the sidewalk turns so that he can do his business in the grass but keep all four paws off of it. He will even take a running start to leap from the sidewalk to the mulch in the flower bed closest to the sidewalk. Of course, as his puppy momma, I also look upon with great sympathy, wishing the experience were not so agonizing for my beloved puppy.

But riddle me this: how is it that wet grass is the worst thing on the planet while snow is the absolute best?

Amos frolicked about the back yard tonight for nearly an hour before I could get him to come back inside. [I had no desire to run around through the snow to scoop him up.] He chases imaginary playmates all over the place, leaping and bounding from spot to spot. He buries his face in the snow and flicks great big clumps in the air and tries to catch them in his mouth. Truly, not one inch of the back yard is marked by unbroken snow at this point...even though the snow fell just this afternoon Wagging his tail quite vigorously, Amos takes utter delight in the snow-covered grass. His joy is rather infectious.

Wet grass is cold.
Snowy grass is even colder and is at least equally wet.
Wouldn't you surmise that a puppy who would do ANYTHING to avoid stepping on wet grass would eschew all contact with snowy grass?

A veritable mystery.

Something I wish I had more of...

2012-01-02T20:35:00.001-05:00

Patience.

Day two of a constant migraine. Taking Tylenol, ibuprofen, aspirin, or naproxen has no effect.

Eating was better yesterday. Today I will not know about until tomorrow, especially since I dared eat pasta with my grilled chicken. I was wondering if angel hair pasta with lemon and garlic Alfredo sauce might have curative properties if consumed in small quantities.

[By the way, if you grill chicken when it is in the low 20s and snowing outside, you need to add to your cooking time.]

Yesterday, I had four smaller meals, but the same things I am used to eating. I have doubled my usual Gatorade intake, but am still failing at drinking more water. Ugh.

I started both days with a protein fest: bacon and fried eggs. Maybe that is key, eh? Starting each day with bacon?

The headache is wearing on my attitude. Truly, I would be wailing and stomping my feet at this point except that I am fairly certain doing so would make my head hurt worse. The only thing that has marginally helped has been ice packs. The blasted things keep melting though. One might begin to wonder if I am hot-headed!

Poor Amos. Having been pushed away from my torso so much in bed of late, he has taken to curling up around my head on the pillow. Of course, I don't want him touching my head either. He tells me he is confused. I reply that he is not the only one. It is rather sweet how much he's wanting to comfort me.

Patience.
And mercy.

I could use them both.

I am yours, Lord. Save me!

Lord, have mercy...

2012-01-01T02:09:00.001-05:00

I get to start the new year with my blood sugar crashing, quite ill and afraid. I suppose I should instead write that I get to start the new year calling upon my God for mercy?

I thought I did better today. I was greatly mistaken.

Meal 1
custard dish of potato wedges (plain, no sauce)
sauce dish of dried fruit (bananas, cherries, and blueberries)
salt dish of sunflower seeds
Gatorade

Meal 2
custard dish of chopped grilled, herbed chicken with a bit of mayo and lemon juice
sauce dish of baked cracker chips
Dr Pepper

Meal 3
custard dish of spinach and artichoke dip
cereal bowl of tortilla chips
tea

Meal 4
1/2 Scotch egg
small wedge of pound cake
water

After the third meal, I started to feel incredibly full and uncomfortable. I waited three hours instead of two before eating again. By the time late evening rolled around, I crawled into bed early (for me), with my abdomen quite distended and extraordinarily uncomfortable, and eschewed all thoughts of any celebrating of the new year.

Now, a couple of hours into it, I am trying to figure out what in the world made me ill and why my blood sugar plummeted. Again, it was rather low before I put 2 and 2 together because I was already feeling quite ill. When I realized I was nearly two weak to make from the bathroom back to the bed because I was trembling so much and highly anxious and my cold spell had turned to sweating, a lightening bolt of understanding struck me and I raced downstairs to the kitchen for my meter. Seriously, I am stupid. I should have just used my basket in my bedroom. There is no need, really, for me to measure my blood sugar at these times.

I grabbed a Gingerale (I need to purchase some juice) and sunflower seeds (I am certain I did NOT have enough sodium this day) and then, once I was feeling less like the world was fading away, I had some applesauce.

Now, I am waiting for all that horrible combination of overwhelming dread and fear and anxiety and trembling and weakness and sweating to completely pass so that I might try, at last, to fall asleep.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Finally finished...

2011-12-31T13:44:00.001-05:00

The attic floor is done...for now. Eventually, I would like to do one more round of orange oil, but that would take one more trip to the floor. And, well, the last batch of black rags are still sitting in the laundry sink for me to rinse and clean. I am leaving them for another day, since today's "final" effort was to vacuum both the floor and the rugs. Does not my attic floor now look rather wonderful?

In case you have forgotten the beginning of this arduous project, below is a set of progress photos from just one angle. The steps were: 1) remove all the old rugs and carpets; 2) sweep 3) scrub, scrub, scrub; 4) two rounds of orange oil; and 5) vacuum everything once more. Along the way, I also completed my goal for reducing my stuff in the attic by about two-thirds of the volume I had up there. I accomplished this through: 1) donating; 2) recycling; 3) redistribution in the basement; and 4) trash.

I am very pleased with how this project turns out. Amos is even more pleased that he can now join me in the attic once more should I venture up there!

Total project cost: $16.24 to purchase new supplies, a bottle of vinegar already on hand, 10 laundry loads of washing blackened rags (used for scrubbing the floor after the new sponge mop head died), four trips to donation centers (including donated items from the basement), and 18 sessions of labor.

Life as I knew it...

2011-12-30T19:52:00.002-05:00

I have been on a roller coaster ride in the last 24 hours, yet even so I have had a rather large heaping of mercy dolled out as well. As much as I have despaired, I know that I am a much beloved sheep of the Good Shepherd.

I feel as if I escaped one prison only to find myself jailed in another mere weeks later. It seems as if, despite the freedom hormones have given to my body, my body has been most ungrateful for the reprieve. Or, perhaps, with one battle down, the ongoing progress of the war was inevitable...inexorable, really. My innards. SIGH.

Over the past few weeks, I have had increasing episodes of a strange nausea wherein I have great abdominal pain and nausea. Any clothing, even a t-shirt, feels like a thousand pounds is resting upon my torso. In the wee hours of the morning, I am awakened by the pain and nausea and am forced to ride it out for hours. Hours. Amos has not really enjoyed these battles as well, since I cannot bear to have him even touching my side at such times. He doesn't understand why I keep pushing him away. Poor little faithful puppy who is only trying to comfort me.

It is been a puzzle, really, trying to figure out what I ate that was so wrong. This is especially so when I have the same thing several meals in a row and sometimes it is okay and sometimes it is not. Well, now I know that what I suspected was actually what was happening. I even know now why it was that the final four of my 13 sessions of scrubbing the attic floor made me inexplicably nauseous.

Actually, I now know that I was right when I thought the terrible bout of food poisoning triggered the start of the problems dysautonomia can wreak on a digestive system. Lying in bed rather ill, I once again tried Googling dysautonomia information and came across two sites I had not previously found. There, splashed across the screen, were all the things I have been battling, things I thought so weird and the reasons why I was experiencing them.

Truth be told, I have known from the initial diagnosis that I needed to change my eating life. The cardiologist was so adamant about hydration and sodium and eating 6-8 meals a day. But you cannot really work and eat that way...at least the frequency. I simply didn't want to face it. The sodium, yes, but I truly dislike water and eating 6-8 meals a day is a dramatic life change.

When I saw the neurologist last November, I really did not understand his utter disbelief when I answered in the negative about any digestive problems. He repeatedly asked about them, giving examples I had forgotten until now. Until now. He knew what was coming and, I supposed, found it to be a gift of some sort the fainting and cold spells were my main dysautonomia issues.

I still cannot write about the information dump that occurred last night, a horrific revelation of what lies before me, especially if I continue to ignore the need for a complete attitude adjustment about changing how I eat and being far more careful about what I eat. As in...feeding tubes. I remain overwhelmed, even as I remain relieved to have my weird innards issues described so accurately by doctor and patient alike.

As much as I wish not to do so, here and now I am asking those who know me to help me and to hold me accountable to the changes I need to make. The first round include: 6-8 small meals; 2 glasses of water a day; an additional glass of Gatorade a day; gluten at only one of the meals; and dairy at no more than 2 of the meals. I have known that I can only eat breads when I have far more protein, but apparently dairy can be hard to digest as well. That puzzles me, but still I am going to try. I will say that if I have the chance to eat out with company, I will give myself the grace to have a more regular sized meal. However, I need BIG changes and these will make a good start.

All the things that sound weird and do not fit with tests and such are all very, very typical of a neurological disease that affects the autonomic process of digestion. I suppose, in a way, I am quite thankful for all the fainting. For those whose digestive system is the first primary symptom, a veritable mass of tests come their way, all with non-specific results and often mis-diagnoses (such as irritable bowel syndrome) before finally discovering they have one or more of the four classes of dysautonomia (I have POTS and NCS). So, I am blessed, really, to already have the diagnosis and thus understand better what is happening. Still, it is just plain crappy.

In my opinion, dysautonomia is far, far, far worse than multiple sclerosis.

I suppose a small part of me was relieved to find a few things familiar, aside from my innards battle: extremely cold extremities (including my nose) when battling a body temperature drop, brain fog, losing the ability to concentrate, and increase in fatigue. I was also relieved to see so many who said things like seemingly one week they could do things/eat things and the next week they could not. I was not aware, as well, just how strongly great stress can aggravate dysautonomia. [You are probably right, Fred, about your connection between the worsening and the fear of what I have to face soon.] Yet the bottom line, for me, is that I am absolutely overwhelmed by all that I learned last night.

Overwhelmed and wanting to stamp my foot on the ground and shout with my whole being: This isn't fair!

This morning, I was really struggling and God, in His infinite mercy, blessed me through the words and compassion of Fred, who even as an undershepherd understands how much I want to throw a fit about this. Truly, talking with him helped me take the first swallow of what I think is a great, bitter draft of fetid brew. And, mercy overflowing, a friend here had already agreed to help me go mattress shopping today.

I had done a fair amount of research online and chose three stores to visit. But I also suspected that, if what I had read was even marginally true, a first stop at Denver Mattress Company might result in one-stop shopping. It did. Seriously, if you are in need of a mattress, high-tail it over there. If you are in Fort Wayne, ask for Daniel. During the time he spent with us, I honestly felt he desired to give me the best sleeping solution possible--not a sales pitch--no matter how long it took the right one.

Walking in, I had very firm ideas about what I did and did not want. However, highly trained and a very good listener, Daniel steered me toward a mattress that I believe will make a profound difference in how well I sleep. Tuesday cannot come soon enough for me! [Since I have an appointment that might fall in the delivery window, once assigned to me, my friend volunteered to stay at my house while I am gone in case the truck comes. What a merciful offer!]

Being able to share the experience, having someone to lie with me on mattress after mattress and talk through the differences in them, was a great blessing. Being with someone gentle and kind was an even greater blessing. Truly this was a much easier process with her presence.

She also introduced me to a restaurant that I am rather miffed no one has dragged me to yet: Mad Anthony's. It was there I had a final farewell to my current way of life. Being the ever supportive friend, my companion allowed me to order three appetizers and a sandwich to split with her: 1) Scotch eggs--these hard-boiled eggs encrusted with sausage and bread crumbs and flash fried dipped in a ranch sauce; 2) seasoned wedge fries dipped in a cucumber sauce; 3) a thick spinach and artichoke dip with tri-colored chips; and 4) the absolute most decadent sandwich I have ever had in my life--a grilled cheese sandwich that had fresh mozzarella, fresh spinach, roasted red peppers, applewood smoked bacon, and some sort of jam served on a sour dough bread. On cooking shows, I have heard people talk about an explosion of flavors, but have never experienced such a thing until now. Plus, Mad Anthony's has games to play at your table and serves Dr Pepper! From now on, if someone wants to treat me, I shall drag them over there!!!!

We did bring home many left-overs, but I also ate too much. And I forgot to take Acarbose before I ate (Boy, do I sure hope that there was enough protein to balance out the carbohydrates I consumed). SIGH.

Last night, I learned the mechanics of why it is that I need to eat multiple small meals a day. I suppose I wish I had restrained myself a bit more. However, today I had a true culinary feast the likes of which I have not experienced in a long, long time, and, if I am responsible, will never consume again. The true test will be if I can summon enough determination to spread my leftovers out across at least two days. I have two helpings of eggs, two helpings of spinach and artichoke dip, and one helping of potatoes...if I move forward with the wholesale-commitment-to-small-meals vow.

The worst part of what I read was the constant refrain of how unpredictable dysautonomia digestive issues are, how life becomes as if one is constantly riding on a roller coaster. Words cannot express how much my heart, mind, body, and soul felt crushed by learning of this...even though it is something I have been beginning to experience of late.

In so very many ways, my life has completely changed. Just as I manage to adjust to one radical shift in direction, I am bumped and turned in an utterly different one. My mind is screaming This is too much! Yet even as I am felled by such a mighty blow as the stark reality this still new disease will be in my life--an ever-unfolding nightmare if I may be so bold to say--I was cushioned by the shock with the mercy and compassion given to me by Fred and my friend. And I found what very well may be the most perfect mattress for my rather beleaguered body.

The woman who has been helping me work through things said recently that a proper diagnosis of any medical or mental problem is most beautiful to her, for it means that you then have the reasons thereof and can make a plan. Even if it is hard, harsh diagnosis, having an answer is a great blessing. She is right. Though my diagnosis came nearly 18 months ago, only now have I even begun to understand what it means. Having it, however, made my search for answers as I writhed in agony last night almost easy. Finally finding the right search terms let me know that I am not alone in this, I am not unusual at all, and that while there is no cure or even direct treatment, there are choices--better choices--that I can begin to make. And, being armed with the knowledge of where this very well might go, I will not be blindsided by a future that truly does appear to be rather bleak.

Fred reminded me of something this morning: Gethsemane. Even knowing what He faced, even choosing to be born into a human body so that He might accomplish the salvation of God's beloved creation, Jesus struggled mightily with the path before Him. It struck me today that this very well might be because He was in a human body with a human mind. Though Jesus is infinite, He chose to live for a time in the finite. Our bodies and minds are very finite, very limited. We cannot blithely pass through trials and tribulations as if they have no impact upon our person. Nor can we expect to face such an agonizing experience without pausing, without struggling against the very idea of it, and without wishing somehow it might pass from us.

Oh, how I am struggling with the knowledge of what lies before me.
Oh, how I tremble at the thought of what I must endure.
Oh, how I wish this battle with my innards...and the fainting...and the cold...I must face for the rest of my life would pass.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

The problem with orange sweet rolls...

2011-12-29T23:24:00.002-05:00

The problem with orange sweet rolls as a coping mechanism against the abject loneliness of a holiday season when all around you are wrapped up in their own families, highlighting your own loneliness, is that when you cook said orange sweet roll being alone means that you are the only one to eat all eight of them. And, if you happen to be the sort of person who somehow lost every bit of will power she once possessed, that means eating all eight of them will make you ill, plummet your blood sugar, and leave you feeling even more lonely as you huddle on the floor before the refrigerator, shoving protein and sugar in your mouth as you wait for the sweating and tremors and weakness and anxiety to pass.

Ding Dongs, it turns out, actually do make a better coping mechanism. You see, Hostess must have some inkling of sympathy for folk who misplaced their will power because the company individually wraps each and every Ding Dong, making gluttony more difficult as one has to work harder at eating a second and a third or even a fourth one. Orange sweet rolls just sit there in the pan, calling out for consumption as they begin to grow cold and harden the longer they are out of the oven because they know they are lose more and more of their awesomeness every minute that passes.

Forks and spoons...

2011-12-27T23:41:00.000-05:00

I have not shied away from writing how conflicted I am at Christmas, the commercialism of it all, the season it has become. The parties and food and visits. So many despair of the busyness of the season and all the things they have to do and I scratch my head. We don't have to do anything. Christmas is not about that. Not at all.

So many individuals and families go deep into debt chasing after giving the perfect gifts. Heck, it seems much of our economy revolves around the retail activity of the season, from Black Friday to post-Christmas sales. For me, such a thought brings such deep sorrow to my heart. For that is not what Christmas is about.

However, as I have also said before, I love receiving gifts. I would by lying if I did not mention that again. This year, this Christmas, I am very thankful to have received gift cards that will enable me to purchase a small shop vac as an alternative way to cleaning the basement and main floors and allow me to no longer carry my vacuum cleaner up and down the stairs. I am also thankful for the money that I used to replace my primary shoes that had broken soles and purchase two new sweaters since I am now living in a colder climate--ones that actually fit, given that I shrunk out of most of my clothing! And I am thankful for a generous contribution toward getting a new mattress to replace the one I purchased for me back in 1995, something that should help me sleep better. These are a sampling of the gifts I received this year.

But, honestly, I think the most Christmas of gifts that I received were a bag of plastic spoons and the promise of forks to follow. Panera spoons and McDonald's forks. Ethel, learning of the utensils that best fit my needs, set out on a quest to get me some. A couple of donations later, she made my life truly better.

Jesus came not to steal, to kill, or to destroy, but so that we might have life and have it abundantly (John, 10:10). To me, while it is certainly no sin to enjoy the good things of this life, the kind of gift I think of when I think of a Christmas gift truly is a bag of plastic spoons and a box of plastic forks. Not just any type of spoon and fork, but the very ones that fit my hands and my mouth best, that are easiest for me to use. Eating is more palatable, more enjoyable, a richer, fuller experience for me when I use them.

Frankly, I would never have thought to ask for a donation of spoons and forks. I would always bring one home when I went to Panera or McDonald's, but eating out is really not all that much of an option after 13 months of unemployment. However, I wouldn't have ever thought a manager would be willing to share extras without eating there. To be honest, I would never have thought I was worth a donation. I mean, I can eat with metal utensils and I can purchase plastic ware from Target or Walmart, even if they are not the best fit. I am not worthy of a donation. Not at all.

I was not, am not, worthy of any of the gifts of Christmas, the gifts of Christ's birth, life, death, and resurrection. They are given because I am loved beyond measure, cherished more than I can fathom. They are given out of a desire that I might have an abundant life. But, still, I think who am I to receive good gifts? After all, I know what a wretched sinner I am. I wish I didn't know just how wretched I am.

Yet Ethel sees not only the wretch. She sees me as the bride of Christ, one robed in splendor, pure and without blemish...one certainly worthy of good gifts. She sees me not as I do. I would never think to ask. Ethel's first thought was to ask. If there is something that is helpful to me, something that would make my life more abundant after a fashion, her wish is for me to have such a thing showered upon me.

I opened the package from Fred and Ethel, pulled out the bag of spoons, and laughed with joy. In that moment, once again, I was reminded how my Creator knows my needs and seeks to meet those needs through others of His creation...even when I do not think to ask...even when my heart's desire is not spoken. I was reminded that He does so because I am loved and cherished, because in Christ I am pure and without blemish.

Forks and spoons are the things of Christmas. I know this to be true even if the world does not.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

Once in a blue moon...

2011-12-24T17:12:00.001-05:00

Admiring your work in a prideful way is not always such a bad thing. By this I mean, if you were out of vinegar for cleaning your attic floor and dish washing soap for your kitchen and were loathing a trip to the store and you were in the middle of admiring your organizing work in the basement after moving the cloths from the washer to the dryer and noticed a bottle of vinegar and a bottle of dish washing soap in your overflow shelf for supplies just waiting for you, then that bit of pride is not so bad, eh? Once in a blue moon, that is.

Of course, that means there is no excuse to skip the day's session of attic floor cleaning. And, well, it would be better if you could remember that you had such supplies yourself.

Supplies and toothpaste. Someone I know might possibly have four spare tubes of toothpaste at the moment because she keeps forgetting she has it and instead has this nagging feeling that she's out of toothpaste each time she is at the store.

Idiots never read the instruction manual...

2011-12-24T13:45:00.000-05:00

So, I used the other half of the can of Easy-Off and have been scrubbing away for an hour. All that effort revealed two words on the bottom of the oven, which are a part of a longer message: "clean" and "manual."

I do have the manual.
I never read it.
Yes.
I am an idiot.

This GE Americana stove was state-of-the-art in its time. The thing even has a built-in meat-thermometer and a built-in rotating spit, along with other extra special tools I have yet to figure out. The reason only the bottom oven has a Clean Mode is that the panels in the top oven are designed to be pulled out and placed in the bottom oven for cleaning.

I repeat.
I am an idiot.

SIGH

Will wonders ever cease...

2011-12-24T12:33:00.001-05:00

Golly gee wilikers! I must not be the only one who has problems with nearly destroying the bottom of her oven! There are an array of folk out there selling the very solution to my problem: oven liners! You place one of these non-stick rectangles into the bottom of your oven and just wipe up all your spills. Truly, will wonders ever cease?!?

Do you think there is an easy solution out there for people who tend to cook more charcoal meals in their ovens than edible ones????

Reducing victory...

2011-12-23T21:45:00.000-05:00

Today, I finished tackling the attic/basement reducing and organizing. By that I mean that I reached my goal of having just one section of stuff in the attic and all the office and teaching supplies in the basement, where I might eventually bring myself to reduce them further. Doing so meant that I had to reduce the basement by two more boxes. I have included two sets of before-and-after photos below.

Here you can see that this section of the attic is now completely empty. You can also see my progress on cleaning the floor.

The strip all the way to the left is where the boxes were, so it is completely filthy. The strip at the top is actually clean, but it has not been treated with orange oil the way that the bulk of this section of the floor has been. The light colored board at the top is a section that had been replaced. I would like to stain it, but really I need a better piece of wood there. Aren't the floors looking rather nice???

Here you can see what is left of my attic "stuff." I rotated the storage bins so that I could add the two clear bins, the printer, the box of books, and the ceiling fan box to this section. One of the smaller green bins has the paperback books I chose to keep, as does the red box. I reduced five boxes of books down to just two. [Remember I had built-in book shelves at my last house, so I am down a book shelf.] You can also see how dirty the floors are, especially if you compare them to the clean section in the photo above!

As to my floor project, I need to purchase more orange oil and some more rags. I temporarily moved the braided rug to the flowered rug, since I have made the executive decision that I am not going to clean the floor beneath the flowered rug. I also think that I might not even clean the floor beneath all the stuff left, but will leave that section until I move. Since they have been dirty all this time, I cannot see how that would be harmful to the floors.

Mostly, I just want to be able to walk about my attic, with my puppy, and have both of us come back down as clean as we were when we went up there. Right now, if Amos were to slip up there, he'd come back gray again, for he would be sure to sit down and lie down on the dirty section in all sorts of directions so that perhaps only his head was left white.

Part of why I wanted all the paper/office supplies/professional/educational stuff in the basement was so that I could eventually go through it all again. I mean, I did reduce my desk boxes from three to one (not that I really think I will have a desk at a job again). And I did give away a total of seven boxes of office supplies. [I am a tad chagrined to admit that I could easily give away more.] But primarily I wanted it all together so that I might contemplate tacking both the professional and educational stuff.

I realized, the night before last, while weeping a bit into my pillow, that the reason I am holding onto all those ancient research articles is that if I throw them away, I will feel like I am throwing away my Ph.D. Mostly, I feel as if I am the only one who cares that I got it. And, mostly, I feel like a failure for I barely used it.

I was a good teacher. I know that. It is one skill that I know God gave me. But I stink at being political and from elementary school to college, surviving in education oft takes great political skill. And, well, I really do stink at being a human being. That also played a part in my instructional failure. I know. But I loved teaching. I loved the Mother-Daughter book club I ran all those years after I left the educational world. And I secretly loved being able to teach my co-workers the things they needed to know about their computers and printers. Being Dr. So and So meant something to me. But not so much to anyone else. And so I keep hauling around dozens of boxes of binders of research and professional books.

In truth, I could probably reduce the entire top shelf, if I took the binders of lesson plans and put those ideas into my computer as a project. Of the bottom two shelves, I would imagine I could get that down to one shelf, if not less than a shelf. The middle two shelves are mostly a mixture of professional work, personal writing, family history, Mother-Daughter book club materials, literacy lessons, and stuff about the house and the car.

If I were able to be brave and a tad ruthless with my silly emotions about much of these things, I might be able to reduce this enough to move all the paperback books from the attic to part of this bookshelf. That would be a good goal. When I was reducing the paperback books (some I sort of wish I had back), I kept out three to read! I really do miss those friends of mine all cooped up in the attic.

After the oven failure, I wanted some success. Last night, I had reduced the books while talking with Bettina as she worked at her cleaning job. [She's going on vacation, so my productivity is sure to decline.] With those boxes of books and all the other things I pulled to donate, my car is full again. Part of me is irritated that I paid to move all the stuff I have donated and reduced. But I try to remember that aside from some help from my writing student and Sunshine, I packed up the entire house myself. And, well, I suppose most 44-year-old have stuff, stuff, and more stuff. I should concentrate on how very much less stuff I now have. Much, much, much less!

Amos does not appreciate when I work in the attic, since I will not let him go back up there until the floor is cleaned. His howls of lonesomeness echo those in my own heart, so they are hard to hear. However, when we are together once more, he spends extra time snuggling and takes naps in my lap. If not in my lap, then he at least puts his head on my shoulder while curled up on the top of the couch behind me. Is he not adorable?

Wednesday, while in the basement, something spooked Amos. He came running over and started leaping up for me to catch him. When I did, he immediately crawled up to my shoulders and would not let me pull him down. I just left him up there until I felt his quivering cease. Then, I slipped him down into my arms and let him shower me with kisses. That usually distracts him, and I do not much mind a bit of puppy love. Such a good gift I was given in this puppy dog. Truly, I am so very humbled by all the comforting he does. Of course, I am good at comforting him right back.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Recipe for failure...

2011-12-23T14:41:00.000-05:00

OVEN CLEANING

Ingredients:
1/2 can Easy-Off spraying
1 asthma attack
2 hours of waiting
1 hour of scrubbing, including Windex and 409
1 roll of paper towels
3 hours of napping to recover
1 additional day of stiff and painful hands

Yield:
An oven that went from absolutely utterly totally disgusting to merely still rather dirty and an oven owner who is both plumb exhausted and very discouraged.

SIGH.

A year's worth of baking and broiling things with melting cheese and dripping sauces has taken its toll on my upper oven. It did not help that oft those cooking endeavors resulted in lumps of inedible culinary charcoal. Apparently, I do not know how to properly cook in an oven, given how disgusting it became...bottom, top, all sides, and racks. I took before and after pictures, but they are too discouraging to post...both that I let the oven get that way in the first place and that I failed in being able to clean it.

The lower oven has a lovely little feature called: Cleaning Mode. A few hours of unbelievably hot temperatures and...voila...a simple wiping away of the resulting ash reveals a sparkling clean oven.

Logic would dictate that I only use the lower oven. Only using the lower oven means bending over and that is hardly ever a good choice for someone with dysautonomia affecting her cardiovascular system. [Translation: I'll usually either near-faint or faint.]

DEEP SIGH.

Ugh...

2011-12-18T19:12:00.001-05:00

Isn't this a pretty sight?

It is hard to tell, but this is a pile of 12 cleaning rags after tackling another portion of the attic floor. The sponge mop head died after just three sessions and a very small segment of the attic floor. I have grave doubts that the washing machine can get these clean, though I did rinse them out for about 10 minutes before putting them in for a wash.

I am wondering: would it be cheaper to just buy more rags or buy more mop heads? The mop head was $8.73. It is in pieces in the trash as I type this. Some of the pieces are still up in the attic. Of course with the rags, there is the cost of cleaning them if I didn't buy enough to just toss them afterward. I truly believe I am tackling 92 years of dirt here. However, I do not think it is altogether crazy of me to want to be able to walk about my beautiful attic space without coming away with blackened clothing and puppy dog hair.

I was thinking, perhaps I shall not do the section of the floor beneath the one large rug I left up there if I can vacuum the rug some more? And...........maybe..............not do the sections underneath the boxes and the carpet remnants for now? Maybe..........my goal..........for now.............just just be the sections either I or Amos would walk upon. Then, after recovering and reducing some more, I could tackle the last bits beneath the boxes. Maybe leave the part beneath the rug for the next owner? Would that be wicked of me?

After much Googling, I learned I should finish off the cleaning with Orange oil or something likewise. I have already used 1/2 a spray bottle on the small sections I have done. So, I shall need about two more bottles, I think. The good news is that one of the things I have kept for a few years was a small pile of mechanic shop paper towels--the REALLY thick ones use for wiping grease--that someone gave me. I have been using them with the orange oil stuff I have and have only used 1 and 1/2 towels. I might just have enough for the entire floor, if I skip the section beneath the rug. You know, for a raw attic floor, the wood is really beautiful. If I had them refinished, they would be stunning.

Yesterday was my first full day hormone free on this second pack. I ate enough small meals that my blood sugar was not a problem, but I had the worst headache thus far. I honestly believe it was because I had made great strides in the nausea and headache side effects department. I was thinking that if it got better when I start the hormones again, my theory might valid. I did not sleep until around 6:00 this morning, working very hard on a mind-over-matter approach to the headache. Today, it has abated somewhat, but not gone.

Amos, being the ever loving little guy, actually woke me up for a nap to do his major business out of doors. I thought that was mighty kind of him since just four days ago he had an accident inside without any warning whatsoever.

I was also quite ill all Thursday night and Friday. It was as if my entire mid-section was twisting into knots, riding roller coasters, and imploding all at once. Personally, I wonder if my foe has felt he needed to change up his tactics since tears, emotional storms, and constant anxiety have all been essentially lost as a weapon against me.

Seriously, I am in love with both the makers of Loestrin and the first doctor to actually read my records and look at me from a physical standpoint, rather than see all the tears and basically ignore my ongoing physical struggles by just writing them off as stress and mental weakness. Aside from the end of being imprisoned by emotions, I also no longer have daily bleeding, unbearable cramps, bad acne, hair loss, and problems with my plumbing during my cycle. All of that healing from just one tiny pill! One by one, the symptoms appeared and overwhelmed me and yet all of it was "just stress."

I hope that one of the things I do not forget is the moment the surgeon interrupted me and said, "Wait a minute. Are you telling me you bleed nearly every day?" When I nodded, she said, "That is not normal and that is not stress. That is a physical problem, and I can certainly help you with physical problems. I want to help you." Since I had been trying to get help for this for years, I told her I was concerned about my health insurance ending next July. She look at me and very bluntly said, "If you are still having these problems next July, I shouldn't be allowed to practice medicine anymore."

Maybe I cannot really describe what her words meant and still mean to me. It is difficult to put into words how it feels to know that you are being dismissed or even ignored medically because assumptions are being made simply because of your tears or anxiety or your past. In a way, it is as if I have been screaming, only to have no one listen...or worse simply to be labeled the crazy one.

That is something that is hard about MS. So often, you have wonky symptoms, things that can be debilitating, but that do not show up on standard tests. Since the disease, though certainly marked by common elements, runs a different course in different people, you often spend a lifetime of being dismissed by doctors, searching for help you know is there.

This had nothing to do with MS, but it was the same experience. Clearly, I needed hormones! Clearly, I have needed them for several years now. Clearly, this need has had a profound effect on my life. But the treatment I needed was not given--dare I say was not even considered--because of assumptions made from seeing my tears and trembling and terror.

Don't get me wrong, I am still struggling with the effects of PTSD and still have many hard things to face, but the emotional storms are gone, as is the absolute desperation that accompanied any emotion and near constant anxiety. The other day, the person helping me was noting the remarkable change in me over the past eight weeks, how even this week was better than the last, and observed that I have been battling such overwhelming and abnormal levels of emotions for so long that I do not know how to handle normal feelings, like being sad over giving Sam and Madeleine away, anymore. In a sense, I have to learn about feelings all over again.

Thursday, I had my first real test of public frustration whilst on the hormones. The bags from Africa that I use all the time to carry my things to appointments and church and such are being repaired. Both had straps break. They were to be ready on Wednesday, but I waited an extra day to pick them up. Since it is a bit of a drive to the cobbler, I had asked to be called if there was some sort of delay and was assured that if that were the case I would surely get a call. When I arrived, neither repair had even been started. I was frustrated at both the lack of repair and the lack of a phone call to save me the long trip (and waste of gas). There was no Dell or Verizon moment. No yelling. No weeping. No raised voice. No meltdown. No shame. I did have to take a breath and work to remain relatively calm (I certainly was no model of equanimity at that moment), but I did achieve that and did not find myself trapped in wild emotions then or later.

I suppose you could say, right now, the only true desperation I feel is over not being able to conquer the headaches enough to stay on the Loestrin long term. Because I NEVER want to go back to that prison. I never want to be bound by those infernal emotional storms ever again. I never want to be trapped in my own body again. Never.

Fred and Ethel have been praying with me for grace in this. I want to be able to stay on the medication, but I also want to be able to face the possibility that I may have to give it up. I wonder, to put it bluntly, if I do have to give up the medication and find myself back in that terrible place, knowing that it is a result of my body and not my mind will be enough of an edge to hold on to even a tiny measure of control.

SIGH.

Well, Firewood Man and his mate just left. With this last load of wood, they also brought me several bundles of kindling they thought I might like and used these old wooden boxes that are nailed to the garage wall to store the kindling. Such kindness! So, I am off to build a fire and get in some serious snuggling time with Amos. I shall watch a little football, work on a bit of writing, listen to some Sugarland, play a bit of Monopoly, pray the headache eases enough for an earlier slip into my daily spate of slumber, and continue to dance about in my heart for the freedom I currently have.

Truly, this freedom is what makes still battling other illness much, much, much more bearable. For the moment, at least, I have a measure of victory. That is yet another gift my Good Shepherd has given me with this move to the middle of nowhere.

I am far away from my best friend. I am alone in a town I still have not a clue how to navigate. And I have not worked in more than a year. However, I am living in a beautiful home I purchased the help of a realtor who has continued to "serve" me, with an incredibly affectionate puppy, in a town where I have found help on two fronts, physical and mental, with weather that has allowed me to enjoy more time outdoors than I have in well over a decade, Firewood Men who treat me so kindly, and a new friend who moved in a block away and who has, thus far, not found me too weird or too exhausting or too anything. Heck, Sandra's promised to go with me to Chili's for a chocolate shake soon!

Oh, yes, I also have that beautiful pocket edition of my beloved Book of Concord Fred and Ethel gave me so that I might always have a copy on hand. What more could a girl want? Especially one who has a sufficient stock of Dr Pepper in her basement at the moment?

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Now that's just silly...

2011-12-15T19:26:00.002-05:00

I cannot resist...

The Rev. Jessie Jackson is teaching that Jesus was an "occupier." Now that is just silly!

The sweet, sweet Gospel is not about civil rights or cultural change. The sweet, sweet Gospel is about Jesus. Period. End of story.

Jesus, being Emmanuel, being God-with-us, is about how God came to earth to fulfill the Law since we, born of sin, could not. Jesus tabernacled among us, as John puts it, to live and die that we might die and live in Him, rather than in ourselves. For His sake, we are counted righteous and escape the wrath and judgement our sinful lives would normally incur.

Jesus did not come to change Jewish Law or Roman Law or any type of civil or cultural laws. He did not come to break the Law. He came to uphold the Law. By that very act, He was not living a life of civil disobedience or advocating for civil or cultural change! By that very act, there is no way that He could be termed, labeled, judged an occupier!

When Jesus walked this earth, He did not heal everybody or wipe out all illness. When Jesus walked this earth, He did not redistribute wealth or wipe out poverty. When Jesus walked this earth, He did not set all captives free or ban slavery.

What Jesus did do was teach the truth, correct and condemn the things of man that had crept into the things of God (false teaching), take all sin upon Himself, suffer God's wrath and judgment in our place, die and rise again for us, and leave to prepare a place for us in heaven.

We live in a sinful world. Jesus knew and understood that. Until He returns again, there will always be poverty, illness, immorality, theft, murder, graft, corruption, and the like. The sweet, sweet Gospel is not about changing those things. The sweet, sweet Gospel is about Jesus coming for us, for me, for Myrtle, so that you and I might have eternal life.

Leaving the Holy Spirit to heal and save, guide and teach us, Jesus gave us the opportunity to serve His flock through our stations and vocations of life. Even as a slave. Even as a homeless veteran. Even as a terminally ill child.

My writing partner, a woman who is most skilled at giving the sweet, sweet Gospel in such gentle and loving and simple ways, has been teaching me a bit about witnessing. I think the most marvelous bit is that what we testify to is not ourselves, our lives, our works, or our faith, but the self (the God-Man) of Jesus, His life, His work, His faith. We have faith because it is a gift. We receive that love and mercy and forgiveness and healing. Even if we are a slave. Even if we are homeless. Even if we are dying. So, well, even in the despair and anguish and confusion of the past year, I was still witnessing. In fact, I was a good witness.

I quote this bit of the Christian Book of Concord all the time. Perhaps it really is my favorite bit, if by favorite, we narrowed down to a top 10 List...okay...a top 100 List. I like it because it is absurd. I like it because it is profound. I like it because it is simple. I like it because it is the mystery of God:

In order to retain the Gospel among people, He openly sets the confession of saints against the kingdom of the devil and, in our weakness, declares His power. ~BOC, AP, V, (III), 68

What is my confession?

I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
the Maker of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:

Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost,
born of the virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, dead, and buried;
He descended into hell.
The third day He arose again from the dead;
He ascended into heaven,
and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty;
from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Ghost;
the holy catholic church;
the communion of saints;
the forgiveness of sins;
the resurrection of the body;
and the life everlasting.

Hmm...no civil disobedience there. No woe is my lot. No need to change the community, the government, the world. Just God the Father, who created us and sent His Son to save us, Jesus and what He does for us, and the Holy Spirit and what He brings and gives and does for us. Our triune God does all of this for us just as we are...sinful, broken, anguished, arrogant, confused, deluded, egocentric, selfish, despairing, struggling, wretched human beings. This is because it is not about us, about our faith or our works. It is about Jesus. Our worth is not in what we do, but in who we are. So, Jesus is about God cherishing His creation, longing to be restored to us even though we are sinners, and sending His Son so that we are made righteous and holy and can be in His presence once more.

Receiving faith, being forgiven, living in grace, having mercy poured out upon you...well, that very well might make you love and tend to your neighbor, give to the poor, comfort the ill, visit the imprisoned. The Holy Spirit bears fruit in our lives and sometimes that fruit can change just us, those in our immediate vicinity, or even a corner of the world.

But Jesus is not about that, is not about the fruit of the faith given to us, not about the ways in which God tends to His creation through His creation. Jesus is about the Law, respecting the Law, recognizing our inability to keep it so that we might be spared condemnation and eternal death, and living that Law in our place, keeping it for us.

So, with all due respect, Rev. Jackson, you are wrong. Jesus is not an occupier. Jesus is a Mediator, an Advocate, a Sacrifice, A Propitiation, a Redeemer, a Savior. He is all those things precisely because, in love, He came not to destroy or change or set aside the Law, but to fulfill it for you, for me, for us all.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

There has to be a way...

2011-12-15T17:57:00.000-05:00

I returned two un-opened bags of millet and purchased a universal sponge mop head. Four buckets of steaming hot soapy water later, the very small area at the top of the stairs (perhaps 10 square feet) is still dirty. The water in the bucket turned black immediately. And got blacker and blacker and blacker. I emptied it and washed the same area again. And then I did the same. And a fourth time. The floor in that area is still dirty.

There has to be a way that I can clean it. I just do not know what that way is.

Do I get brownie points for stopping after 45 minutes, when fatigue was clearly setting in?
Am I strange that I want my attic floor to be relatively clean so that I can walk on it without tracking dirt everywhere?
Is there a way that I can clean it?

SIGH.

A funny thing from today...

2011-12-13T23:48:00.000-05:00

The vet tech said that when he came up to the porch and heard Amos barking, he thought that I had an attack dog and was a bit nervous. When he saw my little fluff ball, Brian got down on his knees and said, "You sure present yourself a lot bigger than you are, little fellow!" Amos barked at him and wagged his tail very furiously in agreement!

It's done...

2011-12-13T21:18:00.001-05:00

This is so hard.
Very, very hard.

It did not help that his first comment was: They are so adorable! How can you let them go?

Of course, I was heartened that he found my birdie babies adorable. They are! And he immediately apologized and said that it was very brave of me to recognize that I could not really keep up with their care. I know. I know that they are going to the best home possible. And I know that my giving him the cage and carrier and playpen and all of their food and stuff made it possible for him to have the birds, since vet techs are not paid all that much. This is a good thing...for all involved.

It just hurts.
Muchly.

Here is my coping mechanism for the night. After all, when you are sad, it is always best to simply go for the chocolate. I bought these yesterday after setting up a time for him to come fetch my babies.

Already the house is so very empty.

Already....

A long day I wish were over...

2011-12-13T19:55:00.001-05:00

I cleaned the bird cage for the last time. All of Sam and Madeleine's things are stacked upon the deacons' bench: travel carrier, play pen, cover, food, supplies, and millet container. Seeing it all was very upsetting, waves of sadness washing over me.

To distract myself, I worked in both the attic and the basement a bit more. After some re-organizing and reducing, I have two less boxes in the attic and two less boxes in the basement. I also pinned up some personal things on a bulletin board I had hung on the wall above one of the office supplies shelves: a cross from a friend, a ladybug ornament, a Christian "fish" key chain from high school, the only Farside cartoon I have ever understood (Bettina sent it to me), and framed card Bettina sent me that represents our friendship.

So, here I am waiting again...nothing to distract me. In an hour or so, my birds will be with their new owner and I shall be left with a hole in my heart and in my life.

SIGH.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Besotted...

2011-12-13T12:53:00.001-05:00

Amos has this thing in which I take great delight and would count one of his greatest puppy therapy practices.

He is, of course, rather adorable whilst sleeping, especially curled up on a cushion, stretched out along on the back of the couch, or draped upon a pile of pillows. Often, I watch him, curious about what dreams are driving the micro movements in his limbs and filled with such love for this creature my Good Shepherd brought into my life. Sometimes, watching him will cause Amos to wake. He will look at me. I will look at him. He will look at me more, as a smile breaks across my face. He will wag his tail but once. Then a second time. I will look some more. He will adjust his body so as to get a better angle on looking back at me and wag his tail several times. Joyous laughter over his adorable tail wagging and all the countless ways he keeps me company and comforts me will burst forth. Amos will then start wagging his tail most furiously and inch forward to cover my face with kisses, timing each swipe with each wag of his tail.

Thumping his stump is what I call it.

Perhaps a good description of this process is like popcorn in a microwave. A pop here. Then another one. A third and fourth and fifth. Soon, counting becomes too difficult. Then the explosion of popping that is no longer the sound of individual pieces of corn, but rather a glorious symphony of impending culinary joy (if you are Bettina that is...I care not for popcorn, especially since I am all but guaranteed to burn it).

Over the past year, my Good Shepherd has showered me with great mercy, even as I have faced the darkest of times. I am beginning to think it was no accident that one of His greatest gifts of mercy came on February 14th, a day I have long hated for how much more alone it makes me feel. Alone and unloved.

Yes, this is but only one of the ways in which I am besotted with my puppy dog. I am utterly taken by the fact that merely gazing upon his person will result in a glorious symphony of love and affection for me.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

Doing the right thing is so very hard...

2011-12-12T23:09:00.003-05:00

The biopsy was negative. Christ be praised!

~~~~

Why is it that oft the right things are so very hard to do? I have been thinking on a matter for a couple of months, have spoken about it for a while, and am now facing its reality. Tomorrow night, I will be giving away Sam and Madeleine.

See Sam? He's leaning forward to come for a visit. Madeleine is away up top, always in the back ground, always watching what's going on. Sam? He's the flirt; he's the friendly one who just wants to hang out.

I have known for a while now that caring for birds is something at which I am no longer excelling. It is not unusual for me to discover their water is dirty. It is not unusual for me to find their food bowl completely empty. And their cage has not been as clean as it should be for the past year. I forget. I forget to tend to them. Amos, well, he can tell me if he is hungry or thirsty. But Sam and Madeleine do not. Each time I have found that their needs have gone unmet by my own inadvertent neglect, my heart has become a bit more distressed over them. Cockatiels can live a long, long time if cared for. But all birds are fragile creatures or all small birds are. Their metabolisms are so fast that they have to be carefully monitored and tended. My brain, the changes therein, no longer allow me to do so.

As I said, I started thinking about giving Sam and Madeleine a while ago, wondering if I was being a bit dramatic about finding the dirty water or the empty bowl and wondering if I could actually watch them being carried out the door. Mostly, I know I am not wrong about them needing better care. And I know that this will be a very, very, very hard right thing to do.

After thinking about it, I started talking to myself. I know. Strange. However, I wanted to rehearse actually talking about it with others. To hear the words in my own ears. They were hard and scary for me. I do believe, however, that the Loestrin is, in part, responsible for me taking the next step of starting to ask around, to see if I might find them a good home.

I could sell them. I could sell them and the cage and the carrier and the playpen and the food and get a significant amount of money. However, more important than money to me (even with all these blasted medical bills) would be knowing I am placing them in a home where they would still have significant amount of time outside of the cage and have copious amounts of interaction, where they would be pets, not ornaments, as birds sometimes can be.

My Good Shepherd has showered me with truly unfathomable mercy by bringing a young man who has longed for his own birds. He used to work at the zoo and is now a vet tech at a local clinic. He is very excited about them and has asked permission to transition them to a more natural diet (a very good thing but more work). Not only will they continue to have a fair amount of freedom, they will truly have better care than I can even give them now, much less in the years to come.

Truly, were I to put a list of qualities and experience together, I could not have come up with a better person other than, perhaps, an aviary veterinary. His experience at the zoo, his friendship with the vet there, his current job, his genuine longing to own birds, and his desire to transition them to a natural diet all make up the perfect person for Sam and Madeleine.

Sam, being such a skinny little fellow, will have a hawk's eye on his person to ensure he keeps his slight girth up. Both of them will be cherished. I am fairly certain that Brian will woo Madeleine to be more communicative, more interactive. I know he will do anything to make them happy and that he will want the best for them as long as they are with him. What more could a birdie momma want?

I do feel as if in finding this caring person, who is truly all that I could wish for in a new home for my birds, God is telling me, Myrtle, you are not alone. I, too, want the best for My creation. For them and for you.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

A tad tired of cleaning...

2011-12-11T21:11:00.001-05:00

I have done more laundry in the past two days than I have in the past two months. Okay, perhaps not quite as much, but I am on my twelfth load. This is it, though. I think Amos' butter encounter is over. Washing down pillows is much work. SIGH.

Were the pumpkin cookies worth it? They are mighty tasty. However, I really am weary of washing bedding that was just washed a bit ago. In fact, two of those 12 loads were repeats from yesterday's washing.

Bettina worked again today, so I finished cleaning four of the wire mesh stacking shelving pieces that I have from my old closets. After 12 or so years (I think they are even older), many were sticky and sort of gross. So, I left four soaking in hot, soapy water last night and finished cleaning them today. Now, I have a better system in my closet for the clothes I have been wearing of late. I would rather, though, have the bars changed directions.

Since I was in the closets, I went through my clothing and pulled out a few things. Most of what I have is too large because of the weight loss of last year. However, if I got rid of all the clothing that didn't fit, I would only have sweats (which are okay large) left. Is is better to go around looking like a bum or like a little girl playing dress-up?

While not cleaning-related, Bettina's productivity inspired me to file my online rebate for Amos' heart worm medication, print it out, and get it all ready to mail on the morrow. I also made a shopping list since I am out of laundry detergent (usually, a bottle lasts months and months and months, not just a single month). I filed a bit of paperwork. And I went through my two antique boxes and two antique writing desks and got rid of a few more things.

Doing so did make me think about stuff. In all my reducing, there are still things that I have kept because they sort of mean something to me, but would be mere junk to another person. For example, I have one of my business cards from each of my jobs. And I have my mother's written directions for how to use the VCR because she never could figure that out. I have my name badge from the first job I ever worked. And I have a tiny plastic dinosaur that a boy I helped years ago gave me as a thank you. In the boxes are things like a hacky sac from when I was a camp counselor, a container of silly putty from when I was a child, and all my credit cards that I never use. Useful stuff the latter, but nothing before that. Tucked away in a box here or a drawer there are things that Bettina would simply throw out were she dealing with my estate. Things that are bits and pieces of my life, but really are just tokens.

I do not remember the boy. I do not remember the face. I do not remember the moment. But I know it was a great one for him and for me. So I hold onto the dinosaur, not really sure why. A bit of plastic taking up space.

I also disconnected the rotten sponge from the mop in the basement and put it by the front door, hoping to find a replacement head for it at the store. I thought that might be the best way to clean the attic floor. You see, Amos snuck up there whilst I was sitting on the blackened attic steps cleaning them and he came back down all gray again. The wretch!

I vow, though, here and now, to scrub just a small section of attic floor at a time. None of this killing myself to clean or organize or improve or renovate or anything else. Amos, did you hear me? Don't let your momma be stupid again, okay?

We both had a night of dreams last night. We are both tired from being up dealing with rejected butter. [Did you know that puppies can belch rather loudly?] We are both thankful we have the other for company.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Call me stupid...

2011-12-09T23:59:00.000-05:00

I wish I knew how to do things in stages.

Amos and I went to the vet yesterday for his first birthday check-up, a refill of his heart worm preventative medication, and to have him chipped. I did not do that earlier because of the cost, but after sitting in court week, after week, after week, it seems to me I would be foolish not to take every effort to always have my puppy with me. Fifty dollars is very cheap from that perspective.

Of course, I did not stop to think that there would dogs at the vet.
I never dreamed there would be a pit bull.

Amos, spotting dogs in the parking lot, was most reluctant to enter the clinic. Watching his steps as I tugged on the leash, I was looking down when we crossed the threshold. So, he was the first to spot the ENEMY BREED. In just a few seconds, Amos had literally jumped in my arms and climbed my body until he was standing on my shoulders. Standing whilst trembling so violently he was digging his nails into my shoulders to ensure that he stayed up there. It was so very heart wrenching to see, to feel his fear. I had to work hard to stuff my own down to a place where I could help him.

I took him to the farthest bench, which was at least 100 feet away from the pit bull, if not more. The space did not matter. Amos refused to allow me to take him down into my arms. Taking pity upon my puppy, the staff led me straight back to a room. Some fifteen minutes passed in that small space where we were completely alone before he stopped resisting my efforts to pull him off my shoulders and hold him against me. I felt like the stupidest puppy momma ever.

Amos was trembling so hard that we are not positive about his weight. Even so, none of us got it right; he is 21.2 pounds. Still, the vet was shocked at his size. She said he is the tallest bichon poo that she has ever seen or even heard about. I guess Amos has got to excel at something, eh? She thought he could stand to lose a pound to a pound and a half. However, she was not concerned other than to tell me to get him walking about the neighborhood as soon as my foot is healed, since walking is different than playing and very good for a dog. I could not really explain how if my foot were golden now, I could not walk about the neighborhood. After all, it is very swollen today from being on it for the attic floors, two baths, and two loads of laundry, after being on it for first my appointment and then Amos'.

She is like the old vet I had in that she believes a lean dog is a healthy dog. Kashi was only supposed to live until around 10, but he stayed with me for 15. My old vet said she truly believed it was because I was so very careful to never let him have anything other than his prescription diet for his hepatic shunt. Amos has no issues, but I want him around as long at possible. I hope to have him a tad trimmer by his next set of shots in May.

We made it home, both still very upset over our encounter. Poor Amos, he did not want to be out of my sight for a second. As for me, I wanted to DO SOMETHING.

Yep.
I over did it.
Again.

Here are the photos I posted before that show the attic floor. Remember how I wanted to get rid of all those old carpets, rugs, and remnants? Well, that is just what I did.

Truly, I would say, from beginning to end, that I spent about 90 minutes on the project. However, I half feel like it will be 90 days recovering!

Here you can see the finished result. I kept the oval braided rug since it was sort of usable (though ugly). I also kept the flowered carpet rug that you can see in the upper right photo and moved it over by the windows. It is still fairly fragile, but I am a floral girl at heart.

Someone (hopefully NOT me) still needs to pull up the remaining nails and bits of carpet remaining beneath them. However, I was able to pull up all the pieces and to sweep the entire floor. In one place, there were four layers of rotting oriental rugs, some almost paper thin.

During the process, huge clouds of dirt wafted about the room. Truly I thought I would have an asthma attack, but I did not. I merely had to blow all the black crud out of my nose many times. I was covered in it. Amos was a dark grey. We were both absolutely filthy by the time I finished.

I took a bath. I cut Amos' hair since I had been letting him be a bit extra fluffy for some extra Myrtle comforting. I bathed Amos. And I did two loads of laundry of filthy clothes and towels and my other laundry since the last round.

Way back in the dark ages, when I was renovated the house I bought in Alexandria, I had to purchase construction garbage bags. They are rather large and so thick that even nails will not poke through. I would say they are the size of at least two yard bags. Since, they are expensive, I kept the rest of the roll and brought it with me when I moved.

As you can see, all four were filled to the brim. All four bags were dragged down two flights of stairs, across the yard, through the garage, and out to the garbage bins. I was a tad worried that the City wouldn't take them, but when I finally awoke today, they were gone. All four of them. All of that smelly, filthy, rotten, horrid carpets/rugs/remnants that I had actually walked upon.

But, again, I was stupid. Please...call me stupid. Beat me up with my stupidity. Stage an intervention. Hello. My name is Myrtle, and I am stupid.

Every single muscle in my body aches. I think this is not merely because of my attic floor labors, but also because of the strain of seeing a pit bull so very close and trying to control my terrified puppy even as I was terrified myself. Even so, I am in utter agony. Stiff. Sore. Moving like I am 100 years old. Maybe I am...100, that is.

This afternoon, when I was really regretting my stupidity, I crawled up to the attic and sat and stared at the bare floor for a while. Frankly, I am glad I did this. In my opinion, the space looks remarkably better. Do you?

I suppose I expended a bit more energy than I thought. You see, I usually make two chalupas, but I sort of always wish I had another one. [Remember, I am beginning to think that I am a glutton.] Well, today I made three of them: refried black beans, grilled chicken, sour cream, mild Taco Bell sauce, and white cheddar cheese. [I would give anything for more Trader Joe's white sweet corn.] Anyway, just moments into my meal, I looked down at my plate, seemingly after just a couple of bites, and discovered that somehow it was empty. I had inhaled three chalupas without notice!

Still feeling utterly weak, like a wet noodle in every part of my body, hours later, I thought I would make the pumpkin cookies since Sandra had brought me eggs and butter for them just before the migraines started. The butter needed to be softened, so I set it out on the counter.

Yes.
He did.
An entire stick.

A quiet Amos is a dangerous Amos if he is not curled up next to me. When I realized he was gone and silent, I went looking for my puppy. I found him in the kitchen, happily licking his chops. The WRETCHED BEAST! Google tells me that I may be in for a long night with Amos. A long, messy night.

After softening another stick, I made up the cookies and successfully managed not to burn them. [You may applaud now!!] I bolstered my strength for the long night ahead by licking both beaters (it has be years since I did that) and then eating two cookies with a giant glass of ice cold whole milk. I had to freeze the rest of the cookies else they ended up in my stomach this night.

You know, I am curious about portion control and the food industry. I was only able to get 22 cookies for a mix that was for 36. Kind of strange, eh? I mean, I would have to be way, way better at math to figure out how many calories are in each cookie.

No matter. I do LOVE pumpkin stuff. Pumpkin cookies surely have high concentrations of curative properties, right? So, soon I shall no longer be the weak old lady who took four separate naps today, so exhausted and sore is she over her own stupidness.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

If I ask you...

2011-12-07T23:32:00.001-05:00

...do I like Dubliner Irish cheese, please answer:

Nope, you don't. The three times you have bought it, a "gross" popped out with the first bite, you were really, really, really glad when it was gone, and you regretted spending money on expensive cheese that turned your stomach as you tried not to waste it.

Thanks, Fred...

2011-12-07T18:14:00.001-05:00

Court today.

Yep. That was a treat.

Last night, after my last post, I took a shower and fainted. ARGH. I was very frustrated. The headache is ever present, but very much less in magnitude. So, I was thinking kind of positive there, for a while, and bam...another body blow. Even with the fainting, I am holding out the hope that a balance can be found.

Anyway, Fred talked with me after court. I think that if I had someone to distract me after court, I could handle court days better. Certainly, Fred did a stellar job of listening to me talk in circles and acting like I was actually making sense. Of course, I haven't asked Ethel if she's changed the batteries in his hearing aid lately.

His most brilliant comment was about chicken enchiladas, only he doesn't call them that. He calls them "those tortilla things." Reminding me of what curative properties they hold, I came home and fired up the grill. Yes, all four pieces came off perfectly. Poultry Perfection! I then minced one piece, assembled the enchiladas, and put them in the oven with eight timers. Seriously, I used eight. This weekend, when I was so ill, I burned three meals. SIGH.

So, I am now happily chowing down on enchiladas and not drowning in the ugliness that is this pit bull attack restitution situation, thanks to Fred. I suppose it would not be too bad if I mention the woman purposely sat in front of me again and kept whispering about what a joke this all was and that she would never be made to pay....

I also came home and lit a fire. I was so ill that I did not watch television for three days and am only having my second fire in a week. I missed them. As for my television, after three years, I am now its proud owner. With the interest free payments, I opted to just do a little a month, so I could earn my own interest in what I would have paid initially. Three years later, I am still awed, at times, that I have this beautiful television that I can see, even with my poor-vision days. Do you think I should celebrate with a sci-fi mini-marathon? I could watch all 13 episodes of Firefly and then its conclusion in the movie Serenity....

Amos, being a year old now, is getting weighed on the morrow. How big do you think the Beast will be? The winner will get as much bacon and deviled eggs as he/she desires on a visit to the Myrtle B&B here in Fort Wayne. Since I think I should win, I am putting my entry in at 24.4 pounds.

Thank you, Fred, for being Christ's mercy to me today...for reminders of good things, from chicken enchiladas to liturgy, and for your oh, so gentle talk on just how it is that even my body could be a good gift from God.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

If I ask you...

2011-12-06T23:50:00.001-05:00

...where my gloves are (the ones I have lost three times while trying to find them), please answer:

They are in the basket on the kitchen counter, so you can easily grab them when taking Amos outside or shoveling snow. You know, the one where you started keeping your blood sugar monitor that you kept losing, too.

Thanks, Bettina...

2011-12-06T23:01:00.001-05:00

Bettina calls me whilst she is working her night job, since she is all alone cleaning. I keep her company and all her industrious labors help me find little bits of energy for small spates of productivity, usually the dishes piled up in the sink or the laundry that has yet to be folded.

Tonight, I called a company about an error in a return refund. Oh, the thought of dealing with customer service was exhausting in and of itself. I was going after $2.51 and wondered if I should do so. Bettina quickly pointed out that if the roles were reversed, the company would go after me for the same amount. Good thing I called. My math was wrong. [Yes, you can snicker that I would even be surprised at that.] I ended up with a refund of $11.39.

If you recall from the photos of my basement organization, I had a filing basket that I had emptied of 11 months of piled-up paperwork. Left was a purple folder of all my medical bills because I had one I thought was paid a couple of months ago, but the doctor's office said was not. I wanted to verify the expense, which meant going through the folder. I did discover the error was mine and wrote out a check, but I also updated my spreadsheet of medical expenses for 2011. Surely I should not owe a penny in taxes with 49% of my "income" being medical expenses!

And, well, I got down and picked up all the paper Amos had shredded and strewn about the living room. I love my fluff ball puppy, but I would sure like it if he were not so very prone to littering. SIGH.

Having spent the past two weeks doing ever so little other than being afraid and being rather ill, it was nice to be able to end the day with two lingering matters addressed.

Thanks, Bettina!

A bit reluctant...

2011-12-06T16:40:00.001-05:00

I crowed over Amos' potty achievements and ended up having him poop on my excitement, so I am a bit reluctant to write this. Only I have been trying to do a better job of keeping up with my "memory." So, I shall say that this early morning came and went with no terrible illness, no writhing, dizziness, erratic heart beat, nausea, diarrhea, stomach cramps, or vomiting.

I did not sleep until 6:00 AM, so worried was I about going through that again. Waking thrice, I slept until 3:45 PM. Amos was quite confused about going back to bed after his "morning" meal at noon, but he finally fell back asleep, as did I.

My head still aches, but the pain is a shadow of what it once was. While I would much rather be pain free, I am relieved greatly. I am also a bit dizzy. Mostly, I have been resting on the couch watching Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (I have never seen it or the last two movies). Amos has taken advantage of my lack of supervision to shred the Chico's catalog that came in the mail. The living room looks like it snowed inside. My rascal puppy does not understand that even on my best days, bending over makes me either near faint or faint. Getting down on the floor to try and pick up all the pieces whilst sitting means Amos thinking I am there to play. He is good at tackling me...quite strong for a fluff ball puppy. SIGH.

After skipping my second Theophylline dose last night, this morning I took 200 mg less than my prescription, because I still have some pills from the last prescription change. I was worried cutting it by half might mean more fainting, as I try to figure out how much to dial back the Theophylline while on the Loestrin.

Well, I just took the dreaded pill. Nine more days to go to the lower dose, if I can continue on this trend of the lesser headache, the more manageable misery.

Now back to shivering on the couch, though I do so in victory. With an extended period of chanting encouragement, Amos just tended to his need outside so we shall both not have to endure any timeouts this evening. My beloved puppy is already conked out on the couch with me, so exhausted is he from covering every inch of the back yard four or five times before finally finding the right spot. With an ice pack on my head and a heating pad on my stomach, I am off to finish finding out what happens to Harry Potter. After all, it is not as if I can actually remember reading the books. SIGH.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Falling snow is not snow...

2011-12-05T23:30:00.000-05:00

I rejoiced at the falling snow. Prematurely.

Amos explained that falling snow is just like rain. He had two long timeouts before doing his business tonight. Poor little puppy. Someone should rescue him from his wretched mother.

Well, I did not take the Theophylline tonight. I am hoping that might make a difference. This morning, I very nearly rang up Sandra to tend to Amos while I took myself to the ER. Each night had been worse, but early each morning has been more so. Not the headache, that eases about 4:00 AM. But my heart goes wonky, terrible stomach cramps and nausea and dizziness set in, and I cannot even walk some time between 6:00 and 7:00. Crawling to the bathroom because of dire plumbing issues also is not my idea of fun. The misery becomes bearable some time around 10:00 or so and I fall back asleep. Amos, who has been so very comforting in my illness of late, doesn't understand that my stomach cramps are so bad that I cannot have him draped across any part of my torso.

Of course, if you had the little guy above waiting for you or the one sharing the pillow, would you not mind crawling back into bed? I find it humorous that he loves to sleep with his beloved Flower. I really ought to figure out a way to cut it open so that I can replace the broken squeaker without causing a weak spot that Amos can then use to disembowel this particular baby.

This morning, when I was weeping in fear over how weak I was and how erratic my heart was hammering in my chest, Amos started snoring. There I was, wondering if perhaps a dire thing might be happening to me and I burst out laughing at the snuffle, snort snoring filling my ears. I find one of the blessings of my Good Shepherd is to bring me a fluff-ball puppy dog who snores like a giant St. Bernard or some other large dog. For that matter, he snores just like a real giant might. Joy in the midst of pain. Joy in the midst of fear. How complex is this life that our Creator gives to us?

Still, truly, I should stop taking Loestrin.

Yet.

I really do not want to give up the medication. I want something to work. Five separate very troublesome issues have been resolved by this one little pill, not to mention that if the headaches were under control, it would get me out of surgery. Surely there is some way to take the mixture of hormones without such risk to my health. Surely there must be.

The surgeon was in surgery all day. Imagine that. Someone is calling to talk with her in the morning for me. My job is to be honest about how the night and early morning go. Today, this early morning, I was the sickest I have ever been by far. Sometimes I get afraid when I get so ill and weak. This morning, I was terrified. Of course, I did think about that ambulance fee. There was no way I would have been driving myself. Plus, there is the thing that by early afternoon, I begin to feel normal (well, normal for me). These days, four or five hours out of each 24 are not miserable.

I feel sort of strange saying so, but it seems like my foe has stepped up his attacks...like he was livid at a pill making such a difference for me and had to twist it into something that harms me further. Like he did not care for my freedom from tears or the ability it gave me to talk about things still left unspoken. A bit of courage in a bottle...actually, more like a restoration of the person I used to be.

Ethel is looking for a foot orthopedist for me. I want to spend the money I do not have on my current issue, but my foot is not much better and in some ways worse. However, if I only have less than 7 months of health insurance now, I need to see if there is any help for me. Of course, what kind of specialist is going to like my request to help me without taking an MRI: Gee, Mr. Doctor Man, will you practice dark ages medicine on me?

It is really frustrating that I could turn around, smash my foot into the door frame, and do such a bang up job of ruining it. It is even more frustrating to think that most likely I have had the problems I have had for over four years because of a dearth of hormones and yet no one thought to look at the physical. Not even when I asked, different doctors, if my hormone levels could be checked, if blood work for that could be run. It is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo wonderful having a doctor who does not tell you: "I'm sure it is just stress." or worse still: "Women's bodies do not handle stress as well as men's bodies do."

No Theophylline. The headache is still bad, though not migraine level. However, I can breath easier. I fervently hope that I shall not awake so ill again in the early morning hours. I pray that the surgeon and the one calling her can come up with a plan to keep both the benefits of the hormones and the benefits of the Theophylline in my life...without spending most of each day in physical misery.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

I am not a doctor...

2011-12-05T01:47:00.001-05:00

I am not a doctor, but I am fairly sure I know at least part of what is going on. And if I am right, it feels like I have to chose between one life of misery and another.

The headache has gone from I-absolutely-wish-to-die to merely-nearly-unbearable. I stopped taking the Excedrin for migraine since it has the caffeine. I also managed the herculean task of only having one Dr Pepper each day with a half a glass of tea to reduce my caffeine intake as well. I still would like to excise a portion of my brain directly behind my left eye, but at least I am no longer trying to figure out which of my Henkels knives would do the job.

You see, Loestrin affects the absorption of theophylline. Caffeine affects the absorption of theophylline. That is why I had to give up my most beloved Midol, the ONLY medicine that made the agony of my monthly cycle lessen enough to breath and pant and curl in a ball my way through it instead of throwing myself under a train. Mostly, that beloved of drugs took that all important edge off for me. I really do have a very high tolerance of pain. It was hard to give it up. I actually had to throw away my bottles (yes, I had them at work, at home, and in the car) just so I wouldn't be tempted.

But if you remember, there was that last Midol-chain-popping fiasco where I ended up at the ER. Stomach cramps. Dizziness. Blinding headache. Trouble breathing. Strange nausea. [And the unmentionable plumbing issue I am leaving out of my discussion.] Hmm...sound familiar? I do not know how Loestrin works, but I take it at 6 PM and the difficulties do not skyrocket until after I take my nightly dose of theophylline.

[I have the world's most reactive/sensitive body when it comes to certain medications. I wish I could see some value in that.]

Stopping the additional source of caffeine made a difference. A truly significant difference. I shall still place my pitiful call to the surgeon, but I think the true test would be to skip my second dose of Theophylline tomorrow night and if I am better, skip the morning dose and see if the following evening is still better. I would like to have a Theophylline blood level check, but really it needs to happen at 11:00 PM, a little while after my second dose, and what lab is open then?

If I am right, what then? Stop the medication that greatly affects my health and quality of life? Or stop the other medication that greatly affects my health and quality of life? SIGH.

I need a personal chemist.
And an ice maker.

For the record, though this has nothing to do with my distress over the fact that I really do strongly suspect I am not going to be able to keep taking both drugs, I am a cruel, horrible, abusive, terrible, wretched puppy mom.

I was not about to have Amos poop inside tonight. Even. Though. It. Is. Raining.

Yes, that is right, I FORCED my puppy to poop outside, in the dark, in the rain, on cold, wet grass. He understands the timeouts I give him after he refused to do his business when I KNOW he needs to do so. [When we come back inside after a lack of productivity, I leave him in the kitchen ALONE with only his bed AWAY from me for 15-30 minutes depending on my anger level.] Usually, it takes no more than two consecutive timeouts for him to relent. However, this evening, FIVE timeouts later, Amos gave in and pooped.

After the fourth timeout, he tried to change my mind by peeing four times to show that he was being productive. Back he went to the kitchen while I lay on the couch once more...missing my puppy, struggling to remain deaf to his pitiful, lonely howls emanating from the kitchen.

After that fifth time out, he stood and looked at me for a long time from the bottom of the steps after peeing again. I stared back. He put one paw on the bottom step and looked at me some more. I did not say a word. He started to put a second paw forward and then stopped. With a snort or sigh or grumble, Amos trotted down the sidewalk to the garage. Once there, he turned and looked at me again. I remained silent, an implacable barrier to the back door. After another long staring contest, during which I did not look away or have a single bit of my longing to have him with me again snuggling in my arms written anywhere on my face, Amos ducked his head down between his front legs, slunk over to the bed beneath the Magnolia tree, immediately pooped, and then came bounding back to me and leapt up into my arms.

Of course, I know and you know that the next time it is raining, he will try to avoid outside productivity once more. He is completely unrepentant in his errant belief that it is wrong to expect a puppy to poop outside in the rain.

Isn't it strange, though, that snow was a source of joy and wonder and much encouragement for outside productivity? Tonight, after time out number three, I tried to explain that snow was actually rain in another form. He did not believe me. I hope it snows again soon.

And my current misery ends...with a miracle of sorts...to me...of keeping both medications (or some derivative thereof with regards to the Loestrin ingredients).

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Constant companion...

2011-12-04T01:04:00.001-05:00

Thursday's headache has never left. So much does it love me that I now have a migraine headache for the first time. Sandra suggested ice packs to my head, since all the medication is not helping. In fact, the Excedrin Migraine has a high dose of caffeine that I did not notice. A theophylline and caffeine reaction on top of a migraine...well, I am not rising to the occasion in being gracious about all this suffering.

Sandra sent over some ice and some re-freezable packs. The ice does help sort of keep my utter desperation at bay. I was near ready to shave my head and find the nearest guillotine this morning (Saturday morning). I do wonder if I could just freeze my brain directly.

Of course, I shall be calling the surgeon on Monday...if I survive until then...to ask what to do. She did not want me changing doses until the end of the pack and she did not want me just stopping the pack. However, I am now between that proverbial rock and a hard place.

The thing that is very, very hard to swallow in all of this is that the estrogen is making such a tremendous difference in both the wild mood swings and my daily outlook. No longer do I feel quite the hostage in my own body. It is rather hard to explain. The adjective that I have been using is "settled," but that is not quite enough. Even with the abject misery, a new low for me even with all that I have experienced, I don't want to give up the medication.

I also cannot continue much longer with the pain in my head, the throbbing behind my eyes, the way light and sound have become my enemy, too, and the nausea. Truth be told, breathing is a tad...off...after taking the Loestrin for a while, but I cannot see how that could possibly be connected. Except...the problem eases by morning.

And, well, I am still bleeding and am still in pain. Stupid biopsy. I told those tissue samples they had darn well better be normal. I am not equipped to deal with anything else medical at this time. Or...for that matter...anything else at all.

SIGH.

What to know something slightly humorous? Friday morning Amos' and my head briefly occupied the same space. My beloved puppy dog gave me the tiniest black eye. The bruise is small, but boy, oh, boy does my orbital bone still protest life. I wonder if his head still hurts...or if he is a tougher creature than I.

Off to down more Ginger ale and get more ice for my pack. Does anyone know why my ice cubes are shattering as I empty the tray instead of remaining whole? The pack would last longer if it were not merely comprised of shards.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Shoot me now...

2011-12-02T00:04:00.001-05:00

Those thoughts didn't come until the end of the third week of the last pack. I think this pack, knowing that I am planning to abandon this dosage and try another once it is completed, has decided to punish me for my affront. Fourteen more nights still and already I would give good money for someone to shoot me if only to stop the headache this evening.

It is easy to swallow the pill, seeing for myself such benefits as I have already gained. It is near impossible to think of swallowing another one, knowing in a few hours I shall be in such misery as this.

This bad.
So soon.
Discouraging.

I am praying it is gone by morning. The final days of the last pack, the headache never really ended. I am not sure I can face this if those days come sooner on this pack.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Living with the enemy...

2011-12-01T03:41:00.001-05:00

I wanted to post about the mercy of this day, which is now yesterday. Many words are already penned, saved for when I might be able to finish them. I wanted to post about mercy, but what I find myself writing is about living with the enemy.

It is a difficult thing to do...living with the enemy. It is a difficult thing to do when that enemy is you.

I do not know when this day will end for me. Just as I do not know when the pit bull attack will end. This day was decidedly different, but my body is responding, in part, as if they are one and the same. No matter how much I want for that not to be so, it does not matter, at least for now.

Uncontrollable tremors. A sudden flood of tears. Nausea that oft gives way to vomiting. Fear washing over me anew. One moment I think I have found a balance and the next it begins. Again. My body against my will.

I want to write of mercy, but mercy is not trapping me just now. Mercy is not why, when I have hardly slept in a week thanks to that horrid nightmare, I am still awake in the middle of the night. Mercy is not why this day is not yet over.

There was one moment, though, I shall mention. The pain of the biopsy was utterly overwhelming and completely unexpected. A wave of pain so intense that the unbelievably sharp pain that followed was almost missed and yet it was not. Then again the wave came, followed by more pain. I was so very close to fainting. I did not think I could last through the third wave, yet I did. I do want to write about the great mercy of that time, but this is not that...although it is a mercy in and of itself.

[Yes, I know I am being confusing, but the other post must wait.]

The surgeon told me that she wanted me to know that she was not doing what she was doing to hurt me. She was doing what she was doing to help me. She repeated that at least once, but I think even more than two times. She wanted me to hear her. I suppose a part of her knew that I would need those words in my hears to eventually make it through this day.

I am admittedly hazy about much of this morning. Primarily because of the multiple triggers for my PTSD that took place. But I am thinking that she repeated her words when I mumbled "I know" because an automatic response does not mean that I actually heard her. And I am thinking that she understands that sometimes the hearing is...delayed...for lack of a better word. The words are spoken into the ear. The ear takes them in. But the completion of the hearing them does not happen until such a time as they can be received.

I am not saying that I have received them yet. Certainly my body has not. I wish it had. I am weary of living with the enemy.

For a long while, I have wondered if I could truly write about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I cannot. I know this. Maybe some day, but I also wonder if there are really words that can capture what it is like. I suppose this is because, although I am no expert, my experience with PTSD would be different from yours. We might have some things in common, but the heart of my battle would not mirror yours.

And, I think a large obstacle is that I face this battle because of a rather poor decision made a little over a year ago that was wrapped in the betrayal of a lie spoken because the person knew the offer of spiritual help were ones I had wanted to hear for months on end. The violence that followed was the beginning of my PTSD, but it is patently clear that the unexpected and indescribable violence of the pit bull attack wiped out ever step I had taken forward in the nine months since that first event and set me back further than I can actually face.

Last fall, the panic attacks began and fear became something I would never have fathomed possible. Yet I had made strides in that battle. I had gained a modicum of control over my body. Now, I have none.

That is not to say I live in a state of constant panic attacks, but I live in a state of constant battle, whether I am aware of it or not. Take the dream, the nightmare, of last week that felled me. During that day, I had laughter and peace and silly moments. I did not spend the day brooding and dreading and dwelling. I closed my eyes to sleep completely unaware of the fear within me that would spill over. Not that I was unaware of the fear per se, but that the spilling would happen because my mind is my enemy.

My mind is my enemy.
My body is my enemy.
My emotions are my enemy.
The enemy is me.

I can work and want and hope for this not to be so, but really only time will change this. Time enough to find balance. Time enough to achieve distance. Time enough to hear.

Until then, I am living with the enemy. Today, I had someone see that up close. Okay, many people saw me, just as they did in that courtroom, but this was someone I would see again. She saw me weep and tremble no matter how hard I tried not to, not matter how hard I tried to contain my physical and mental and emotional response to a trigger that was not actually harmful to me. By that I mean, I was not being hurt physically.

So, during the second part of the morning, when I was, in fact, enduring great physical harm to my body, a part of me noted the words of the surgeon. I noted both the words and that it was important to her that I hear that the pain I was enduring was not an act of violence but something necessary to hopefully heal my body. I still have physical pain. I am still bleeding. That part of this morning has actually not ended.

But also, since this morning, whenever I become still, when the television is silent or my apps are off or the music stops or the phone call ends, I feel the sensations that are a trigger for me. Tremors begin. Tears spill over. Nausea rises. Fear overwhelms. Panicdesparationanguishconfusionshame fills me. And I can no longer ignore the fact that I am living with the enemy.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

The reasons thereof...

2011-11-29T18:05:00.001-05:00

Did you know that a boning knife will do an outstanding job of cutting a cold hard boiled egg? I didn't. I have primarily used mine to cut raw meat, specifically when trimming chicken since boneless, skinless chicken breasts still have bits undesirable to me on them.

Today, I made a salad: wild greens, grilled chicken, hard boiled egg, shredded white cheddar cheese, diced avocado, bacon, and white balsamic dressing. I used the boning knife to cut the chicken, then figured that I would go ahead and try it on the egg. I was surprised how well the boning knife worked on the cooked chicken, but was very, very surprised at how well the knife worked on the egg.

I have lost track now, how long I have had my set of Henckels knives. I do know that it took many years to purchase my set. I love them. My first two knives were a gift from my mother: the tomato knife and the boning knife. I thought the tomato knife was a joke, since I do not eat tomatoes, but it is rather useful. I am not sure what came next, but I do know that my brother gifted me the eight steak knives early on in my knife collecting journey. My deepest desire was for the Santoku knife, which I saved for a long time. More than two decades later, my set (the Pro S) lacks but one piece: the cleaver. I have never bought one because I am not sure how I would ever use it, but the empty slot in my butcher's block sort of bugs me.

I use the Santoku, bread, and tomato knives the most, followed by the boning knife. Rarely do I use the paring knives or the butcher knife. Of course, the steak knives are used daily, as are my kitchen scissors. I do use the sharpener frequently, however sometimes it is merely to dance about the kitchen weilding it as a sword, imagining I am battling a dragon. I am rather sure Henckels did not intend it for that use, but it sure does look like a sword.

All this is to say, though, that lately the reasons thereof for what I do oft come to mind. By that, I mean I have started wondering why it is that I do things the way that I do.

Take marinating chicken for example. My entire cooking life, I have placed chicken breasts on a plate, drizzled olive oil on them, sprinkled some seasoning, flipped them over, and repeated the process. Just recently, I decided to roast baby red potatoes and grill chicken for a meal. Out came the super large mixing cup in which I tossed the diced potatoes in olive oil and herbs. When those were spread on a tray and placed in the oven, I got out a plate for the chicken. Then, thinking about how much I loathe washing dishes by hand, I decided to just marinate the chicken in the measuring cup since it was already dirty but with the same olive oil and herbs I planned to use on the chicken.

Oh, my goodness! I was truly startled to taste the difference in the chicken when it was done. You see, drizzling does not really coat the entire chicken. Tossed around in the mixing cup (or a bowl would do), the entire piece of chicken was covered with oil and herbs. Grilled this way, the chicken was encrusted and savory and surprisingly delicious. Ever since then, I have been marinated my chicken in that large mixing cup. Just think of all the years I could have been eating better chicken but didn't because I was preparing it the way I always had, never stopping to consider if there might be a better way to go about it.

So, too, with the boning knife. As long as I have owned that knife, I have only used it for cutting raw meat until today. It was sitting in the dish rack, which is I why I grabbed it. Normally, I use the tomato knife to cut cooked meat. The boning knife is for raw meat, yet it sliced through the cooked meat like butter. The boning knife is for meat, yet it diced the eggs quite cleanly, allowing me to cut thin slices without squishing the egg. The boning knife is not for either of the choices I made, yet it did a splendid job at preparing the ingredients for my salad. [Yes, I went on to use it to slice up the avocado and bacon.]

I have had that knife the longest, yet I have primarily wasted its potential, limiting its use to what I thought it was supposed to do. I limited its use without ever really thinking about the reasons thereof for doing so.

Another example is with my spices. Always. Always I have kept them in alphabetical order. Whilst I cook, I oft find myself scanning for a particular spice, trying to ferret out its location among the four magnetic racks I have used for years. [They are stuck on the side of the stove.] A while ago, since I really do struggle with remembering the particular order of the alphabet (something that is truly distressing to me), I rearranged the spice racks by groups. On the first rack are all of my Italian herbs. Next come the Mexican spices. After that are Indian ones. Finally, on the lowest shelf are the ones I rarely use. Now, whenever I cook, I do not have to hunt for spices. I can just grab what I need without hardly looking at them...just grab the group I need.

Making this change has lessened my angst in cooking (though it has not helped with burning my meals). I really struggle with reminders of how much my brain has changed, how much my cognitive processes have declined. Making changes, first with the spices and this later encounter with the knives, has made me start to wonder if I should spend more time thinking on the reasons thereof for more of what I do.

When I left the academic world to enter the business one, I was utterly taken aback at the complete dearth of common sense there. At least in the corporate and non-profit places where I worked, people did things the way they had always been done without really thinking about why. Much of the time, the way things were done were very inefficient, often time consuming and redundant. I think that the problem, in a small part, of mission creep (of businesses and organizations straying from their strategic plans) stems from the fact that people will just do things the way they have been done without stopping to think of the reasons thereof.

One tiny example can be seen in office supply closets. You will find massive amounts of waste there, especially in toner cartridges that are expired or for printers/faxes/copiers that are no longer at the organization and in typewriter ribbons and cartridges. Things will be ordered because they have always been ordered. The same vendor will be used because it has always been used. Never mind that those things are not needed or that their shelf life might be limited. Never mind that the explosion of online options has made the office supply world very competitive, with companies offering steep discounts and free shipping for businesses and organizations that become regular customers. Never mind that toner prices can vary widely, so that while a particular vendor might give you cut rate prices on all your other office supplies that vendor will be fleecing you when it comes to toner.

At my last job, I found a place where we could be saving $7,500 a year simply by purchasing our toner at a place other than the chosen office supply vendor. To me, that is not an insignificant savings, even on a $3 million operating budget. However, no one cared to make the switch. In fact, the office supplies were all bought at Staples, which is not the best place for a business to be making all of its purchases. Plus, it was pointed out to me that caring about savings in office supplies was not my job.

Another example were these accounting and property management reports that were printed daily or weekly and then discarded. Many-paged reports printed on one side. If the organization went to printing two-sided--something easily done on both the printers and the copiers--thousands more would be saved on paper. However, no one really thought about this. Or cared. The reports were printed the way they were always printed and discarded without regard to the gross expense or of the trees, manufacturing, and fuel lost in the production and transportation of that wasted paper.

Those two changes alone could have funded a position for an administrative assistant that was sorely needed. Such a person would help improve operational organization and free up the time and talent of high level staff who were forced to do their own basic clerical tasks. Even with this dire need, reports were printed the way they were always printed and toner was ordered the way it was always ordered.

I have also started to think about the reasons thereof when it comes to the Church, the mission creep of the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod (LCMS) that I have experienced and seen and puzzled over. In business terms, the Christian Book of Concord is our strategic plan. Our pure doctrine is laid out, in both simple and fully developed terms, for all to read and understand, from the young child to the oldest person in the pew, from the pastor to the elder to the teacher to the secretary. Yet things are rather skewed, in my opinion, in the LCMS.

Ask any nominal Lutheran what is at the heart of Lutheranism and I think you will hear the answer: Word and Sacrament. Clearly this is because our Confessions teach that the way that God comes to us, forgives us, saves us, heals us, sustains us is through the hearing of the Living Word and through the Sacraments, which are made sacraments purely by God's command to join the Living Word to an earthly element. Yet...all over the synod...there is a departure from this core of our strategic plan, our mission. The Living Word is no longer infused in every part of the service (in all those churches that eschew liturgy) and the Lord's Supper has become optional. Man gets to decide if they really want God to forgive them, heal them, sustain them that week...or that month, even...or if they want to worship Him instead, highlighting their faith and commitment and adoration.

What are the reasons for this other than this particular church has always done things that way, has always had the Lord's Supper once a month? Always, though, is a bit relative when you think that the church, to be in the LCMS, claims adherence to our Confessions that do not put man in the position of deciding when and where and how God comes to him.

Equally sad is the message pouring forth from the service presentation. Moving away from the liturgy, really means moving away from the Living Word. However, read through the Bible. Too much? Okay, how about just the Psalter. Over and over and over again we are taught, encouraged, extolled, and admonished to have the Word in our ears, in our mouths, on our tongues, and falling from our lips. This is because of three primary truths: a) God's Word is and can do all that He is and does, b) the Living Word never returns void, and c) it is by hearing the Word that we receive faith.

Yet we ignore those monumental, profound truths and work to make services relevant, to have bits and pieces where we can express our love and adoration and praise as if it is our faith, our works that matter, rather than the faith and work of Jesus Christ.

Too, this can be seen in the pulpit. Pastors have lamented that they are afraid of preaching the theology of the cross because it is not welcomed by their parishioners. The sad truth is that bucking the wants of the parishioners can lead a pastor to lose his position. However, there is no theology of glory in all of our Confessions. It is no mistake that the second article, the one immediately following the statement of the existence of our triune God is about Original Sin.

We are born in sin. We live in sin. We die in sin. We cannot, therefore, by our own strength or reason fear and trust and love God. It is simply, utterly impossible. Sad, but true. Terrifying, but true. Devastating, but true. So, there is no theology of glory. There is no great work we can do. For all she is lauded, Mother Teresa's sacrifices and labors and love and acts of mercy were filthy and gross and putrid in God's eyes. Her work. Her labor. Her worship. Worth nothing eternally for her soul. Achieved nothing eternally for her salvation. Count the cost of them and she still is condemned to hell.

But the Augsburg Confession, our stake ground and line in the sand, does not end at the second article. No, it immediately takes up the heart and soul and faith and work of Jesus Christ, of our salvation and forgiveness and healing. This work is through suffering and death. This work is through shame and loss and betrayal. This work is through ridicule and torture. It is His work, His labor, His worship that matters. The faith of Christ, not us.

So, it puzzles me that the reasons thereof for that which takes places in our churches are not really thought about, or if they are people are content with the answer being: "We have always done it this way." Mostly, because the "always" of the Church started with Jesus...not man. How did He get so lost...so marginalized? Thousands of years later, I spend decades in churches where little real Gospel was preached and the emphasis of my works, my faith, my worship took precedence over God coming to me, for me. I discover the pure doctrine, finally learn what God meant for me, for His church, flee to the haven which claims to believe, teach, and confess the pure doctrine, only to discover a majority who do not read it, preach it, allow it to guide their services.

God's Word is the sanctuary above all sanctuaries. ~ BOC, LC, I, 91

Whenever God's Word is taught, preached, heard, read, or mediated upon, then the person, day, and work are sanctified. This is not because of the outward work, but because of the Word, which makes saints of us all. ~ BOC, LC, I, 92

Therefore we constantly maintain this point: God does not want to deal with us in any other way that through the spoken Word and through the Sacraments Whatever is praised as from the Spirit--without the Word and Sacraments--is the devil himself. God wanted to appear even to Moses through the bush and spoken Word. No prophet, neither Elijah nor Elisha, received the Spirit without the Ten Commandments or the spoken Word. John the Baptist was not conceived without the word of Gabriel coming first, nor did he leap in his mother's womb without Mary's voice. Peter says, "For no prophecy was ever produced by the will of man, but men spoke from God as they were carried along by the Holy Spirit" (2 Peter 1:21). Without the outward Word, however, they were not holy. Much less would the Holy Spirit have moved them to speak when they were still unholy. They were holy, says he, since the Holy Spirit spoke through them. ~BOC, SA, III, IX, 10-13

When we are baptized, when we eat the Lord's body, when we are absolved, our heart must be firmly assured that God truly forgives us for Christ's sake. At the same time, by the Word and by the rite, God moves hearts to believe and conceive faith, just as Paul says, "Faith comes by hearing" (Rom. 10:17). But just as the Word enters the ear in order to strike our heart, so the rite itself strikes the eye, in order to move the heart. The effect of the Word and the rite are the same. It has been well said by Agustine that a Sacrament is a visible Word, because the rite is received by the eyes and is, as it were, a picture of the Word, illustrating the same thing as the Word. The result of both is the same. ~BOC, AP, XII (VII), 4-6

Our church teaches that the Sacraments were ordained, not only to be marks of profession among men, but even more, to be signs and testimonies of God's will toward us. They were instituted to awaken and confirm faith in those who use them. Therefore, we must use the Sacraments in such a way that faith, which believes... the promises offered and set forth through the Sacraments is increased. ~BOC, AC, XIII, 1-2

‎...use of the Sacrament, about how it brings great consolation to anxious consciences, so that they, too, may learn to believe God and to expect and ask from Him all that is good...Because the Mass is for the purpose of giving the Sacrament, we have Communion every holy Day, and if anyone desires the Sacrament, we also... offer it on other days, when it is given to all who ask for it. ~BOC, AC, XXIV, 7-8, 34

Consider this true, almighty Lord, our Creator and Redeemer, Jesus Christ, after the Last Supper. He is just beginning His bitter suffering and death for our sins. In those sad last moments, with great consideration and solemnity, He institutes this most venerable Sacrament. It was to be used until the end of the world with great reverence and obedience. It was to be an abiding memorial of His bitter suffering and death and all His benefits. It was a sealing of the new Testament, a consolation of all distressed hearts, and a firm bond of unity for Christians with Christ, their Head, and with one another. In ordaining and instituting the Holy Supper, He spoke these words about the bread, which He blessed and gave: "Take, eat; this is My body, which is given for you," and about the cup or wine: "This is My blood of the new testament, which is shed for you for the forgiveness of sins."

We, too, are simply to believe with all humility and obedience our Creator and Redeemer's plain, firm, clear, column words and command, without any doubt and dispute about how it agrees with our reason or it is possible. For these words were spoke by that Lord who is infinite Wisdom and Truth itself. He can do and accomplish everything He promises. ~BOC, FSD, VII, 44,47

For Christ Himself says, "Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick." ...He means those who are weary and heavy-laden with their sins, with the fear of death, temptations of the flesh, and of the devil. If, therefore, you are heavy laden and feel your weakness, then go joyfully to this Sacrament [Lord's Supper] and receive refreshment, comfort, and strength. ~BOC, LC, V, 71-73

You know, a while back Concordia Publishing House had this marketing campaign of a hymnal in every home. While I certainly think that is a good idea, it puzzles me that the campaign was not a Book of Concord in every home.

Funny that cutting an egg with a different knife would be such a surprise. I wonder else I am missing because I do not stop to consider the reasons thereof.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

Who...

2011-11-29T00:28:00.001-05:00

Who grills chicken in the middle of a fierce storm at midnight?
Who boils eggs so they can be deviled then?
Who does so while battling nausea and a blinding headache?

If it were possible...

2011-11-28T18:57:00.001-05:00

I didn't sleep until around 6:00 this morning. I suppose that is an improvement. Poor Amos, his internal clock is all messed up now!

I finally fell asleep and dreamed more of that frightening dream. I suppose the truth is that I am bloody terrified of Wednesday. I think...if it were possible...I would stop the earth from turning just to keep that day from arriving.

SIGH.

I did have a small spate of good news this day: my car insurance will now be just over $30 a month less, even though my deductible is now cut in half and I have towing! When I moved here, my homeowner's insurance dropped me just weeks after arriving. The inspector saw the door to the airing porch (the one without a railing) and deemed it an unacceptable risk. He never asked me about it. If he had, I would have said the mortgage company required that the door be screwed shut (not just locked) for closing. In desperation, I scrambled around trying to find a policy. That is when I met Diedre.

She not only wrote me a policy, she wrote me a better, less expensive policy. Then she turned around and did the same for my car insurance. Combining the two saved more, but it is was not just the savings. She worked hard to find me every discount possible and to tweak things here and there to balance out my needs.

Last week, when I realized I have drive just a couple thousand miles since moving here, I thought to call her and ask about my car insurance policy since I am not commuting. Sure enough, when I finally remembered to call her, she found good savings for me, better coverage, and rated me as now qualifying for accident forgiveness. And...she remembered me, my situation, and asked all sorts of questions about me, about how I was doing. It seems silly to say...but I matter, as a person, to her. It is strange being treated that way. She offers more than good customer service. She offers kindness and looks out for my best interest.

There was icing on this bit of cake, too.

She emailed me the forms to sign. I printed them, signed them, and scanned them. My older scanner just makes JPEGS, so I usually open them up in PhotoShop to convert them to PDF. It is a bit of a process. However, when I right-clicked on the JPEG file to open it in PhotoShop, I saw an option to convert to PDF. One click and I was done! Sounds easy, eh? Well, I just discovered that I can actually have Acrobat use the scanner to create a PDF for me without the intermediate step of creating a JPEG first!

The mission I have been volunteering for upgraded my design software for me since I needed to do so with the new computer. I didn't imagine how much easier some of the things I do would be with that gift. Truly, Lutherans in Africa has been such a wonder to me, a place where even though I am the volunteer supposed to be helping them, I am the one showered with blessings. Plus, it is so rewarding to be of some use, of some help to such a great ministry, especially at a time when I feel utterly useless and a terrible burden on the planet.

It is staggering, at times, to realize just how much God cares for us and how He goes about meeting our needs, feeding us, and bestowing mercy utilizing all His creation.

Creature. I am a creature of God. Creator, if you think about it, implies a certain responsibility, a certain oversight. Only I am more than a creation of God. I am beloved. I am a beloved creation, a beloved creature. He holds not merely an obligatory view toward my well-being as His creation, but He longs for all the best for me as His beloved. God's best. My mind cannot even comprehend such a thought.

Is is strange...or wrong somehow...to think that the timing of that insurance phone call was perfect for me? The thought crossed my mind a while ago--that I should check on my policy--yet I could not manage to follow through until today. Until a day where a bit of good news was so very much needed and would go a long, long way toward helping my weary, worried, wondering soul remember that I am the sheep of the Good Shepherd. Dare I believe that God caused me to remember at such a time when such a kindness was needed most, when such a kindness would be magnified ten-fold in my eyes and mind and heart?

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

Perhaps...

2011-11-27T17:53:00.001-05:00

Still awake at 7:30 this morning, I decided to switch the mattresses between my room and the guest suite. My mattress is 17 years old. I recently came to the conclusion that I need to get a new one. I finally found a mattress store here (that was harder than I would think it should be), but I really do not need to be spending money on large expenses right now. The MRI and MRI reading bills from the pit bull attack are still in dispute and things are not going my way (a total of $2,106).

Switching the mattresses was very, very, very hard. Lots of huffing and puffing and weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Much puppy confusion. I was so weak and tremulous when I finished, I barely made it back to my bed. [Yes, I did remake the other bed before I sought my own so I wouldn't awake to a mess today.] I did sleep finally, but I cannot be sure being on a newer mattress helped. After all, I had been up all night.

Today, I have been rather bleary-eyed. I have found it difficult to even concentrate on my beloved football fest. I did remember to pay the COBRA bill due to be mailed tomorrow. And I put away the last of the laundry I did yesterday. Having started, I decided to do all the bedding again, including the duvet and slip covers for eight of down pillows, as well as the sheets, pillowcases, and blanket. I HATE changing the bedding more than any other household chore, but I did very much savor slipping beneath and laying my head upon such soft and sweet-smelling fabrics. That meant a total of six loads of laundry that I washed, dried, folded, and put away.

That small amount of housework yesterday left me so very exhausted. I should have slept. Perhaps tonight will be better...

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

In my opinion...

2011-11-26T22:29:00.001-05:00

...a sci-fi show doing an musical episode is the silliest and, dare I say, stupidest idea in all of Hollywood. I am certain, although I fast-forwarded through most of the singing just to get an overview of the plot in case I miss anything of the larger story line, I am certain that copious amounts of brain cells that I can ill afford to lose were permanently destroyed during the watching.

Sometimes less is not more...

2011-11-26T15:13:00.001-05:00

I vacuumed yesterday for the second time, I believe, since moving here. Possibly the third. I am not sure if I vacuumed for Bettina's visit in February. After all, I had just been living here a few months. I did vacuum for my visitors in July. SIGH. It was past time to vacuum again.

By this I mean vacuum the upstairs. I try to vacuum the rug in front of the couch every week. Amos, the darned Beast, inevitably brings in a piece of bark to chew up immediately following any vacuuming effort of mine. So, I never get to savor it like I do freshly mown grass.

Lugging the vacuum upstairs is not my idea of something I should be doing. Plus, doing so means also lugging it back down stairs. Were I working, I would most definitely consider the luxury of a second vacuum cleaner. I suppose...I should not discuss how many times I had to empty the container on the vacuum??

Sadly, my beloved Dyson is ill right now. The part that you pull up and use for all the attachments is not providing suction. Actually, it sucks so hard the tube closes shut. I can find nothing blocking it, so I need to call Dyson. But even the thought of calling for service technicians, though, makes me exhausted.

Yesterday, I also cleaned the bird cage. After getting the bottom on correctly, I promised myself that I would not let it go so long again, and yet that is what I did. Sometimes, less is not more. If I clean the cage every couple of weeks instead of every couple of months, the job is significantly less work.

So, between vacuuming, sweeping, and cleaning the bird cage, I was so exhausted that I struggled to sleep last night. Very frustrating...both the not sleeping and that a little housework tuckers me out so. I very much HATE how weak I am.

Today, I steam mopped the floors. My goodness! I had completely forgotten how much I love doing that. With very little effort, I have spectacularly clean floors. Since the vacuum is ill, I swept the floors last night. The amount of dirt and dust was shameful. Gross. I shall not describe just how black the pads were on the steam cleaner. I used both sides on both pads. Afterward, I went ahead and ordered two more pads. I have been wanting to do that for a while and they were $2 less than they have been.

In addition to the steam mopping, I also did three loads of laundry and cleaned the bathroom floor. Is it silly of me to say...again...how much more so I enjoy doing laundry in my brightly decorated space?? The new "counter" is so very convenient and makes sorting the laundry very easy. Nearly 10 months later, I have not yet ceased in savoring my new washing machine that does not have that center post agitator. Just dump clothes in and pluck them right back out. Piece of cake! And, of course, the ancient, super duper dryer is a very good friend of mine. The golden yellow is so cheery, and standing on the rug makes it seem less like being in the basement and more like being in a nice room in the house. Truly, doing laundry is a brighter experience (pun intended).

Not vacuuming upstairs for months on end does not make that job harder, but certainly leaving off cleaning the bird cage does. Truly, less is not always more.

I need to make a list of all the cleaning tasks that need to be done and look at how I can space them out enough to not get so tired from the work. Of course, the Myrtle method is to just push through until everything is done and then collapse from exhaustion and be couch bound for several days. However, I need to stop doing that. You know, the way I limit how many armloads of wood I will bring up from the garage at a given time. I would rather just finish it all at once. In that case though, for now at least, less walking means less pain in my foot and a better chance of it healing...eventually.

Anyway, I need a cleaning list. Of course, that means remembering all the cleaning tasks there are to do...(hint, hint Bettina). For now, what I do need to remember is to clean the bird cage next week so as to not let the job become too overwhelming for me.

That...and allowing my clean, clean floors to distract me from how discouraging it is to be so blooming tired from a bit of housework.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Thanksgiving Plan Progress...

2011-11-24T19:57:00.001-05:00

The Four Fs...

2011-11-24T12:50:00.001-05:00

My Thanksgiving Day Plan: Frozen Food, Floats, Fire, and Football. The four Fs.

I purchased some tasty tidbits and have been resisting eating them: Red Baron's deep dish pizza, TGI Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Dip, and Sirloin Tips wrapped with Bacon (an appetizer I have never tried but sounded good). I have already burned the pizza, so I am not off to a good start. But Amos certainly appreciated eating the outsides of the pizza.

I also purchased Bryer's Vanilla Bean Ice Cream for Dr Pepper Floats. I may even have one with every meal! I very much like having Dr Pepper floats, but I do not have much will power, so the ice cream does not last but a mere fraction of how long it should, given but one person in the home.

As soon as I awoke, I started a fire. 'Twas a bit hard to do so, however I got a bit angry with it and the logs became more compliant. I am not sure why it was not wanting to light. I suppose it is a good thing I am tenacious (a nicer way to say "stubborn.").

Finally, I plan to watch all three football games, not just the Dallas Cowboys. I really, really, really enjoy football. However, most folks have this strange preference for a great meal over watching a game. To me, it does not seem a hard thing to schedule the meal around at least the Cowboys game, but that has always been a difficulty. So, I am ensconced before the television happily watching grown men run up and down the field trying to get a little ball to the other side and tackling each other in the process.

Plus, since moving North of the Mason Dixon line, I rarely get to see my beloved Cowboys on telvision. In Alexandria, I was at least guaranteed the two games against the Redskins. Sadly, the Cowboys are not playing the Colts in the regular season. Therefore, each televised Cowboy game in my locale is even more special.

So, my goal today is to at least have one non-burned meal, lots of floats, lots of football, lots of fire comfort, and lots of peaceful moments not marred by worries or fears or weakness. Oh, yes, do not forget lots of snuggly puppy therapy.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Countdown to the impossible...

2011-11-23T21:41:00.001-05:00

Aside from the door knob, I did find that there was another benefit to organizing the utility space in the basement. You see, I found a great "tool" for me there. Among the things I organized was a collection of work gloves. I put them in one of the green boxes along the top shelf.

When I move the rank of wood from garage to porch, I always get splinters in my hands. Amos, unfortunately, has been little help in getting those pesky, painful slivers of wood out of my fingers. I tried wearing my gardening gloves, but those are not really effective in helping me grip the logs. Too, they provide little protection when I smash my fingers between two logs since dropping logs is always a part of my moving logs.

Today, needing more wood on my back porch, I thought about that box of work gloves and went to fetch it. Sure enough, at the bottom of it was this pair of leather work gloves. Someone left them in my house in Alexandria (I think), when I was renovating the basement. I am not sure why I did not just donate them then or at some other point along the way. In any case, they are perfect for moving logs! So, all of that organizing netted me a solution to the door to the ash dump swinging open during fires, a door knob for the basement room, and protection when I am ferrying wood for my beloved fires.

While I was moving the wood, my neighbor's son told me that there was an impending leaf pick up. I did not want to rake. The more I stand on my foot, the more it hurts. The more I walk on it, the more whatever is moving moves. However, the front yard was covered and a portion of the back yard as well. Knowing that all I had to do is rake the leaves to the park strip, I trudged out front to work.

I absolutely cannot dig holes anymore. Well, raking is apparently like digging. I would make a few passes and was exhausted. My arm muscles were burning, especially the torn one in my upper right arm. So, I raked a bit and rested. Raked a bit and rested. Raked a bit and rested. I HATED all leaves.

I suppose I also hated the raking because I had too much time to think.

I talked some more today about my dream, given that I have not really slept much since awaking in great fear on Monday. It was pointed out to me that three of my greatest fears were combined in one dream. And, in a sense, the dream mirrored a small part of something I have to do next Wednesday that I do not want to do. In truth, I honestly do not believe in the slightest bit that I will have any chance of actually doing it. I am afraid of the procedures and I am afraid of my response to the procedures. No matter that they are needful and were needful a long time ago if only a surgeon had not lied to me about the surgery she performed or even if any of the other specialists had actually read my records.

Despite how weak and silly I am right now, with only seven more months of insurance, I must do this. I cannot wait until I am stronger...until it would be safer for me. So, the days are passing swiftly, dragging me along toward those procedures. Apparently, my mind is even more worried than I knew. And one deep fear illumines others buried with it.

Amos, left to his own devices whilst I raked, spent his time turning his white paws black. And his belly. So, tonight was a bath night. Tonight was a night of snuggling with a silky soft, sweet smelling, swaddled, snoring puppy dog. Tonight was a time of not thinking, not worrying, not trembling in fear. Tonight was a night of talking with Bettina as she worked, savoring a fire, and copious amounts of puppy therapy.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Because you need to see more weirdo photos...

2011-11-22T20:10:00.001-05:00

I did not sleep much last night, and yet my beloved Bettina had arranged for us to spend the morning together watching our most favorite movie: Independence Day. In the sixteen years we have been friends, we have watched it many, many, many times. We know all the good lines and all the good scenes. Offering to watch it with me while Skyping, too, is her way of saying, "I love you, Myrtle!"

While I did snooze a bit during some of the movie, I failed to nap all day. Amos, however, is quite serious about his napping. This afternoon, he crawled in my lap and fell asleep for two hours. Is he not most adorable????

SIGH.

I simply cannot believe, at times, what a gift I was given in this puppy dog. EVEN with the still lingering potty training issues, Amos brings me such joy and such companionship. While I would very, very, very much like him to finish this potty training stuff, I am happy to announce that he has learned: upstairs, downstairs, basement, and attic. And he has learned to go up and down all of those stairs. In the attic, he LOVES racing around in circles about the chimney and will sometimes get in a few more laps before actually heading back down the stairs. But because I no longer have to carry him down, I do not mind. Plus, he is hilarious when he does his laps.

Anyway, to the boring/weird/dorky photos.

I have been fighting to stay awake all day because I am hoping that if I am extra tired, I might sleep better tonight, my first night back on the Loestrin. And, well, since organization gets me all giddy, I decided to go ahead and tackle the utility closet (the old coal bin room) in the basement. I think most people would have found it perfectly passable, given its contents, but there was certainly room for improvement.

Here is the view standing out in the main area of the basement looking in. You will notice that the top of the shelves and the old cabinet is now empty and cleaned. What you cannot see is in the corner by the door on the top shelf is the circular saw. I screwed two hooks in the wall above it to hang up my two extension cords. I also organized my tape into two baskets: 1) shipping/art and 2) mechanical/utility (yes, I even have a roll of aluminum tape for duct wor and sheet metal). The shelf above the tape is the last of the packing paper that I use in mailing things. I have my wrapping paper container and the hose and attachments for the shop vac. In the background, you can see the long shelves that line the back wall.

A lot of my work was reducing things once more. I ended up with two bags of trash--I hate that I paid to move that stuff--and a bag of recycling for items that were left behind by the previous owner in the antique cabinet that I had been ignoring. I also grouped items and utilized a set of plastic baskets from my elementary school teaching days to keep things in a certain place on the shelf. For example, the white basket has the pump from my fountain because I decided that it would be best not to leave it in a block of frozen water all winter. Did you note my boxes of nails, screws, and hardware whatnots stacked between my drill and my small tool box? I once spent two entire days picking through everything I had and sorting it all out into those craft boxes. That was some really fine organizing time!

Here, you can see my errant basket math. The wire shelf pieces are from my old home. I would like to utilize some of them in my closets, but the clothing bars are in the wrong direction in my closets. They are on the short part instead of the wide part. I want them redone and a shelf put on top the length of each closet. At that point, I will add some of these wire shelf pieces and then give the rest away. As you can see, I have more painting supplies than anything else I think.

One little victory was that I found a glass door knob set that someone gave me, which I kept of course, but forgot that I had. The door to the living space in the basement did not have a door knob. Now, it does!

Anyhow, I can now say that not a single area of my home remains unorganized, un-cleaned, un-reduced, etc. Of course, there is always room for improvement. Remember? I still could reduce down the research articles and books from my graduate degrees, my luggage, those hats, and the clothing from Africa.

So, with the day drawing to a close and fatigue pulling on ever cell of my body, perhaps I will sleep tonight. Perhaps I will be exhausted enough to set aside the fear lingering still from that dream that I may find a bit of much needed peace and rest.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

I cannot speak the words; I cannot write them...

2011-11-21T20:21:00.001-05:00

My hopes about the break from the Loestrin meaning that I might sleep more like I used to has not really come to fruition. I am finding greater blocks of time passing, but then I also awake after 90 minutes still. My greatest victory was five hours. Last night, I had three blocks of three hours.

I awoke, however, from the third block of time truly terrified. Deep terror that I have not managed to shed this entire day, though I have tried mightily to do so.

I dreamed a dream. I dreamed the most terrifying dream that had not a moment of violence in it. I dreamed a dream that involved my beloved friend Bettina even though it was about me. I dreamed a dream of which I cannot write.

While getting ready for my appointment, I was shaking and trembling from the dream. I knew it was over, and I tried to re-write the ending, but I had no words. Off I went, thinking to talk to Bettina on the way, but I forgot my phone.

I did try to tell the dream to the person who has been helping me, but I started having a panic attack just trying. Truly, PTSD is a most horrid evil in this world for what it wreaks upon a person. It is a terrible companion with whom to live. We talked some, but also had to leave the subject. Not because I wanted to so...but because my body could not bear my trying to speak about it. My weakness--seeing it, experiencing it--was nearly as overwhelming as the dream.

I wanted to talk with Bettina about the dream, but I was surprised to realize I was actually glad that her cherubs were needing her attention when I finally got back to my phone. I want so much to talk with her about it, but I found that I could not speak the words. Even as I cannot write them. It is one thing, though, to hear that I must wait until such a time as I can talk about this, but it is another to live it. To have a dream be so...big....

Alas, when stymied once more by my struggles and weakness, I sought to be productive about something. My goal for the day was that since I had to go out, I would also get the things I need to manage my blood sugar in another late night episode. So, here is my basket for my bedroom: Gatorade, trail mix (peanuts, chocolate, and raisins), and honey oat granola bars. This way, if my blood sugar plummets again, I can be safer about addressing the problem. Immediately and without the use of stairs!

I also took care of a small matter with the fire place.

This weekend, I watched A&E Hoarders for the first time. My goodness, has sin wrought such havoc on God's creation! My heart aches for those people, who are so clearly battling the work of our foe in this world. It was interesting to watch others who simply had lost all perspective of their lives. Actually, it was also disturbing, since I have struggled so much this past year. But I am at least not that lost and I am taking steps forward, even if a whole lot of backwards steps are also taking place.

Clearly, with all my reducing, recycling, and donating, I am not a hoarder. My grandmother was. My mother had to step in just as others do on the show: removing her for a time, calling in a rat catcher, ordering roll-off dumpsters for literally tons of trash, hiring help, and then having the home professionally cleaned and then repaired. I think I could be. I do think I can understand how easy it is to shy away from overwhelming loss and hurt and confusion and the ugly things of life by focusing on things or by simply stop managing the few things you can do so as to avoid seeing all that you cannot. And, clearly, were I a hoarder, I would most certainly fill my home with office supplies!

[The ladies at Family and Children's Services laughed when I brought in more office supplies for them. I did not begrudge them their outburst. I deserve it! One lady, a mini-hoarder of fine pens, was near giddy with the selection I had forced myself to add this morning, since I have more pens than I could use even if I live to be 100.]

However, as good as I have been on clearing out things. I do have a tendency to see potential use in things others might discard. For example, when clearing out all the trash that was left in the basement by the previous owner (GRRR), I kept this small strip of metal (sheet metal I think). I just felt it might be useful. Well, while working, I had the most brilliant of brilliant ideas: that metal strip would be a rather effective solution for a pesky problem with my beloved fireplace.

You can see the strip in the first photo. I came across it again when I was working on the "stuff" wooden shelving in the basement. In the second photo, you can see the open door of the ash dump in my fireplace. The pesky problem is that when the back leg of the andiron on the left hits the far side of the door, it can swing open during a fire. This is most problematic since having hot coals fall in the dump is not exactly safe and it breaks the proper air flow needed to keep the fires going. The third photo shows the execution of my idea. I laid the strip at the back of the fireplace so that no matter where the andiron is, the door would not swing open unless I wanted it to do so. Brilliant, eh?

Finally, I thought I would show you the next load of wood that Firewood Man brought yesterday. He and his partner spent the entire afternoon splitting it by hand for me because he knew that I much prefer the oak and did not have access to the splitter. This pile is from a tree that was felled two years ago, so Firewood Man was most enthusiastic about the great fires I will be having with it, so perfectly seasoned it is. If it appears to you that he brought extra wood, you would be correct.

What a kind and respectful and encouraging pair of young men are they. Both admired my stepping stones again and both were excited for me how much my yard has recovered since my fertilizer debacle. [They had put some good stuff on it for me a couple of months ago.] Coming inside to fetch an item I found in the basement beneath the gargantuan table I thought they might want (a palette with wheels), they were greatly admiring of my new laundry area and were properly impressed with my table. Both thought the idea of making a counter out of vinyl floor tiles was rather brilliant and a stellar outcome. Both also mentioned again how blessed I am that my Good Shepherd brought me to this beautiful home that is such a haven. One in which I could putter around tending to it while enduring the difficult process of having someone putter around tending to me. And, of course, they both were quite vocal about how adorable The Beast continues to be.

If you are counting on your fingers, stop. I shall make it easy for you. It has been a mere three weeks since I last ordered wood. Yep, I burned an entire rank of wood in less than a month. SIGH. At least, I am benefiting from copious amounts of fire therapy...especially fire therapy combined with snuggling puppy therapy and deviled eggs therapy and rose candle therapy and chocolate therapy and football therapy and bacon therapy.

Note: Amos gets all excited when a new load of wood comes because he thinks all those ends sticking out are there for him to have a good chew whenever in the garage or on the back porch or next to the fireplace. Basically, Amos believes all things in the world are there for either his enjoyment or his consumption. He seems to have a proper understanding of God's provision for His creation. Would that it were I shared his clarity.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

For the record...

2011-11-20T23:59:00.000-05:00

In all that organizing and filing, I also gathered up another box of office supplies to donate to the Family and Children Services Center, a garbage bag of paper recycling, a garbage bag of trash (somehow I moved all this Windows 98 software stuff), and two garbage bags of things to donate to Good Will or the Salvation Army or somewhere.

Yet, sadly, as you saw from the pictures...I sure do still have a lot of stuff!

I am just plain weird...

2011-11-20T20:11:00.001-05:00

I am giddy. Bouncing off the walls giddy. Giddy because I finished some organizing that I have wanted to do since before I moved. I still have some reducing to do, but my stuff is really, really, really organized now!

The basket with the purple folder is my filing basket. I had 12 inches of stuff that had piled up since January. So, part of this organizing effort was to file it all! The basket next to that is funky computer paper for letters. I also have here my mobile office basket on the lower right. The lower left are the books from my dissertation that I still think about, noodle over from time to time.

This is the shelving on the other side of the doorway to the living space in the basement. Here, I have my paper supplies and my two in-boxes. There is a basket of half-sized notebooks and all my hole punches. I also have a basket of art supplies for when children visit and want something to do. Here, too, are all my CD burning supplies. On the bottom shelf are my gazillion pens, pencils, sharpies, and highlighters.

Here are all my binders of research and my research books from my three college degrees that I still sort of want. This area is the most challenging to me. I still want to reduce down the research on the top shelf and the books on the bottom two shelves. The middle shelves are examples of my communications work, my own writing, reference materials, medical records, my Highlander binder, family history binders, and warranty information for things I have purchased or are were already in the house.

This is my "stuff" shelving, where I have done the most reducing. Three of the banker's boxes are empty! I have two boxes of mailing supplies, a box of light bulbs, a box of extension cords/power strips, a box of computer supplies, my old Mac laptop (don't ask), two boxes of binders, and some other things. I LOVE that this shelving was here. I think it makes for a very, very organized set of stuff, don't you?

I took the opportunity to organize my old china cabinet a bit. Since the china is in the built-in cabinets, this antique cabinet was empty. I decided to use it to store my DVD series, my candles, and my stationary supplies. I brought up three baskets from the basement to organize the cabinet better. I have to say, though, that I still have many a basket in the basement. This is a puzzle to me because in my last house, I had nary an empty basket. The basket math just doesn't add up!

Here is part of the servant's closet. There is another shelf of linen things above the towels you see. [I am too tired to go back and take a proper picture.] The bottom shelf I call my staging area. I love the space! If you look hard to right, you will see my computer backpack hanging up. I also have my briefcase/bag hanging next to it. This really is an amazing walk-in closet upstairs.

Here we are in the attic. This is the area to the right as you come up the stairs. The green containers are Christmas decorations. There is a container of Christmas lights. The luggage is at the end. The luggage I am not sure which pieces I should keep and which I should donate.

This is to the left as you look forward from the top of the stairs. The printer box is empty, but the rest are not. You can see the hats and Africa clothing. The office supplies are the next four boxes and the two baskets. Next to those are the boxes of young adult paperback books. The other end has the ceiling fan and demi-tasse cups.

I have taken a couple more photos of the attic to give a better perspective. All those old rugs/carpets are something I wish to address. I think I would like to toss all but the flower and the oriental one. However, I also think they are covering up some cracked or broken boards. Frankly, I am too chicken to peek. I need someone to bolster me up as I do so. Mostly, I think the bare wood would be better. At the far end of the photo, you can see the two shelves I have no place to hang up. I miss them.

I love the windows. LOVE them. I don't love the left over shag carpet that was put in upstairs. I am not sure what to do with that. You can see the chimney that sort of divides the room by a third. The doors are ones that have been removed from the house, like the door at the top of the servant stairs. Also there is the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room. It is that door, I think, I will use when I have the wall put up in the parlor to close off the bathroom. I plan to make it a pocket door to save space in the parlor. But for the attic, somehow, I believe this space could be really special.

Anyway, here is evidence of just how weird I am. I LOVE to organize and I LOVE organized stuff. It calms me, soothes me, stills me. I don't think about my life or my health or my fears. I do not really think about anything but the task. And when I am done there is instant gratification that also goes on and on and on!

Giddy. Yep, I am just plain giddy over getting through the reducing and organizing I have wanted to do in the basement and attic!

I am Yours, Lord. Save me.

The best laid plans...

2011-11-19T15:49:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was to be the first of four days in which I would feel better. This is because I would not be taking the new medication, Loestrin, which is essentially estrogen for me. I can clearly see the benefits of taking it. However, each evening I have headaches and am nauseous. Some nights are worse than others. And I am weary of sleeping in 90-minute segments all night long. So, I really was looking forward to yesterday. It was to be a good day and a good evening and a very good night of sleep. I planned for it to be good.

It was not.
Surprise.

The nighttime headache never ended. When I awoke at 6:00 a.m., the headache was even worse and the nausea began again. I was very, very frustrated when I finally crawled out of bed around 11:00 and took care of Amos. We both huddled on the couch, until I got a chance to talk with a long-time friend, with whom I have been trying to re-connect. 'Tis a hard thing to do when my mind is in such turmoil and I struggle so. But she is kind and patient, and we have been talking on Fridays, her day off. Talking with her really helped me to step outside the nausea and headache a bit.

Afterward, I got that sort of desperate feeling to do something, anything, so I worked for a short time in the attic, clearing out three more boxes. I am, I think, about done there. By that I mean, I do not know what else to do.

For one, I have two sets of luggage. Since travel is so hard for me, I really do not need the luggage. So, I am not sure what to do. Because each set is different. Both are nice. Both I have had for years, one decades. Which pieces do I choose to keep? Which do I donate?

For another, I have Christmas decorations up there. I have not really decorated in nine years. Eight of them were because of living in my last home where I could not easily get to the decorations. And last Christmas I was packing up, moving, and then unpacking. I did reduce them down by two thirds, keeping only what I truly liked. However, for me, I frankly do not understand the real need for Christmas decorations. Christmas is about the birth of Christ, not all the decorations and parties and (though I am a secret glutton) the food. So, I could keep just the one "decoration" I truly love: a stained glass nativity set for the hearth. But would that make me a bah humbug of a person?

The other things left are: a box of clothing from Africa that I brought home when I was a missionary there, a box of hats, four boxes of books (I have less room for books since I had built-ins in my last home), four boxes of things from my office, a box of teaching supplies, a ceiling fan, the cover to my antique typewriter, and two boxes of demi-tasse cups and the antique shelves for them because I have not found a place to hang them in my home due to the plate railing in the dining room.

Not much, really, I just do not want to turn the lovely walk-up attic into a place to squirrel away things. Some day, I would like for it to be a reading area or something like that. If I had ready funds, I would have storage cabinets built along three of the walls, improve the lighting, and address the floor. So, I have worked over the past 11 months to tackle the things I stuck up there, not knowing what else to do. Truly, I probably could just give away the hats and the African clothing. I also will probably never need the teaching materials again. So, perhaps, I should reduce more.

Something that I have savored about this home is that I have worked hard, even before I moved, to let go of all the things I truly did not need, some of which I have had since I was a teenager. I really like that I know where everything is and can get to it. Everything has a place and everything is in its place. However, I still have stuff that I do not really need and someone else could use. Of course (and you can now stick your tongue out at me), most of what is left is quite usable and I could find reasons to keep it for future projects or volunteering or if I were working again.

Still, the second area I worked on a bit was the basement, removing three large bags of stuff: 1 of recycling (old plastic containers I simply do not use), 1 of trash, and 1 of donations. The latter was primarily camping and picnic supplies. Truly, though I kept a few things should I get to do the cabin camping thing again, I let go of things I did not really need, like a napkin holder and an utensil holder. I also donated three ponchos and the last of my biking gear (I thought I had donated all of that). Actually, in writing this, I think, I shall not camp again and if I do, whomever takes me will have equipment. I shall package up the rest of it when I am done here save for the sleeping bag and mat!

Anyway, my goal for the basement is to reduce down the office supplies. [Yes, you can laugh again.] I have donated, over the past year or so before I moved here, six boxes of office supplies. Were I ever to become a hoarder, I think that would be my downfall. The scary part is that I have not actually purchased office supplies in years. Years! Probably, I could not ever have to purchase them again, except for computer paper and toner. SIGH. Last week, I took two boxes to Family and Children's Services and am working on a third box for them. One of the things I did was donate all the crayons, markers, and colored pencils that I had for the group work I used to do in my classrooms. I have two boxes left. I thought, just one. See, one more thing to give away!

Anyway, with some progress made, I rested, almost giddily looking forward to an evening of no nausea, no headache, and a proper night's sleep. So excited was I, that I ended up staying up far too late reading.

Then.
I started feeling ill.
I could not figure out why.
Finally, I realized it was my blood sugar.

It has been so long since this was a problem that I was no longer prepared for this. I stumbled out of bed, fell down the stairs, and got my tester. My hands were shaking so much and I was so confused that I kept ruining the test strips by jamming the wrong end into the machine. I was sweating and weak and trying very hard not to faint. When my blood sugar is so low, the world starts to recede and then thinking becomes like slogging through thick mud. I really should have just gone straight to the refrigerator. When I did, I felt like a crazed person digging through a dumpster for something edible.

I no longer have a basket of drink and food in my bedroom. I no longer have easy good sugars to consume. I am no longer used to dealing with this. The medication I have for insulin resistance has done such a fine job for me!

I finally grabbed a ginger ale, even though soda is a poor choice for me since having a large dose of carbohydrates means crashing again a couple of hours later. I was really, really frightened because even after drinking several large gulps, I did not start to feel any better. So, I chugged the entire ginger ale and then started shoving cheese and peanuts and popcorn in my mouth hand over fist to try and compensate for the rush of sugar from the soda.

When it seemed that I was not going to fade away permanently, I curled up on the floor and waited for the sweating and shaking and anxiety to subside. It was a long while before I made it back upstairs to bed. And hours still more before I could fall asleep.

A great blessing, though, was a new friend now turned neighbor one block over. [Yes, something good came out of Facebook.] A fellow night owl, she was awake when I texted her and Becky about what happened to have someone check on me today. She texted me back, and we chatted as I struggled to ride out the fear that arose from how ill I was and how frustrated that I had dropped the ball and did not have what I needed upstairs. She is so kind and so laid back. I wonder if anything would ever really phase her. In any case, she just texted away while I calmed down and my blood sugar rose.

I remembered reading the Loestrin could affect the control of blood sugar. I am sure that the lack of the pill last night was the trigger after 24 days of take it. While I am not sure it would be the same tonight, I plan to eat a small feast of protein around midnight. I think the hardest part is that I did notice that warning when I was reviewing the medication. I worked on a schedule for my medications since I had to take it equal distance between two doses of one medication and opposite a second medication. I was so focused on schedule, that I forgot about the blood sugar warning. I did notice the warning so I should not have been caught off guard.

And if I were asleep when it started, if I had not been reading so foolishly late? What then?

Mostly, I just don't want to have to think about something else. I don't want to have to cope with something else. I don't want to have to plan for something else. I wanted this problem to have stayed solved. I feel like a child stamping her foot in a fit of petulance and screaming: No more! No more! No more!

SIGH.

While I was up all night, when I did finally sleep, I slept 5 hours and then 3 hours. Note the time. I slept longer than 90 minutes at a spell! So, even with the debacle that was yesterday, that was last night, I have high hopes for this evening. Today, I have had no headache. Today, I have had no nausea. Tonight, I hope to sleep and sleep and sleep some more.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me.

Small things that are not...

2011-11-17T19:26:00.001-05:00

This summer, my new friend and writing partner came here with her family because her beloved, a pastor, was attending a conference. At the time, one of the gifts they gave me was a propane tank for my grill. Since mine could not go on the moving truck and my car was comically overfull, I needed to get one once I moved here. The problem with that is I am no longer strong enough to actually carry a propane tank from car to grill, even if I have a Lowe's staff person put it in the back of my Highlander for me. When my friend and her husband asked me if they could do something for me, I asked if he would ferry a tank for me if I purchased it. Of course, being generous of spirit, they purchased, ferried, and installed the tank.

Tonight, I am reveling in the blessing of grilled chicken. For all the things I have burned of late, my grilled chicken is practically perfect every blooming time! I turn on the propane and then the grill and set the timer for ten minutes. While waiting for it to heat up, I marinate the chicken in olive oil and herbs. Once the timer goes off, I put the chicken on the grill and turn it down from high to medium-high. I set the timer for five minutes. When that timer goes off, I turn the chicken over and set the timer for another five minutes. Once the chicken is done, I turn off the grill, turn off the tank, and set the timer for five more minutes so the chicken can rest a bit.

A couple of weeks ago--or maybe just a few days for time has become so strange to me--I set off the smoke alarm for the thousandth time while trying to cook, of all things, boxed macaroni and cheese. Macaroni and cheese! No smoke alarm should EVER go off for macaroni and cheese! But, alas, I burn so much stuff that this has become a common occurrence.

Well, something in me snapped--it was just macaroni and cheese after all--and I took a hammer to the smoke alarm. I did not stop smashing until I was certain that the tiny pieces would no longer shriek at me as I try to cook.

This was, perhaps, not the best decision on my part. However, this alarm really objected to most every mistake I made whilst cooking. I frankly do not need any more criticism in my life. I will not discuss the first alarm I demolished, but I still have one left in a central location on the first floor and one in the basement.

[I did find it rather strange, last night, when I came in from letting Amos tend his business, to find the first floor filled with smoke. You see, I had been roasting myself before the fire when he asked to go out and forgot to put the screen back in place while I was gone. A log rolled out, caught my pillow on fire, and was well on the way toward catching other things when I returned. Not a peep out of the smoke alarm that I did test right after I demolished the overly sensitive one. Proper application of my fire extinguisher solved my problem and I resolved to not leave the screen off again when I am away from the fire.]

Perhaps you are not following me, but I have often blogged about how much I believe the fires are a gift of our Creator, an example of how God does pour out blessings upon us. There has not been a single fire during which some part of it I become overwhelmed by the continued blessings God has given me through the warmth and soothing peace of fire. Like with the grill. With all the failures I have in the kitchen, I still have one certain success. And I have it because of the blessings my friend and her husband poured out upon me while they were here. A propane tank might be a small thing to you, but to me it is not. It is a great blessing--a true encouragement that I am not a complete failure in the kitchen and a reminder to expect good things from the One who cares for us all. There has not been a single time that I have used it when I have not, at one point or another, been overwhelmed by the continued blessings God has given me through it.

So, I suppose, I should not have been surprised to receive another small thing that is not. Not small by any stretch of the imagination: the True Handheld Communications Device pictured above. Yes, I am now the very grateful and still overwhelmed owner of the new pocket edition of the Christian Book of Concord!

Fred had expressed a wish for an index of the hymns that are in the Pastoral Care Companion (PCC). My first thought was: Well, I can do that! He and Ethel have been so kind to me, and his longing to be able to sing hymns more easily while out on visits with just his PCC was so very sweet. I am all for folk having hymns sung to them when weary or ill or hurting or lonely or just when an undershepherd has stopped by to visit.

Pictured here is the first page of the index I created. It is three pages and printed on sticky label sheets, so that it fits on the last page and the two insides of the back cover.

I started the project while at court, trying to distract myself from how I felt and what was happening. It should have taken me but a day or two. I am ashamed to add up the length of time that passed before I was able to mail this out to Fred and the other two Lutheran pastors who expressed a desire for a copy. I was glad, however, to be of use, to be able to help another. And, to Fred, this is a perfect example of something that appears small but is not. To him, this is a great blessing that God will multiply beyond measure, beyond what my mind could imagine while putting it together. An easy thing for me to do, the index really will help him be a better pastor. It was a small thing that really is not.

Last week, while in court, I wished I had something else to occupy my mind. Of course, being paralyzed by the snarling pit bull staring at me from the back of that woman's sister's shirt, I am not sure I would have been all that productive.

This week, I did have another project. One for me! You see, Fred and Ethel decided to surprise me by sending the new, beautiful, small, handy, easy to carry version of the Book of Concord. To them, it is a small thing to do, to send me the gift. To me, it is a great, great blessing. I did, until I heard the ten-second exchange of my case, spend my time beginning to highlight my favorite bits in the Large Catechism. So, there I was, in a place that bothers me and frustrates me, wrapped up for a time, in the wonder of the pure doctrine. Ironically, I was reading about how being occupied with the Living Word is our single greatest repellent against the onslaught of our foe. His attacks in court are particularly strong.

I have found such solace in the pure doctrine. For all the struggles I face--and no few of them have been bits of what I have read (misread most likely) in the Book of Concord--the teaching, the certitude, of our Confessions has been a bastion of peace for me. A place where I am still, even if but for a short time. This is why I often lugged that heavy, cumbersome copy of the readers' edition of the Book of Concord around with me. But its weight is why I did not bring it as many places as I desired--most particularly not to court, since the long walk from the parking lot on my still injured foot would not have benefited by the extra burden.

Sitting in court, especially after the question and answer session that was so awful a couple of weeks ago, I find myself being defined by this utter disregard for who I am, for my well-being, for the needs that arose out of that unbelievably violent attack. I should not, but it is difficult to keep my eyes on what is true, especially there, especially how utterly alone I feel sitting in those benches, waiting for justice that is most likely never going to come.

I am not who that woman testified I was. I did not cause the attack. I did not lie about my puppy really being the animal who wounded me. I am not faking the terror that cripples me still.

Yet I am also not my failure, not my weakness. I am the beloved child of a God who pours out His love and blessings upon me like a never ending fountain. And He does so, quite often, in small things that are really not.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

At least the darned fly is dead...

2011-11-16T23:10:00.000-05:00

I knew today would be hard. Going to court always is. Be a weak and weary soul, I tried to mitigate how I would feel by setting up a few things for after.

Sunday, I gave Amos his hair cut, but I waited on his bath. I wanted to save the hours of post-bath snuggling with a sweet-smelling, soft, swaddled, snoring Amos for after. I also laid a fire so that it was all ready to go as soon as I arrived home. I saved the last of my boiled eggs, so that I could have a plate full of deviled eggs. A fire, deviled eggs, and copious amounts of doggy draping about me. All those things helped for after...but I still struggle mightily with how I feel.

Helpless. Frustrated. Frightened.

Again, I sat through all the other cases before the woman's was called. The judge noted nothing has been paid, she agreed that was so, he continued her case until December 7th. Truly, the entire exchange must have taken ten seconds, if that. My heart sank and I sat there wondering why I keep showing up. Only. Only I know why. My presence there is the only reason the judge has not simply dismissed the case.

After, I talked with the city attorney. Again, I got the advice that I needed to hire an attorney. With what money? And why would I do something that would cost more than the compensation?

I had this fleeting, rather unkind thought, as I sit here savoring the warm lump of puppy on me. What if I did find a lawyer to take my case, but instead of just suing the woman for the restitution I sue the City of Fort Wayne. Silly, right? Only this entire experience does not make sense to me. There is a law against allowing dogs to run loose. There is a law against failing to control a dangerous animal. Breaking those laws means a fine and restitution for someone who is harmed. Only there is absolutely no enforcement of those laws beyond assessing a fine and restitution. The fine is not enforced. The restitution is not enforced. There is no way to enforce collection. So, really, the law is useless. Or rather the law enforcement is useless.

It it not the City's job to keep its citizens safe? Is it not the City's job to enforce it's laws in order to do so? Am I not a citizen? Do I not pay tax dollars for the City's care and protection?

No lawyer wants to take a pro-bono case or contingency case for a woman with little assets who owes another woman with little assets a small amount of money. Would a lawyer take a case for a City with many assets that failed to enforce its laws, causing further frustration, hurt, and agony to one of its citizens?

SIGH. There is no help. There will be no money forthcoming to address the remaining bills. I do not matter to the woman. I do not matter to the court. I do not matter to the city.

I am still, rather stupidly terrified of a picture of a snarling pit bull on a t-shirt that is no longer before my face. Only it still is.

There is this fly. This extremely annoying fly has been bugging me (pun intended) for over three weeks. It has defied every attempt I have made to kill it. In an uncanny fashion, the fly has spent most of its time trying to hang out with me. On me. On my computer. On the arm of the couch. On Amos when he's on me. Today, I finally smashed it into oblivion.

One thing. One thing is better. No more fly.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me.

Off with your head...

2011-11-14T19:50:00.000-05:00

Would that it were someone would do this for me. Alas, the only "offing" that took place was a foot of hair. Yes, I lopped off my locks.

There are many, many reasons I could give you as to why I would never cut my hair. But I did. I whacked off a foot with an ease that surprised even me.

While my innards have been ever so much better since having the antibiotics, I am yet again battling nausea. That spot on the back of my head has gotten worse. And I am taking a medication that is helping me, but it is also making me ill every night. That's two kinds of nausea. Then there is the most awful of nausea when my blood pressure plummets from a veso vegal response. At those time, I am trembling and dizzy and weak and nauseous.

Then, of course, Amos gets tangled in my hair. And my hair gets caught in the pieces of wood I carry inside for my fires. And the wind whips it about since I get nauseous so very quickly these days while wearing a barrette or even my braids. And the weight of it bothers that spot if up in a bun.

I wanted to stop fighting something. I wanted something to get better. Anything. So, I whacked it off. Now, I can at least wear it down with out so much a mess and without so much of a tangle. Doing so was, as I said, so much easier than I thought it would be.

The irony is that the new medication--I am fairly certain--has ceased it falling out. In other words, since starting the medication, my hair stopped falling out. Coincidence? After two years, I think not. Showers no longer distressed me. Now, they will also be shorter. So much less to wash and and so much less comb out with conditioner!

Saturday night/early Sunday morning, I was violently ill from about 3:00 AM until around 8:00 AM. I dozed until around 12:30 or so and then dragged myself out of bed. Last night, thinking that I would try and get some sleep, I tried taking melatonin. So many people swear by it. I forgot to look it up. Yes, melatonin interacts with not one nor two, but three of my prescriptions. From 11:00 PM until around 9:00 AM I was terribly nauseous and terribly groggy. I dozed from 9:00 to 11:00, let Amos out, fed him, and crawled back in bed with him. We dozed until 1:40, when I got up for my appointment. Well, I dragged myself to and from my appointment, spending all my time there on the floor, still writhing about.

Now, thankfully, I am more clear-headed and the nausea has abated. The interaction is wearing off. Though, I will be tired still because since starting the new medication, I sleep just about 90 minutes at a time. I sleep deeply, dream, then awake. Over and over the cycle goes. Since the medication does have other gains, I am sticking with it. I am sticking with the nightly nausea (yet another trigger for nausea). I am sticking with the interrupted sleep. I am sticking with the process.

So, I lopped off my locks. The way I saw it, if I had to take on yet another battle, I needed to stop fighting one. It was the only one I could really control, the only one that came to mind.

SIGH. I do wish I could have kept my hair. I am not sorry it is gone.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me.

0410...

2011-11-12T22:08:00.000-05:00

So, my grammar is slipping, but at least I have taught Amos a new skill!

Yep, here is my beloved puppy dog lying down for me. In fact, he's so good at it, he will lie down if I hesitate to throw his ball. He's a bloody mind reader!

No, I know he's not. I'm not yet that far gone. But I am a better puppy momma today than I have been in a while. I should be teaching him more. I should be walking him about, but even if my foot were not all messed up, I would not. I would not. Step. Foot. Outside. Alas, Myrtle, focus on the success.

Okay, rejoice with me, then. This is my beloved puppy dog being obedient!

He's such a brilliant little pup. I taught the same as his Aunt Sandra did, using just his baby, telling him to "lay down." In just a few moments, he figured it out. After a while, he figured out I meant what I said. And after that he decided he would cooperate. Of course, I snapped a picture because he is, also, rather adorable.

Honestly, I do not know where I would be without his company. My little constant companion.

Today, we did laundry, cleaned the bathroom floor, and dusted. I am exhausted. In fact, after cleaning the bathroom floor, I laid back (I cleaned it while sitting) and napped for a bit. He merely curled up at my back like he does in bed and napped with me. No frolicking about making mischief while momma slept. That's my boy.

[No, we will not discuss how much he likes to get in trouble when I am awake. We are focusing on the positive.]

Being such a bright little fellow, Amos pointed out that I screwed up grammar with my command. I should have taught him "lie down," since "lay" requires a direct object. I told him I was too tired to be proper with my grammar. He told me being tired is never a proper excuse for poor grammar. I asked him if he ever wanted a bath again. He promptly ceased his discussion of my grammar.

He needs a bath. Of course, his bath towels are drying in the final load of laundry. Perhaps on the morrow. Or Monday. Or...maybe...I should wait until Wednesday. With another day at court, I will need the snuggling of a sweet-smelling, swaddle, snoring puppy as much as he longs to be a snuggly, swaddled, sweet-smelling puppy.

[In case you are wondering about the title, Amos typed it. Since I was planning to write about my puppy, I thought I would just leave it.]

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Because I cannot do what I want to do...

2011-11-11T21:59:00.000-05:00

This is the laundry room as I purchased the home. I do not have a better photo, or one showing the whole area. If you look closely, you will see the washing machine separated from the dryer by a cabinet topped with a sink. What you cannot see is this gargantuan table, 8 feet by 4 feet, that takes up much of the rest of the space. What you also cannot see is an open gas line curled up above the table that is not capped. The shower is broken. The faucet on the sink is broken. The drain for the washing machine is broken. The dryer works, though. I LOVE how it dries in just one cycle after having been constantly disappointed by the new Maytag I had at my old home that took 2 or even 3 cycles to dry clothing.

Here, you can see that a plumber has been hard at work. Unfortunately, shortly after purchasing the home, the washing machine broke. So, in this photo, you see a new one. The plumber moved the washing machine over adjacent to the dryer. He also plumbed a drain line and repaired the broken portion that is behind the shower. Since it was too expensive to try and rebuild the sink's faucet (it was on a beveled front), the plumber removed the sink and cabinet and then hung a new laundry sink for me. He also repaired the shower. Since there was already two water line hook-ups, all the plumber had to do was switch which went to the washing machine and which went to the sink. I used a cabinet left behind in another part of the basement to serve as another cabinet, happy that it had a Formica top. You can see the gargantuan table and a box of icky rags the previous owner left behind that I was afraid to touch.

Here is what I did because I cannot do what I want to do. I could not stop the pit bull. I could not speak up for myself in court. I could not even move once that woman's sister sat down in front of me and taunted me with her t-shirt. I painted, with left over paint from the solarium. I got out my saw and reconfigured the gargantuan table into a counter, adding back the siding, relocating the log, and then making another leg. I also added vinyl floor tiles to make a table top. I found the rug and the windowpane mirror on Craig's List. All in all, the transformation cost $43. Well, $43 and a lot of energy and muscle pain on my part. Actually, it did not take all that long to paint, nor saw the table apart, nor screw the leg back on, nor add the new leg, nor hang the mirror, nor hang the printers drawers that have been sitting on the table since I moved. It did not take all that long, but it was still very hard for me because I am weaker.

I probably shouldn't have done the work. Or, maybe, done it over a much longer period. I suppose I busied myself and wearied myself because it was something I could do instead of being trapped once more by what I cannot do.

I will say that I like the space much, much more now. I never really used the table because the top seemed dirty no matter how much I tried to clean it. Plus, I could not reach across it. You can see, however, that all this beautification has not inspired me to do the ironing that is in the corner basket...that has been in the corner basket since the end of July.

I wish...I wish so much that I were not who I am, that I were stronger, that I could think more clearly, that I really could be free of the night of July 12th. Of that night and all the other bad times that fell me so very easily. I wish I were, but I am not. I wish I could, but I cannot.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me.

Here I am again...

2011-11-09T21:38:00.000-05:00

Another week has passed. Another week in which I cannot really tell you what has happened or what I have done. Another week in which I am lost. Another week in which another hearing came and went and nothing happened. Another continuance. Another week where I stumbled and fell.

The woman came to court with two rows of people supporting her. Last week, when her sister stood to leave with her, the judge actually spoke. He was very angry over her attire, a t-shirt and baggy pajama pants. She told him that she had come from work. He was still very angry and told her that she had better not appear in his court again without showing respect in her attire.

This week, she wore jeans--with holes--and another t-shirt. She purposely sat in front of me. Her t-shirt had a drawing of a snarling pit bull and the shirt read: PIT BULLS we be off the chain!

I was paralyzed in fear. I couldn't move. The entire time I sat there, growing more and more afraid, unable to tear my eyes away from the face of the dog. I cowered the entire time. I cowered as I listened to every other case on the docket. I cowered as I listened to her say she would never pay me. I cowered as she said that her dog (yes, now it is her dog) never hurt me. I cowered as the judge merely continued the case once more. I cowered as her mother claimed she was now pregnant and couldn't bear the hardship of coming to court. I cowered as her mother interrupted the judge to defend her daughter. I cowered as the judge ordered her to shut up and leave. I cowered as I saw through a trial so I could talk to the animal control supervisor. I cowered as I told him about the t-shirt. I cowered as I stumbled back to my car. I cowered as I tried, without success, to stop seeing the face of that snarling pit bull before me.

I cower still.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me.

His hold on me is just as strong...

2011-11-02T23:54:00.000-04:00

Today was another hearing date. The woman who failed to appear, who has failed to pay even a penny of the restitution, was arrested Monday night, arraigned on Tuesday morning, and ordered to appear in court today to explain why it is that she has not paid.

There was not much explaining. Really, it was all about blame. The attack was my fault. I didn't control my dog (my 7 month-old puppy). The pit bull was not attacking me. My injuries were from my dog. My injuries are not real. I am lying. She's seen me gallivanting about the neighborhood. It wasn't her dog. She has nothing to do with the dog. On and on it went, mostly with repeated accusations flung my way.

I was not prepared for this. I was not prepared, in the least, for when the city attorney called me forward to testify. Upon hearing his first question: "Will you tell us about that night?" I started trembling. I stumbled and bumbled my way through answering his questions. With each thought about that night, I shook harder, terror welled up within me, nausea overwhelmed me, and I collapsed to the floor. Really, I wanted to crawl beneath the nearest bench and stay there. I forced myself up, finished speaking, and stumbled back to my seat.

The woman then began her piece and her accusations when on and on and on. The city attorney did not stop her, did not tell her that it was not my fault, did not point out the folly of blaming a 7-month-old bichon poo puppy for an attack for a pit bull. He did not read any of the affidavit testimony. He did not point out that the moment I saw the pit bull running toward us, I picked up Amos and held him up to my shoulder. He only allowed her to speak her piece.

The judge was silent, not even looking at anyone.

The city attorney filled the silence by asking the woman if she was sorry.
She said that the dog was not hers.
The city attorney asked again if the woman was sorry about what happened to me.
She said that she didn't know what to think.
The city attorney asked the woman a third time if she was sorry about what happened to me.
She said, "No, I do not. It doesn't matter at all. She doesn't matter at all."

I sat shaking and trembling and feeling just as terrified as when the pit bull dragged me to the ground, just as desperate was when I felt my grip on Amos slipping when the pit bull was trying to rip him out of my arms. The pain of his hold on my arm as he dragged me to the ground, tearing the muscle, is just as strong.

I pretend it is over.
I pretend that I am better.
I try to fake it until I can make it.

His hold on me is just as strong.
The terror.
The pain.
The hopelessness.
The overwhelming horror of looking up and knowing...knowing what was coming and that I was helpless to stop it.
His hold on me is just as strong.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me.

The clearer my vision the more blurred it becomes...

2011-10-27T23:21:00.000-04:00

Last December, I had my vision corrected for the first time in longer than I can really remember. I suppose, at least since I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 1994. Yes, I still have spells of blurred vision and double vision. The more fatigued I am, the less I can see clearly. However, that day in December was such a miracle to me. I have not gone back to find that entry, but if you did, it would a marvel of how the doctor actually listened to me and then was will to step outside the tried-and-true approach to help me.

You see, when I looked at the white bar with black letters, I would see three of them. The questions: "Better One?" "Better Two?" would sink me into despair. I couldn't tell if One or Two was better because I couldn't figure out where I was supposed to look. Which set of letters? How can I tell when they are slightly overlaid each other? I would try to speak my problem, but no one really listened. I could never really see clearly.

I found it rather ironic that just before I was moving, I found this wonder of a doctor who corrected my vision because she listened. She listened to me. And she wanted to help.

Of course, when she started the tried-and-true, I started weeping. Small tears, but tears nonetheless. So fresh was my grief. The doctor was surprised. She said an eye exam should never drive someone to tears. I explained my problem. She said we could try a different approach. Her idea was rather simple. And, for me, it was brilliant. She ditched the smaller letters and went back to the second largest ones. Two simple Es side by side. She told me to focus on the edges, the corners and we went from there. And she told me to close my eyes as the lenses were being flipped so as not to distract me.

Close your eyes.
Don't look.
Now. Open them.
What do you see?
Describe it for me.
Okay, close them again.
Wait.
Now open them.
How is it now?
Describe for me how you feel about the difference, not just what you are seeing.
What are you thinking as you look?
Where does your eye fall first?
What troubles you still?
Close your eyes.
Don't look.
Okay. Open them.
What do you see now?

Slowly, starting with the easiest step before moving on to the smaller letters. Only when I felt safe and sure and certain did she switched to the third set. Then the fourth. And the fifth.

Voila!

I could see. Of course, on the way home, I wept. I called Bettina in joy and wept. I could see! I could see leaves on the trees again. I could see street signs. All the way down the streets, I could see. It was glorious to me. Simply glorious.

Only.

Only the strange thing is that with my vision properly corrected, I could no longer see anything close to me. My vision is now rather incredibly blurred. In fact, I am, for all intents and purposes, blind. I cannot hold out a paper or a phone or a watch far enough to make a difference. I cannot read anything. I cannot see anything. The strain of trying--because my brain will not cease to try--makes me dizzy and sparks instant pain in my head. To me, it is rather remarkable.

And disconcerting.

For the longest time, as my life has...unraveled...I have simply worn my glasses. I only had the one trial pair of lenses that I took home. I wasn't really going anywhere. What I could see or not see did not matter. And in many ways, with my glass, it is easier to see the things close to me. With them, I can simply remove them to read, to look at a watch, to make a phone call. But a while ago I purchased new boxes of contacts because I do want to see better when I am out. When I am driving, especially, since I still do not know the streets here. And driving by memory, as I was doing in my last locale, is not an option.

Yet it is disconcerting to not be able to read or dial a phone or even really to see the dash board.

I drive with reading glasses.
I need stronger ones.
I keep forgetting to purchase them.

I actually wear reading glasses much of the time when I am wearing my contacts. It is simply easier to do so. Yet sometimes I leave the house for an appointment and forget to check my purse to make sure that I have a pair of reading glasses with me. I have to ask people to read things for me, to look at things for me, to tell me what to do.

Where to sign.
What is the right bill in my wallet.
What day it is.
What is the time.
What is the phone number.
Where the right button on the elevator is.
Which is office.

With no correction, I can read but not see much past a few feet. With correction, I cannot see anything within a few feet. At least not anything small. At least not anything useful.

In many ways, the far vision of my life is being corrected. Only the more it is corrected, the more I cannot see clearly the things right in front of me. Too, some of the correction is a work in progress. The lenses are still being flipped before me, so while they are no longer what they were, they are not quite clear. In fact, some of them are quite blurry. And, in other ways I am blind both near and far, remembering so little.

Even the good things.
Even the recent things.
Even the things I want to know.

I suppose I have been thinking about this because I have been thinking about the things I see in my life, the way I see myself, the way I see the world. To me, they are so clear, yet not so much so to others. At least not in the way I wish it were. I have been thinking about the New Testament, about the sweet, sweet Gospel. To me, much of it is blurred, unclear, masked by law and condemnation. Not the way I wish it were.

I could wish there were a pair of reading glasses for my life. But maybe I should concentrate more on the fact that I have someone working on correcting my vision. Perhaps, by the time she is done. I shall have no need of reading glasses for the why of me. Perhaps, I shall simply see clearly both near and far.

Oh, I wish there were a pair of reading glasses for the sweet, sweet Gospel.
No, I wish more than that.
I wish.
I wish I had an eye doctor like the one I met who could help me with the sweet, sweet Gospel.
I wish I had someone correcting the distortion in my vision.
I wish.
Oh, how I wish.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

A day of tears, a day of happiness...

2011-10-24T23:59:00.000-04:00

I awoke weeping. I spent the day weeping. I am weeping now. Too many things. Too many big things. Things I have not known. Things I have known, but have kept hidden. Things.

But I thought I would try to write about something that has been on my mind. Only, I have not yet written because it is another topic I think I will not truly be able to find the words that I want. The words that will say what is on my mind.

A while ago, someone posted a link to this blog entry. Is is about non-schooling, but it is also about happiness. At the risk of seeming to skew the writer's words, I am quoting here just a portion of it:

People are clearly confused about happiness. That’s why professors at Harvard are always writing new books about it, and those books are always becoming bestsellers. That’s why the New York Times has so many articles about it. That’s why we all talk about it. We’re trying to figure it out. What the hell is it? Is it the same for everyone? Is it totally different? Do we have to work for it? How hard? What does that work look like? Do we even recognize it when we have it? Is it completely obvious? Does it involve delicious food? Or should we diet?

We all want to get to happiness, but we don’t seem to know how.
...

But nonschooling is about reminding ourselves of the things that matter. Reminding ourselves that no one is really sure how to get to future happiness, and no one is certain how much certain kinds of success contribute to it, but I think things might be better for everyone if we just spent more time being happy now.

As an ex-educator, ex-literacy professor, I have very decided opinions on unschooling and non-schooling. As someone who writes, I find it strange that the writer makes a point about no one knowing what happiness is and then concludes that we are to spend more time being happy. The very, very, very honest part of me believes that this is a good example of a piece that sounds good but does not really say anything. Of course, maybe you would say the same about all of my writing. I would not blame you.

So, why did I quote that?

Well, ever since I read this...after I got over my thoughts about nonschooling...I have been thinking about happiness. And absolutes.

I have written before that I believe the bible is full of black and white. For years, I heard a lot about grey areas. Our world has definitely embraced grey areas. Everything is relative. Even truth, honesty, and morality. The ends justifies the means is probably the core belief of more people than we would care to admit. But I believe in black and white.

In reading the New Testament, I found a hard, narrow way. Very narrow. Not so much in church or in Sunday School or on retreats. But in the Bible. Granted, most of what I read was skewed by works righteousness, but I did believe in things having one meaning. Not what it means to me as opposed to what it means to you. Not a whole mess of for yous, but one for you that covers all. That is why, essentially, when I began reading the Book of Concord, I felt I had come home, even if I really do not understand what home is.

[Two double entendres in a single paragraph. A first for me. A prize for you if you can tell me both words.]

The Book of Concord is documentation, really, of Christians who profess that there is that single for you, that there is but one meaning to the Living Word, not the meaning we might like to make of it, meanings that would fit the way we think life should be or the way we would like life to be. It is strange, if you think about it, what freedom there is in a doctrine that teaches one way, one meaning, one truth...as opposed to ways and meanings and truths that fit the idiosyncrasies of the existence that is the human race.

The writer of the blog, in my opinion, states that we cannot know what happiness is, how to find it, how to achieve it. I believe she is wrong.

[Okay...get all your great big guffaws out and all those snide remarks about irony of someone who spent the day weeping claiming such. Are you done? Wait a minute...I'm not...okay, now I am.]

The thought that keeps chasing around in my head is that the Bible teaches and our Confessions proclaim that happiness lies in Christ crucified, in life by and with and through the cross. Understanding this--in part since for now we see but dimly--is the beginning. Also important is understanding Hebrews 12, understanding what is means that "for the joy set before Him" Christ despised the shame and endured the cross.

I wrote about this in a project I am working on with my new writing partner. More and more I am convinced that to teach that Hebrews 12 and James 1 as meaning we are to be joyful about suffering is skewing what the Living Word is speaking to us. Christ is fully man, even as He is fully God. That means, as a man, he would NOT be jumping with joy at the thought of being beaten, spat upon, stripped naked, taunted, humiliated, and tortured to death. NONE of that is a joyful thing, NONE are joyful experiences. However, what comes after those things, after the shame and after the torture, is what fills Christ to the brimming with joy: new life for all His sheep. Or, as many a Lutheran pastor has written when mentioning funeral sermons, getting to kick satan in the teeth! Surely freedom from the wrath of sin for His beloved sheep is a joy beyond all joys.

Dictionary.com defines "happiness" as the quality or state of being happy, "happy" as characterized by or indicative of pleasure, contentment, or joy, which is why I began with joy. Only joy is not the end of my thought. The end of my thought, really, is the first article of the Creed that is, in my mind, inextricably linked to the fourth petition of the Lord's Prayer.

I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth. | Give us this day our daily bread.

I have a few verses in the bible that really irritate me. I admit that. One I have wrestled with for decades is Paul telling me that he is content in all circumstances in Philippians 4:11-13. Only, because of that blog, with which I disagree on so very many levels, I believe I finally found peace with this passage. [And, yes, I do mean a cessation of hostilities, not some mushy, gushy, soothing feeling.]

I am no pastor. I am not properly trained. AND I very deliberately did not go look up that passage in the Lutheran Study bible. However, I believe that all those years I was taught this wrong, too. Paul is not telling me to be content with suffering. I believe that Paul is speaking of joy here, beneath His words. I believe Paul is speaking of the peace of Christ. I believe Paul is speaking of being washed clean and forgiven, daily and richly and for all time. Knowing those things, having that state of being, makes for contentment even as you are also raging against suffering, pain, sorrow, loss, grief, anger, jealously, loss, death, illness, confusion, etc. The list is as endless as the sins of this world. Knowing who you are in Christ, knowing what you are given through the Holy Spirit, knowing that the Creator of the universe also is the one who creates and maintains your faith...that is joy, peace, and contentment.

So, then, how do I bring this back around? Why are the Creed and the Lord's Prayer the key to happiness that is real, can be achieved, by everyone?

But what is the force of this, what do you mean by these words, "I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth?" Answer, I mean that He has given and constantly preserves for me my body, soul, and life, my members great and small, all my senses, reason, and understanding, and so on. He gives me food and drink, clothing and support, wife and children, domestic servants, house and home, and more. Besides, He causes all created things to serve for the uses and necessities of life. These include the sun, moon, and stars in the heavens, day and night, air, fire, water, earth, and whatever it bears and produces. They include birds and fish, beasts, grain, and all kinds of produce. They also include whatever else there is for bodily and temporal goods, like good government, peace and security." [BOC, LC, II, 13-16]

Give us this day, our daily bread.

Here, now, we consider the poor breadbasket, the necessities of our body and the temporal life. It is a brief and simple word, but it has a very wide scope. For when you mention and pray for daily bread, you pray for everything that is necessary in order to have and enjoy daily bread. On the other hand, you also pray against everything that interferes with it. Therefore, you must open wide and extend your thoughts not only to the oven or the flour bin, but also to the distant field and the entire land, which bears and brings to us daily bread and every sort of nourishment, for if God did not cause food to grow and He did not bless and preserve it in the field, we could never take bread from the oven or have any to set upon the table.

To sum things up, this petition includes everything that belongs to our entire life in the world, for we need daily bread because of life alone. It is not only necessary for our life that our body have food and clothes and other necessaries. It is also necessary that we spend our days in peace and quiet among the people with whom we live and have dealings in daily business and conversation and all sorts of doing. In short, this petition applies both to the household and also to the neighborly or civil relationship and government.

Let this be a very brief explanation and sketch, showing how far this petition extends through all conditions on earth. On this topic anyone might indeed make a long prayer. With so many words one could list all the things that are included, like when we ask God to give us food and drink, clothing, house and home, and health of body. Or when we ask that He cause the grain and fruit of the field to grow and mature well. Furthermore, we ask that He help us at home with good housekeeping and that He give and preserve for us a godly wife, children, and servants. We ask that He give wisdom, strength, and success to emperors, kings, and all estates, and especially to the rulers of our country and to all counselors, magistrates, and officers. Then they may govern well and vanquish the Turks and all enemies. We ask that He give to subjects and the common people obedience, peace, and harmony in their life with one another. On the other hand, we ask that He would preserve us from all sorts of disaster to body and livelihood, like lightning, hail, fire, flood, poison, plague, cattle disease, war and bloodshed, famine, destructive beasts, wicked men, and so forth. [BOC, LC, III, 71-73, 76-79]

From the Small Catechism, two other things we ask for that stand out to me are: discipline and honor.

The Creed has come down to us as what we believe, teach, and confess. The Lord's Prayer are the very words Christ taught us to pray. The latter is not because He needs us to say them, to worship Him, but because He longs for us to have that which we need, a reminder of sorts of all the things we need, all the things our Creator gives to us by His Son, through the Holy Spirit and those sheep He needs to grow, harvest, manufacture, deliver, and sell us the bread.

The photo of the fire is a favorite of mind from those I have taken. That photo, to me, represents happiness, represents happiness that I can have because the fire and all things in my life are gifts from the Creator of the entire universe for me, for Myrtle. Knowing this. Feeling it. Clinging to it. In all circumstances.

Yes, I have spent the day weeping. I have spent the day struggling with something so shameful I cannot even speak it to myself. I have spent the day juggling so very many other things. Awash in shame and sorrow. Yet I have also spent the day in happiness. I have spent the day in happiness because here and there, between the tears, I have had the good gifts of God: in my ears (the Living Word and encouragement and prayers from friends), before my eyes (Words with Friends with Bettina, Star Trek Voyager, a photo of a locker decorated for me) on my tongue (white cheddar cheese, strawberry chocolate, Dr Pepper, and baby asparagus), between my fingers (soil, sand, grass, gardening tools), resting on my chest (Amos), bathing my skin (sunshine, gentle breezes, hot water).

In short, to me, happiness lies in knowing who I am and in choosing to see all the good gifts God showers upon me...even as He is capturing my tears in a bottle, forgiving me my sin, not holding my shame and doubt and despair against me, and sustaining me throughout that shame and doubt and despair. In my weakness, knowing. In my brokenness, knowing.

Or, to put it another way: The whole world with all diligence has struggled to figure out what God is, and what He has in mind and does. Yet the world has never been able to grasp the knowledge and understanding of any of these things. But here we have everything in richest measure. For in all three articles God has revealed Himself and open ...the deepest abyss of His fatherly heart and His pure, inexpressible love. [BOC, LC, II, 63]

The world cannot know God. [Maybe that is the reason for all those books on happiness the blogger mentioned.] The world cannot know God, but we can. And in knowing God, we can know who we are and what He gives us for Christ's sake because of who we are. I know that they are different words and words matter. But, to me, the real meaning of love, joy, peace, happiness, and contentment are all a single word: knowing. Not mere knowledge, but knowing. We can know God in plenty and in want. We can know who we are in sickness and in health. We can know what He gives us in joy and in sorrow. We know and, therefore, happiness is ours to have.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

Avoiding what is in my head...

2011-10-24T22:28:00.000-04:00

I have slowly been working on the stepping stones in the yard (ruining two pairs of pajama pants in the process) by scooting along the ground. [Yes, I garden in my pajamas (lounge pants).] In all, I found 27 stepping stones, either buried in the yard or stuck beneath the back porch (remember the electrician had to crawl under there for his work, so I explored, too).

Two of them I used to extend the sidewalk the entire length of the back steps back when I was making the two beds next to the steps. The other 25 now make a pathway around three sides of the garage. [Yes, I appropriately used leveling sand that I purchased months ago when I first started hankering for this to be done.] They are set slightly above ground height, but buried enough so that I can run the lawnmower over them.

By spreading them farther apart than they were originally set, I was able to have one path go to my bench and the other path to the side gate. However, the last five feet to the gate are stoneless. I also was able to redistribute the rectangles of grass to bare parts of the back yard. [Yes, my yard recovered from my over fertilizing in just the past month with all the rain we have had.]

Free stepping stones, $8 worth of sand, and lots of elbow grease--yard happiness. [And, of course, some lounge pants that are now all brown on the back side.]

It helps me to so something physical when my mind is upset and there is not all that much I can do. It also helps me--greatly--when I organize. My neighbors are very admiring of my pathways now, so I consider my mostly seated labors to be organizing my back yard.

A weird little bit of symmetry: At my first house, I found an old fashioned, brass garden hose sprayer when digging in the dirt. I found a second one here!

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Not the way I thought life would be...

2011-10-20T16:56:00.000-04:00

In the affordable housing world, we would always talk about how HUD's guidelines were that your housing expense should be no more than 30% of your income. Last year (because I only have my old numbers), in the DC-Metro area, that would mean a minimum wage earner would have to work over 4 full-time jobs. With our current ability to navigate the space-time continuum only in a linear fashion, that simply isn't possible. It is one reason apartment complexes have problems with 2-4 families living in a single apartment. [This is often called the Sheet Problem, since families will hang sheets from the ceiling to divide up a bedroom.]

Yet the DC-Metro area, as all regions do, simply cannot function without minimum wage and even low-income workers. Stop, for a moment and really, really think about it. Think about how many people who are *working* but cannot meet this threshold. As you drive to work or to the grocery store or to church, think about all the people who make single digit hourly salaries.

A few years ago, a city counsel member discovered that 41% of the residents of the City of Alexandria were in this boat. That meant that 41% of the residents had to work more than one job or double or triple up on living arrangements. At the same time, over 10,000 affordable housing units in the city were lost, primarily to gentrification, usually meaning they were sold for conversion to condominiums or raised to make way for other developments altogether.

Jobs are scarce right now. But even in a strong job market, so very many jobs are for wages that are not really livable for the region. So, sometimes, when people criticize families for having both parents work, it rather drives me crazy. And the sort of blanket condemnation for homeless folk boils my blood. Even for those who live within their means, homelessness is not all that far away. Once there, it is so hard to climb back into housing because of needing first and last month's rent and a deposit and household items and a credit check and a phone number and often a current work history.

The housing market is simply insane...and not just because of all the bad mortgages. It is insane, really, that I could have a tiny duplex place that cost me $1,700 in one city and have a single family home that is nearly 3 times as large that costs $437 in another city. True, as a communications manager I would make more money in the first city than here, but certainly not 4 times as much. And those minimum wage workers here would certainly not make more money in the larger city.

My current situation makes me think about healthcare costs. I mean, to live in a way that I can still function (not taking all that I should be, but just the pain, fainting, and asthma meds), is to spend more money on medication than I will on every other expense in my life (housing, food, clothing, communications, TV, auto & home insurance, firewood, puppy dog, etc.). And that "healthcare" expense will not even cover health insurance, much less any visits to anyone for any type of care.

I have had my own health insurance since I was 18, I believe, first through college and then via jobs. Being chronically ill for so long now, I have always valued health insurance. But I honestly have not pictured a life without it. And yet I am uncomfortable at the thought spending near double on health care than all my other expenses just to stay covered...when...I have no job and very likely will not work again. Is that really the prudent use of the funds that I will have? Is that really good stewardship?

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

How do you ever trust anyone...

2011-10-19T23:37:00.000-04:00

I learned today that the surgery I had four years ago was not, in fact, the surgery I agreed to have performed. I learned this because the fourth specialist I have seen since then is the first one to actually read the surgical report from the hospital I have submitted to each new doctor as a part of my records. It is a report I never read since it was technical and since I always assumed was about the surgery I needed instead of one that I did not need and would not resolve my problem.

The news was devastating, for my life over the past four years would have been markedly different had I had the proper surgery. At a minimum, I have suffered through a problem that could have been resolved four years ago. And a grief that I have struggled to absorb would never have taken place.

The news was welcome, for it means that the things that did not add up medically, now make absolute perfect sense.

The news was hopeful, for it means I have more options and more positive options in addressing my problem since the surgery was not actually performed (it is one not done twice).

Still, it is simply overwhelming to learn that a surgeon would not only perform a surgery to which I had not given consent but also failed to reveal that fact to me. I only have the report that is NOT a part of my medical records from that surgeon because a doctor who felt I needed to see another specialist logged into the hospital system and printed out several surgical reports for me to pass on as a way of being helpful to the next doctor.

Seriously, if you are having surgery, I am thinking that you should ask every single person in the operating room if he/she knows which surgery you are to have so that, perhaps, someone might hold the surgeon accountable for his/her actions before it is too late.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

The strands in my hands...

2011-10-09T13:37:00.000-04:00

This is the hair that I have lost in the past four months. I have kept it to show the doctor when I see her on the 19th, for whenever someone looks at my hair, they do not seem to understand why I wail that I am losing my hair. In my opinion, I believe the hair loss is significant. I believe the sudden onset of hair loss that has been rather substantial is significant. Something is causing this. And--pardon my screaming--IT IS NOT JUST STRESS! I have had many times of extraordinary stress and strain in my life without ever losing my hair. Something fundamental has changed within my body. Incidentally, the other new thing that happened during this time is that I have these bruises that appear all over, but mostly on my arms and legs. Sometimes, I have over a dozen of them at once. Still, it is the hair loss that concerns me.

I have, conservatively, lost 75% of my hair in the past two years. For a while, the clumps left in my hand while washing my hair lessened. Such is the case no longer.

And, to be delicate about the matter, I am losing my hair elsewhere as well. Bare skin where it should not be so leaves me feeling the helpless child once more...someone whom I have tried so hard to escape being.

Four months.

My entire life I have longed for curls, been jealous of curls, tried to give myself curls. Now, all I have to do to curl my hair is twist it into a bun for a while. My hair is so thin now, that in doing so, when I take it back down, it stays in a single coil and separating it to brush it out is difficult...and results in more clumps in my brush.

My modus operandi for a very long time now has been to touch my hair as little as possible, either by washing, brushing, combing, or even arranging. Needless to say, I have not had good hair days very often.

Over the past two years, I have lost count of how many times I have spoken of this. I try and try with those close to me, but it seems to me, with the exception perhaps of Bettina, that no one is listening or understands or, frankly, believes me.

I have said several times that when the coverage of hair on my head becomes wispy, I shall get out the razor, shave it bald, and transition to wigs. I will need help doing so, to be sure. But I do not want to be one of those women holding on to the very last hair on her head.

My hair dries so quickly now, when it used to take hours and hours. Wringing it out in the shower is so strange because so little fills my grip. And, as I have noted, my thick ropes of braids are now mere strings.

I know that I still have more hair than many, many women. For that, I am grateful. But the agony of watching it fall out is so very hard for me to endure. I have my good days and my bad days, but truly, in this matter, I have never risen to the occasion and taken the high road. No, more often than not, I sink to my knees in the shower, curl up in a ball, and weep deeply before I can managed to gather myself enough to finish.

My hair has been the only part of me that the other gender has ever noted as being attractive. My hair has been the one thing that makes me feel feminine. And my hair has been a covering that lessons my shame. To me, the latter is the only thing that truly matters. Losing it is overwhelming, draining, a constant ache I find difficult to ignore...and terrifying, in thinking about the time I shall be covered no more.

Fred wrote to me this morning, not knowing of the time I spent at the bottom of the tub last night, the following: ... the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of that world, Jesus takes away ALL sin. ALL of it ....God does not see you the way you see or describe yourself. You are justified, forgiven, made new, a beloved child of God for Jesus' sake. You are beloved by God in Christ.

I should be able to remember the sweet, sweet Gospel on my own. But truly I need it spoken to me in some fashion...daily...sometimes hourly.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

What place have I...

2011-10-08T22:51:00.000-04:00

There was a Facebook conversation on homosexual marriage that left me rather bothered today...not for the homosexual pieces of the conversation, but for the heterosexual ones. At one point, in a section discussing how marriage should be taught in the Lutheran Church, one person wrote: I think the bottom line is we have to tell people--your boys are called to be, mostly, dads and husbands and provide for their families. Your girls are called to be mothers and wives.

This part of the conversation is exactly why I am oft uncomfortable in the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod, despite my continuing joy at having finally found the pure doctrine after decades in the errant, despairing doctrine of works righteousness and egocentric worship that is prevalent in the evangelical church. This is because--it seems to me--many people, including pastors, have completely set aside any positive view toward singleness. Actually, it is not unusual to come across those taking a swipe at single people, as if they are being selfish in some fashion being single.

Marriage is certainly a good gift and the way that Goddesigned human kind to perpetuate, but not all are called to marriage. And nowhere have I found teaching from our Savior or His chosen apostles that it is the primary call of a male child to be a husband/father or a female child to be a wife/mother. Some of mankind are single by choice, some are not. But singleness is not a sin, nor a lesserstate of being.

Consider the balanced view of 1 Corinthians 7. Marriage is good so that people will not fall into sexual sin. Singleness is good for the person can be more focused on the things of God rather than the things of the world. Both marriage and singleness is held in a positive view, valuable for different reasons.

That which I know of the Book of Concord is far, far less than that which I do not yet know. However, I have become rather intimate with the Augsburg Confession, the Smalcald Articles, and the Large Catechism. No where in those three expositions of the Living Word does it state that we believe, teach, and confess that children should be taught their primary calling is to be a spouse and a parent. Nor does it state that we believe, teach, and confess that adults should consider marriage and parenting the highest or main calling of their lives.

Yet from the pulpit to publication to Internet, amongconfessional Lutherans are stories and examples honoring marriages andfamilies. Churches have bible studiesand gatherings geared around marriage and families. Women’s groups and biblestudies oft meet during the day, while men's meet on Saturday mornings…subtletyreinforcing that women are to be available during the day; men not until theweekend. Retreats and workshops are mostoften for youth or for married couples.

Yet, single people need the sweet, sweet Gospel couched inexamples and considerations that are not all about marriage and families. Single people need encouragement and supportfor the crosses they bear. [If nothing else, is it difficult, at times, to remain chaste in a body filled with desires and drives that must remain unfulfilled outside of marriage.] Single peopleneed fellowship that is not geared toward segregating them with other singlesand/or pairing them up. Single peopleneed home visits and pastoral care. Single people need to hear and see and experience Christ for them, hereand now, without emphasis or speculation for a time when they may no longer besingle.

That which I love about the sweet, sweet Gospel, about our Confessions, is the wholeness of the doctrine is utterly and completely outside of myself. I have joked that the Lutheran Sunday School answer, 99% of the time, is: Jesus (or more accurately Christ crucified). Pastor Weedon once wrote that Luther will wrap you up in Christ more ways than you ever thought possible. My new friend and writing partner reminded me that the teaching of the Gospel should never point to yourself, but rather to Jesus. She also, far more eloquently that I can relay here, spoke of the richness and the fullness and the variety of language God gives us to speak about the Gospel.

She pointed out that our Gospel focus is most often on the forgiveness of sins--which to be sure is the beginning and end of our reconciliation with God, our rescue from the judgment of our sinful state--yet Christ crucified is love and mercy and peace and gentleness and defending and suffering and anguish and death and new life. And so much more than I can even speak here. In fact, Luther tells us that in Baptism alone is so much "consolation and grace that heaven and earth cannot understand it" (BOC, LC, IV, 39-40). Baptism is but one piece of the Gospel, but one of the good gifts God gives us through His Son and the Holy Spirit. One piece and yet heaven and earth cannot understand it. We can study a lifetime and never truly grasp but one piece of the sweet, sweet Gospel.

A review of the parables of Jesus would show only a few of them on marriage. The majority are about working, wages, nature, lost things, doors, and caring for others. Why, then, is marriage and children the beginning, middle, and end of so very many sermons, blogs, and conversations about the Christian life?

I struggle when I read such things as I did today, when I hear them all around me. I struggle when the majority of Lutheran sermons and bible studies and blogs about the Christian life are rooted in family, even if merely at the "application" or "instruction" phase of the teaching. I struggle because I wonder what place have I in the Lutheran Church, then, being single and barren.

I am Yours, Lord. Save me!