Living Proof

What I Should Have Said

2011-12-24T22:25:00.002-06:00

It hit me early, early this morning. I was driving home, smiling as I approached one of the small towns between here and The City. Glowing snowflakes adorn each light post from one end of town to the other, and it is especially beautiful at midnight with real snow gently falling and the world silent and dark all around.

But it was there, in that moment, that words spoken earlier echoed in my head. Eyes desperate for hope had looked into mine, and the words "I just struggle to believe I'm worth standing up for at all" stung my heart. I answered honestly and quickly, saying "yes you are. I would stand up for you." Which is well and good, but woefully inadequate.

What should I have said?

I should have said...

You are precious. You are the only you that there has ever been and that ever will be. The Creator of all that is, created you specifically and exactly for His purpose. And He loved you so much, that He allowed His SON to come here to this earth as a baby. A tiny, helpless child, utterly dependent on two flawed human beings. God Himself, did that.

But it doesn't stop there.

He watched His Son grow and mature, becoming the greatest man the world has ever known. He was, after all, fully man, but also fully God. And do you know what this flawless, sinless God-man did for you? He literally allowed his flesh to be ripped to shreds, giant spikes driven through His hands and feet, and a crown of thorns driven into his head before he died. And He endured that death so that he could literally go to hell and stand up to the Devil himself on your behalf.

And if the King of Kings, the One we are celebrating right now, did that for you... then any estimation I may have of your worth is trivial and certainly falls short.

That is what I should have said.

Prayer Request

2011-12-20T20:29:00.000-06:00

So, I have a prayer request for you... my faithful readers.

Can you pray for me? For complete recovery, both physical and mental/emotional?

The physical recovery has slowed down considerably. I am still moving the right direction, but there is also still a lot of pain each day, and not just in my leg. I have a very sore back and ribs from the fall, and some internal pain, as well as feeling similar to having the flu (aches and pains randomly coming and going in various muscles and joints). Also, the scar from my central line is still very sensitive. As far as my leg, I had what I hope was my last silver-nitrate treatment yesterday. The silver nitrate is used to "burn" away some of the granulation tissue, since it has been inflamed and tending to grow higher than the edges of the wound. I believe things will be closed up in another two weeks or so, and then it's a waiting game to see if the scar will need surgical attention. I am really trying to limit the amount of hydrocodone I take for pain, but it is hard right now. Just the simple act of walking is painful enough to make me nauseous. But after six weeks on crutches, I'm just thankful to be on my own two feet.

That brings me to the second half of my request. When I was still in the hospital, there wasn't any room or time to be very upset about what was happening. I was confused and a little angry and scared, but so much of the focus was on the moment to moment task of trying to recover. As time has gone by though, and my body slowly rebuilds, I have been struggling emotionally. I have tried not to make a big deal of it, but that Monday that I got very sick, I genuinely believed I was dying... and so did most of the medical professionals caring for me. It was terrifying then, and now that my head is clear and I'm fully conscious, it's even more terrifying. I don't have a solid answer, and never will, about what exactly caused the sepsis. While my blood culture did reveal the same bacteria that was grown from each of the four abscesses they operated on, there was nothing about the day in question that should have sent things spiraling so out of control. That's the scary part. I keep saying it will never happen again... but how do I know? If I don't know how or why it happened to start with, how do I prevent it in the future?

I have actually been having nightmares and things that could almost be described as "flashbacks" about that day. About laying there with my feet up in the air (I was tilted about 30-35 degrees, head down). About the agony of the central line going in (no sedation, no local anesthetic because of being too unstable, and everything already really hurt), about the far more intense pain involved with opening up the abscess in ICU, where the lidocaine did nothing because the tissue was too inflamed. About laying on the CT table and feeling sheer terror as my lungs felt like a hose was letting water fill them, and about the exhaustion that I felt by morning after struggling so hard to just breathe, for so long.

About the looks on the faces of those I loved. Especially about that.

So if you could pray that peace would replace the fear and that good memories would replace the bad, and if you could pray for continued healing and the restoration of sound health, I would be very, very thankful.

Thank you everyone. May you have a very blessed and beautiful Christmas!

My Precious Daughter

2011-12-16T23:39:00.000-06:00

My dear Annaliah,
Today is your day. The day you were predicted to be born. The day, five years ago, when we expected your arrival. I had picked out music for you to hear after you were born. I had started your baby book, with a letter from me, and from your daddy, and from your grandparents. I had felt you moving, felt the thrill of life that was separate and yet entirely dependent on me.

And then, you went to heaven. You didn't wait until December 17th. You met your Jesus months before that. I know that you are safe, that you are warm and happy and not alone. It isn't for you that I mourn... it is for the relationship I so desperately wish I had with you.

It is for sticky fingers and maple syrup kisses and sandy hugs. If you had been granted an earthly life, you'd be around five years old now. Do you know that at this age, I could start teaching you martial arts? You'd still be too young for class, but on our own, I could show you things. You could start learning the lessons that could shape your entire life.

If you were here, you would never lack for hugs and kisses. Not from me, and certainly not from your daddy. He would have delighted in you the way that only fathers can, and you would have grown up knowing that you were truly cherished. If you wanted to marry, you'd have met a good young man, because you would already know what love and respect and honor looked like.

Sweet Anna, on your day this year, I am grieving more than in years past. I used to think that maybe some day, you'd have a little brother or sister that could live with me here. Someone who could absorb the love that is burning inside me, breaking my heart. But I know now, that is not to be. My body just isn't capable of doing that. I know you've got your brothers and sisters there in heaven, though. For that, I'm thankful. I am glad there is such a place, for you and for them. I am glad there is a Savior who loves you.

This year, you got to meet one of the Better Men. You see, Anna, there are regular men. And then there are good men. And then there are Better Men. Jim is a lot like your great-grandma Eileen. Passionate for his God, gentle and generous in spirit, a person of integrity... and someone who had an unusual love for children. Saying goodbye to Jim has been a little easier, because even though it hurts me to live here without him, I know that now, you get to be with him. He isn't family biologically, not here on earth. But your old enough now to start understanding that sometimes, families aren't made of biology... they are made of faith. They are made of trust and love and loyalty. I like to think that you know your family there... and that you know Jim and Roy, and have played with Natalie, and with Judith's babies. I wonder if you've met my brother?

This year, I am sad as I think of all that I have lost. All that I have missed. But that sadness, dear child, is not all consuming. There is also joy. How well do you know Billy? Has he told you how his cousin and her parents pulled me back from the destructive path I was on, and into their own family despite their horrible grief? Do you and him share a bond - children whose mothers question their own responsibility for the end of your time on earth? I am joyful, Anna, that you know this young man who changed my life. Because I do not know him.

I wonder if you've met Grandpa Jean yet. I remember sitting on his lap, as he gently traced my face with his fingers. His eyes were unseeing, and yet he said I was truly beautiful. I asked how he could know, and he said he could see me in his heart. Anna, that's what I do. I see you in my heart, and I know you are beautiful.

I'm not coming Home yet, my child. I thought I was, several weeks ago - and the doctors did too. But God spared my life, and I am still here on earth. I have so many things to finish, so much work to do, so many people to love. I long for heaven, though. I long to hold you, to see you, to hear your voice. I long to bow before our King beside you. You may be physically unreachable, but you are always close to me. And like Grandpa Jean... I know you are beautiful, because I can see you in my heart.

And I know heaven... heaven is for real. I'll be there when it's time. Maybe you can come with Great Gramma and meet me at the Eastern Gate. When I get there, after Jesus, you are the first person I want to see.

I love you for always.

-Mommy

I'm Alive

2011-12-01T14:05:00.000-06:00

Alrighty then. Sunday, November 27th, I felt FINE. My leg was sore and looking icky, but the surgeon had SEEN it looking icky and didn't seem worried. My husband and I spent the night talking and watching a few episodes online and then did some snuggling. About four thirty, I went to sleep out on the couch, because it hurts my leg like crazy to be touched. At six AM, I woke up and started throwing up more violently, and with more... substance... than I thought a person possibly could. It lasted about ten minutes. Derek helped me get cleaned up and then I went back to sleep, for about fifteen minutes. I woke up again, feeling like I needed the bathroom - I knew things were going to come out both ends. I stood up, and could hear blood rushing in my ears and feel my heart pounding. I took about eight steps - enough to get me into the bedroom, next to the night stand. Everything went black with sparkling lights, and I felt my body crumple, bouncing off the nightstand. I heard myself vomiting... and then it was blissful, black, silence.

This part, is just what I've been told. The ambulance was called, and I was loaded up into their stair-chair.

Halfway down our stairs, I woke to someone digging their knuckle into my ribs and saying "Jenn, look at me. Look me in the eyes." I wanted to do so, wanted to be the obedient patient... but I could not see a thing. Nothing. Just blackness. Then, silence.

The next thing I remember is waking up with a paramedic on each side of me stabbing my arms. They wanted to get an IV started, desperately, and so both were trying. After many, many tries, Grumpy Lady finally got one in. Nice Man retreated to the front to take me to the Little City hospital because I was so unstable. Blood pressure was 48/25. They put my feet way above my head and started pouring in fluids - heated fluids. My temperature was 102. Half way to the Little City Hospital, my vision cleared and I was able to start speaking. When we got there, they had to put the stretcher flat to move me, and everything went black and quiet again.

By the time we left Little City Hospital to go to the Bigger City Hospital, my temperature was 104.8, my BP was only up to 60/30, and I'd had three liters of fluid. As soon as they put me back in the ambulance, they angled my feet way up and I was awake again. Each trip to flatness knocked me out as effectively as a hammer to the head would have. On the way to the Bigger City, I started realizing just how sick I was. I could feel different organs beginning to hurt - really hurt, like they were caught in clamps. First was up under my ribs on the right. Then it was all up and down my left side, too. Then it was as if I'd been punched in the right kidney... the left followed a few minutes later. I threw up again, and I could feel the sore spot on my ribs where I'd hit the nightstand. I could also feel the scuff on the end of my chin where I'd hit... something. My head started to pound loudly with every heart beat and was throbbing with pain. My vision was coming and going.

I faded into nothingness again when they put the stretcher flat to wheel me into the emergency room. I woke up on their bed with my feet way higher than my head was. I had an IV in each arm and I was mumbling to Derek about who he should call. Then they kicked him out, and drew blood cultures and ran two and a half more liters of fluid - putting my total up to 6 in 2 hours. My BP stubbornly stayed down at 60/30, and my heart rate was steadily climbing. My temperature was 105. Blood work showed kidney and liver problems as well as the presence of extra-large platelets, which were clotting off and getting in the way of things.

Someone said "We need to get a central line in her." Someone else said "We can't. She can't be sedated right now. Not at all. And she's so feverish that lidocaine wouldn't be terribly effective." "Well, we'll just do it right here. Clear everyone else out."

And they did. Not fun. Not fun at ALL. I get why people get sedated for it... I'd have given anything for some nitrous or even just some pain relief. Halfway through, I hollered that they were hurting my neck, and the assured me that wasn't possible. They got the line in, did a chest x-ray which showed fluid on my lungs and a central line that had flipped and gone up into my neck. They needed to start the medications for my heart though, so they let it slide momentarily. They came in and did an ultrasound to check blood flow in my major organs, and then I got an injection of something to break up clots. Then things got quiet for a while, while they waited for the heart and blood pressure meds to start working. My husband and my best friend both came in and were there.

I was so convinced that I was dying, that it took everything I had to resist the urge to say "Goodbye" to them. Alarms were constantly going off. We were just waiting around to get me down for a CT of my leg.

My friend came in, and held my hand and offered comfort and kept me from killing the surgeon, as the surgeon operated on my leg right there in my room. There was no option for sedation, as I was far too sick and my lungs, especially, would have failed under anesthesia. Because of how sick I was and how infected my leg was, the lidocaine was... useless. Hurt like crazy going in, and offered no numbing effect at all. He finished and packed a bunch of gauze into my leg, and then a different surgeon came in. My friend left, and the new surgeon said "I'm here to re-do your central line" and I LOST.IT. I was DONE. I psyched myself up for this horrible repeat of earlier... instead, she put a wire through one of the catheters to hold her place in the artery, pulled the old line, threaded the new one over the wire, I felt a bunch of pressure, and then this crazy tickling sensation by my heart. The next chest xray showed lungs even more filled with fluid, but the central line was in the right place. It felt good to not get a burning, full feeling in my neck every time they gave an IV injection.

Respiratory therapy came up and did a breathing treatment to help get rid of the fluid...

and that's how I spent the night. Nurses constantly doing things, monitors beeping and alarms grating and beginning to wonder if I had enough drugs in me to compensate for embalming procedures. Yes, I still thought I was probably going to die. My feet were still over my head and I still felt absolutely horrible.

About 24 hours after being admitted though, things started turning around... faster and faster and faster. I even got a PCA for the leg pain (couldn't have it before because I was too sick). I was getting a lot of heparin shots, and there were never fewer than five IV bags hanging and dripping various things into my central line. And every 30 minutes someone would come in with yet another syringe full of medication for me.

By Thursday afternoon, I was well enough that the doctor said "Okay, you may as well go home."

That kind of recovery, after that kind of sick, is nothing short of miraculous in my book. I have found out since then, that the doctors were quite certain I would not make it through the first night.

To GOD be the glory - I want to go to heaven, but I don't want to go so soon that it tears at the hearts of those I love.

Happy Birthday, my Beloved

2011-11-22T00:14:00.000-06:00

Today, my sweet, wonderful husband had his birthday. I am so proud of who he is becoming and the ways he has grown.

Together with him, I have laughed and cried and sang and danced.

He shows me the beauty around me when I get so wrapped up with myself that I can't even see. He never responds to my griping or moaning or meanness in kind - he is gentle and compassionate.

He supports our family financially (for a variety reasons, none of which are on the table for discussion tonight).

He is better than he knows.

I am so very thankful that he chose to marry me... and even more thankful that he was born and lives.

WOW.

2011-11-20T00:14:00.008-06:00

So I actually DO have a reason for having neglected this blog so thoroughly.

Starting mid-September, my leg (the one that had the graft in May of 2010) started hurting more than usual, and getting more warm and swollen. I had xrays and blood tests and even a bone scan. Nothing indicated an infection of the bone, but nothing was entirely "normal" either. We were in the middle of investigating possible causes, while I fought increasing pain. The following bullet list is a short summary of what transpired after the bone scan.

Sunday, 10/30/2011
At some point before this, I acquired a small, innocuous looking scratch on my graft, close to the edge that is stuck to the front of my tibia. It didn't hurt, didn't look infected, didn't cause a fever... and I have no idea where or when or how I got it, because I can't FEEL the skin where the graft is. Not sharp pain, that is. I can feel pressure, sure, and heat, but no sharp sensations. On Sunday, Derek and I noted and commented on the scratch and what appeared to be a bruise beneath it. Just a little pink, and a little warm. I already had an appointment scheduled for Monday, to discuss pain control options.

Monday, 10/31/2011
By Monday morning, my shin was huge and hot and red, I felt like I'd been run over by a Mac Truck, I had a fever, and was genuinely sick. Sick enough that after drawing cultures and other labs, my doctor tucked me into an ambulance and sent me away to the City. By this point, every breath made my leg feel like it was being smashed. I was in tears, shaking and sweating. I will pause here to say this: Whoever decided that paramedics can start IV's and administer Fentanyl at their discretion... they are something along the lines of "hero" to me.

We got to the Hospital, and I was taken straight to a room. NO ER, no triage, nothing. Just up to a room. More cultures were drawn, another IV line was started, and a circle was drawn on my leg marking the edges of the red, swollen, hot skin. I was then sent for an X-Ray, which I assumed would come back normal - the last one had. But no, it did NOT. It showed fluid and air building up in the deeper tissues, indicative of a fast-moving infection.

Then I met my surgeon, Dr. J. I had him and his resident assigned to me, another surgeon, Dr. A, as well as Dr. M, Dr. C, Dr. M and Dr. F, plus their interns. It was a herd. I wish it could have all been done by just one person. Less intrusive that way.

7:30 that night I was in surgery. The operation went fast. They didn't have to remove anything terribly important, and left the incision (about 6 inches long) open and packed. I woke up in recover at about 9:00 and I swear, I had NEVER been so miserable in my life. My temp was up over 104, I was pouring sweat, covered in goosebumps, shivering so hard it was more like convulsions, crying so hard, throwing up, and my leg felt like a combination of fire and being crushed, more intensely than I could comprehend. It was almost midnight before I was in good enough shape to see my hubby. They said I was septic, and that's why I was so miserable. I had a great night nurse who kept my double room just for me, and took care of me so well. Next morning my roommate arrived and I could. not. do. it.

I don't like PTSD. I don't like that an other's simple presence when I'm not feeling well or perceive that I am vulnerable, is enough to send me into full-on flashbacks and panic attacks and terror and my brain goes into lock down mode. There is no reasoning to make it stop, there's no gentle tones or persuasive words. I spazz out in a world-class manner. So my good ol' nurse got me moved to a private room in a different unit. The staff THERE were great too.

Tuesday, 11/1/2011Tuesday morning, I found out that I was now on Vancomyacin, Rocephin, merepenem, and flagyl. And I got my PCA pump. Oh that wonderful device with the stupid nose flap. Hospital brought me in a laptop to use... mostly it just sat there playing music or shows off of Hulu. That afternoon, I went back into surgery for more debridement and dressing change. Late that night, I was taken to a procedure room and sedated for a dressing change.

Wednesday, 11/2/2011 I continued to complain of pain on the inside of my shin bone - not where the abscess was. And in my ankle. It kept getting dismissed. Temp was staying mostly normal. They told us the organism was susceptible to the meds I was getting (e. Coli - and NO, I don't know how anyone gets e. coli in their leg, but apparently it's not as far fetched as I thought). I pointed out a second area of possible infection. They agreed.

They wanted to unpack, debride, use pressurized water to cleans, and then repack my wound. And I flipped again. NO WAY. Not with me awake!!! They ran around and around with me about it, until Dr. J finally asked what the real problem was. I explained the flashback it was conjuring. And from then forward, it was sleep-city.

Thursday, 11/3/2011 Thursday morning, I went to a procedure room and was given conscious sedation for my dressing change. I kept complaining about the area near my tibia that hurt, so they ordered an ultrasound to look for free fluid... and boy howdy, did they find it. Nice little abscess under the skin but mostly fluid buildup around the bone. The took me to the OR, knocked me out completely, did a needle aspiration on the new abscess and tried to get the deeper fluid, and then aggressively cleaned the initial incision and performed a delayed closure. They left a lot of drain tubing in place.

Friday, 11/4/2011 Was still on the Fentanyl PCA. Dr. M wanted me to go home... I knew I wasn't ready. Dr. F, from infectious disease made a plan with my husband - I would go 24 hours with IV fluids but all meds would be oral, unless things escalated, before I would be allowed home. Surgery liked the plan, but said we should wait till Sunday, so they could pull the drain before I left. So we left THAT as our plan.

Saturday, 11/5/2011 1/2 of the drain was removed. I was taught how to do my own dressing changes, shown what to watch for. There was some iffy blood work, but they decided it was contaminated by skin, not by actual blood-borne pathogens. I was off the PCA. Miserable, but off the pump and ready to go.

Sunday, 11/6/2011 Sunday, they pulled the rest of the drain, said what to watch for, how to care for things. At that time, a secondary abscess just medial of my tibia was noted. It was felt to be small enough that antibiotics alone would address the problem. After much waiting around, I got to LEAVE. To go to MY HOME.

Monday, 11/7/2011 I did my dressing change as ordered - I even filmed it for documentation. The rest of the day, I spent sleeping.

Tuesday, 11/8/2011
Because I was uncomfortable waiting a week to see my surgeon for a recheck, my family doc agreed to take a look. He did so, and called the surgeon. They had me go NPO immediately in preparation for seeing the surgeon on Wednesday.

Unfortunately, that night, I took a shower. My first since the surgery. They had finally given permission and it felt SO SOOO GOOD. A sponge bath just can't even compare. About 7:50 PM I was all relaxed and sleepy and fell asleep on the couch. I woke up screaming at the TOP of my lungs at 8:05. My head was the WORST pain I can imagine. Searing and pressure and throbbing with my heart beat and made worse by sound and light and trying to lay flat and turning my head or moving or coughing or talking.I was screaming too much to call 911, and my husband was at work. They got there though. I rode lights and sirens (and lots of IV meds pushed and some crazy EKG monitors - finally a nicely documented run of SVT).

Doctors started talking meningitis, encephalitis, and big scary bad words.

They still don't know what caused it. Spinal fluid came back indicative of SOMETHING, but non-specific. CT didn't show any large abnormalities. So I got me a room with a room mate and the pain and the PTSD fed off each other until they ended up moving me up to the cardio floor, into the only private room left in the hospital.

They had me on Vanc, Rocephin, and Merepenim. They switched the Rocephin to Timentin, and the merepenim to Erdepenim. They also added in Acyclovir. I had to have two lines again, because the meds couldn't mix together outside the body.

Wednesday, 11/9/2011
Finally, things under control enough that I SLEPT. And SLEPT. And then SLEPT some more.

Thursday, 11/10/2011 Home sweet home.

Wednesday, 11/16/2011 Recheck with the surgeon. He informed me I needed my secondary abscess drained. He recommended a standard I&D, under anesthesia. I consented, and planned for Thursday to be a nightmare.

Thursday, 11/17/2011 So much for a nightmare. The day went well. Operation was really fast and smooth, recovery was smooth, they are hopeful that maybe this could be my last trip to the OR for this problem.
The weekend went well, but the defect was growing worse. And today, my surgeon has prescribed honey. Like from bees. That's what I put in the wound. I thought he was crazy. But it turns out it's more widely known than I thought.

So THAT, is where I've been. If folks have an interest, I'll put together a picture tour similar to what I did with my hand for you all that time. But right now? I am going to SLEEP.

Not Me Monday

2011-10-10T17:25:00.000-05:00

Long ago, in a frozen and windy land, a person named MckMama decided to throw a large blog party. The purpose of the party was to help those who participated have a chance to be honest, telling about those things that they might otherwise try to hide. In sharing, there was a decrease in guilty feelings and an instant and significant increase in laughter.

So, in honor of this weeks Not Me Monday, here I go.

In the last week, the following things most certainly did not* happen.

I did not spend the entire day Tuesday with the best friend a person could ever ask for, and that best friend's mother. The purpose of the trip was not to drive a couple hours to see a specialist regarding a not good at all diagnosis, and to receive less-than-good news about her progress (or lack there of). But if I did do that, I would want you to pray with everything you've got for my friend, Elizabeth. Specifically, I would want you to pray that medication would begin to be effective, and that the damage to her vision would somehow be reversed.

On that same imaginary trip, I starved. I did not accompany them to an extraordinarily delicious Mongolian grill, wherein people are allowed to compile their own choice of ingredients, and then surrender them to the "Grill Warriors" who proceed to make steaming hot plates of whatever you want and present them to you straight off the grill. I did not fail to believe my friend when she said it was really easy to load so much onto a plate that you could only eat one or two at most. And I did not end up leaving half of my second plate, on the plate. I haven't been trying to find an excuse to go back ever since, either.

Since I'm on a roll with this imaginary trip I took... after dinner, my friend and I and her mother did not find ourselves at a well known department store, trying out the display beds. By laying on them. We did not discover that some refrigerators have "MEAT FISH STORAGE" drawers and find it hilarious. We did not laugh until tears came out of our eyes as we tried to come with a way to ask why do you have AC adapters inside your display dresser, and what exactly do the DO for said dresser, since we knew we couldn't ask it with a straight face. We did not marvel at treadmills, we did not sit in lawn chairs, we did not spend 30 minutes in a tiny kitchen store mocking some of the more... unusual devices. We did not laugh and smile and enjoy our time far more than seems possible on a trip of that location.

Not me. Not them. Not us.

I did not work at a Samurai Sword Show for four days. And while in the car on the way to the show I did not work at, I did not make a phone call to the biggest, most popular news station in that area to inquire whether or not they would be present to do a news piece on the show. When the man answered, I did not say "Hi, my name is Jenn, and I am calling to see if you will be sending any reporters over to the Schlamurai Swow Shord," or something very similar. I did not hear the jumble of words and lose the ability to speak while I laughed to myself. And the reporter who had taken my call did not fall silent for a solid five seconds, and then crack up laughing so hard I suspect he had to lean on something for support just to keep from falling over, and gasp out "Ma'am, I am sorry. Could you please repeat what you just asked me? And then tell me what you meant to ask me?" It did not strike me as so funny that for the rest of the weekend, all I needed was a little reminder and I would laugh until my entire BODY was bright red. No, not me. Because I never mix bits and pieces of words together to form various other words.

I also did not consume "schlockett" or blow "Blubblows" as a young child.

I did not consider the idea that I was truly losing my mind as I stood on the 12th floor of the convention center, noticing the floor pulsating and moving beneath my feet and hearing the sounds of loons drifting down the highway. And I was not relieved when I realized everyone could feel the moving floor, nor was a relieved when I realized that the PA system was responsible for the loon sounds. All day and all night. Every day. And every night.

I did not find it disproportionately funny to be working at a SWORD SHOW, where there really were sharp, shiny, big Samurai swords everywhere, while in the lobby, a large group was meeting to celebrate the beauty of organ donation and get more people to commit to it. Because asking someone to donate organs while surrounded by signs announcing the presence of hundreds, maybe thousands, of swords and people of the sort that actually enjoy collecting these swords, is not ironic. Or funny.

I did not know yesterday that I really was starting to feel crummy and I did not wake up this morning with a fever and tonsils swollen so much that they are squished together and glands so sore and swollen that I can't turn my head. And doing so, and cancelling all plans for the day in order to stay wrapped in a blanket and not move, did not make me wonder what nurses think when you call and cancel a bone scan because you feel too crummy to come in and get tested to see if the bone in your leg is infected.

Lastly, I am not struggling to find things to share for Not Me Monday, because I haven't gotten out of the habit and I also have not had more stress than laughter recently.

*By did not I actually mean they really did. Just to clarify. There are probably witnesses willing to testify that all these things that did not happen, actually did happen.

Unrelated.

2011-09-22T18:51:00.000-05:00

So, this is unrelated to stuff I usually post about.

I made a choice months ago, that if a particular opportunity fell through... I was all done fighting for it.

It fell through.

It isn't God's will or plan. It isn't best. It isn't something that time will fix.

And it isn't something that can be ignored for a while and then readdressed.

This was the last chance.

And now it's gone.

I am numb, partly. And torn to shreds, partly.

So if you would be willing to pray for me... that would be good. Part of me says "No, don't give up." But part of me says "Enough is enough. No more money, no more pain, no more broken hearts."

And the second part is louder than the first.

So if you see me red eyed, don't be shocked. I've got a good reason to cry, a good reason to be angry. Don't try to fix it with words. Just let it go.

Silence.

2011-09-19T23:35:00.003-05:00

You may have noticed, if you're particularly observant, that there has been nothing aside from scheduled posts, for a while now.

I've been silent.

My whole life, I have wondered at the tradition known as "a moment of silence." It always seemed awkward, it seemed unnatural and unhelpful.

Then one of the Better Men... No, one of the BEST Men... threw off his chains and hurts and went to heaven. It was unexpected, to say the very least. It was tragic. It was heartbreaking. I wanted so badly to talk about it here, but... for once, I understood the silence. There are not words. What do you say about a man who is being buried not many years after his son, not many years after his granddaughter? Do you rejoice because Jim and Roy and Natalie are together? Do you rejoice because he has children and grandchildren there who never took a breath on this earth, and now he can know them? Do you rejoice because He is home and he is whole?

Yes.

And for so many... you mourn. Not for him. But for those who have the task of learning how to live now. How to exist in a world where he... isn't. For the memories that won't be made.

My heart hurts so much, for so many...
For his mother.

For his wife Rachel.

For his children and their spouses:
Eric and Toni, and their children Ethan, Katie, Emily, and Amanda
Roger and Amber, and their sons Evan and Gunner
Karl and Iris, and their son Israel
Marilyn and Ivan, and their children Trevor, Nicole, Devin, Wyatt, and Keegan
Judith and Craig, and their sons Luke and Ryan

For Carmen, who was his son Roy's wife, and their children Austin, Angel, and Garrett

And for so, so many more.

But I confess... tonight, the person on my heart the most is his youngest daughter, Judith. She is kind, and genuine, and has ready and quick smile, just like her daddy. Sparkling green eyes and a passion for her God and for her children. Gentle and humble.

It's not that Judith is the only one hurting... it's just that she is the one most like me. The one whose pain I can understand the best.

This song is for her. Because my words are all used up, and I need some time in silence.

Daddy Hung The Moon
~Jeff and Sheri Easter

We made the perfect pair
The best of friends
Daddy and me
I'd be walking on air
Every time he'd smile
And say he was proud of me
We said our prayers
He'd tuck me in then
I'd look in his eyes
I knew his love could fill an ocean
And light up an endless sky

Daddy hung the moon
Out-shined the stars
Put a song inside my heart
Daddy hung the moon
Oh I know it must be true
His smile could light the world
Of this green-eyed daddy's girl
God may have made the stars
But daddy hung the moon

His favorite words were
"I love you"
He always said
There was nothing I couldn't do
There's a world of hurt out there
Little boys and girls
Who've never known love like I do
If I had one wish
I'd wish to make it right
Oh I'd give them all a daddy
And make him just like mine

Cause daddy hung the moon
Out-shined the stars
Placed a song inside my heart
Daddy hung the moon
Oh I know it must be true
His smile could light the world
Of this green-eyed daddy's girl

God made the world
In seven days
The sun to shine and the clouds for rain
But when He made the sky
He saved one part for a little girl
Who knew in her heart

Daddy hung the moon
Out-shined the stars
Placed a song inside my heart
Daddy hung the moon
Oh I know must be true
His smile still lights my world
And I'm still my daddy's girl.
God may have made the stars
But daddy hung the moon

NICIAW - Dissociative Identity Disorder NOS, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety

2011-09-18T12:00:00.002-05:00

This is from an individual who did not provide a name to associate with his/her information.

1. The illness I live with is: Dissociative Identity Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Depression, Anxiety

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 1991

3. But I had symptoms since: I was a child.

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: Making sure I feel safe.

5. Most people assume: I have my life together.

6. The hardest part about mornings are: waking up with hope about the new day

7. My favorite medical TV show is: MASH...an old one

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: computer

9. The hardest part about nights are: I have terrible nightmares.

10. Each day I take __ pills & vitamins. (No comments, please) 3 plus

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: am open to them

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: invisible

13. Regarding working and career: I struggle to get by daily. I wear a mask.

14. People would be surprised to know: I was sexually, physically and emotionally abused from a very young age into adulthood.

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: I will be healing the rest of my life.

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: have a professional career

17. The commercials about my illness: I don't know.

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: Not sure.

19. It was really hard to have to give up: Not sure.

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: Not sure.

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: I don't know what "normal" is exactly.

22. My illness has taught me: to appreciate people and have compassion for others.

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: Why can't you just get over it?

24. But I love it when people: show care for hurt kids

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: Philippians 4:13 "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." Also, "I yam who I yam." -- Popeye the Sailor

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: The diagnosis is not the total of who you are. You are so much more than someone with an illness.

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: not sure

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: Bought me and my family a Christmas tree one year when I was in the psych hospital.

29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: I was asked.

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: Cared about.

NICIAW - Interstitial Cystitis

2011-09-18T08:00:00.002-05:00

Jay writes:

1. The illness I live with is: Interstitial Cystitis

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 2005

3. But I had symptoms since: 2002

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: learning to quickly find restrooms in public places, and learning how to *politely* skip to the front of the line if it's there.

5. Most people assume: I don't know. I think most people don't assume anything, because I think most people don't think about it.

6. The hardest part about mornings are: waking up and feeling like my bladder is truly going to explode

7. My favorite medical TV show is: My family doesn't watch TV.

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: My computer, but that has nothing to do with the I.C.

9. The hardest part about nights are: being really sleepy and knowing I will have to get up in just a few hours to use the bathroom.

10. Each day I take __ pills & vitamins. (No comments, please) 1 Pill, Elmiron, 3 times daily.

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: believe in whole-body health, but I'm not aware of any alternative options specifically for the interstitial cystitis.

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: visible. It would get me to the front of the restroom line easier.

13. Regarding working and career: aside from once having to explain to my boss that my frequent bathroom breaks were medical in origin, this hasn't impacted work or career at all.

14. People would be surprised to know: that this disease actually does hurt a lot of the time.

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: I don't know. Reality hasn't really changed for me with this.

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: I have never thought my illness would hold me back from anything.

17. The commercials about my illness: There are commercials about I.C.? Really?

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: Again, it hasn't really changed my life. Though I do miss sleeping through the night.

19. It was really hard to have to give up: caffeine. When the doctor suggested it, I said "No way." But now, having finally done so... it does help.

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: I organise bathroom races. Okay. No, I don't. I don't have a new hobby. I am hobby-impaired.

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: Go on a really long hike. And not pee in the bushes. I would hold it, until I was back to "civilization."

22. My illness has taught me: that self-pity is easy to do but hard to live with. Positivity and a good perspective are harder to maintain, but easier to live with.

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: Be thankful it's nothing worse, and it's just your bladder. "Just my bladder" actually really hurts and I really do not like being a slave to its whims.

24. But I love it when people: Graciously let me to the front of the line in the ladies' room without saying "You don't look pregnant, though"

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: "This, too, shall pass."

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: Take your meds, stop drinking caffeine, and remember - this is not a death sentence or even a serious life-impairment sentence.

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: How resentful it makes me some days, and how even though it's not dangerous, it has made me contemplate things like a living will, what I want for myself when I get old, and what it's like for those who are seriously impaired by chronic illness that none of us can see.
28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: My doctor said "You could take this medication - it will help."

29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: I read about it on someone's blog and realized that this could be my one chance to ~~complain about~~ explain what it's really like.

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: like this blog author actually does post submissions from other people.

NICIAW - PCOS

2011-09-17T13:00:00.000-05:00

This is from Dawn. She has polycystic ovarian syndrome (also known as PCOS).

In 1992 I had a period that lasted for 17 days. My mom, being concerned, took me in for my first ever "girly" doctor appointment. After the doctor examined me and asked me a few questions, he announced to my mom that I was still a virgin.. Oh, and that my body was producing a little too much testosterone. No big deal, he said and put me on birth control pills to help regulate my cycle.

I stayed on the pills until after college, but found as I got older that the pills were causing some emotional side effects that I didn't like. I figured I'd take my chances with the random cycles. Sometimes I'd go 6 or 7 months without a period then have it for a month straight with awful cramps. Since I never know when my period might come, or how heavy it might be, I learned to always be ready. I'd mention it from time to time to various doctors, even mentioning something that I'd heard of on a tv show called polycystic ovarian syndrome, but none of them seemed concerned.

Last winter I went in to the ER with the worst cramping and heaviest flow I had ever experienced. After a day of tests to make sure I wasn't having a miscarriage, the doctor came in and said, "Well, the bleeding is probably just your period... Oh, and your diabetic." And then he left. The nurse set me up with a follow up appointment for two weeks later and sent me home.

That evening I stood in the grocery store for an hour, trying to figure out what a diabetic eats, I ended up crying in the middle of the store and leaving with out even getting anything. At the follow up appointment the intern ran a test that finally confirmed what I had suspected, I had a metabolic disease known as PCOS.

Since then I've learned what foods work for me and how to deal with my illness through diet and exercise along with some oral meds. I now read every label before I put anything in my mouth, check my sugars several times a day and carry pads with me all the time, just in case. I am also working on losing weight ( a exponentially more difficult task for those with PCOS) in order to manage the symptoms of this disease.

Most people assume that I must eat a lot and that is why I am overweight when in reality I probably take in fewer calories than most. (About 1500 a day) But my body can't process the glucose efficiently so it stores excess as fat. Because glucose is the body's fuel, and because my size has caused some issues with apnea, I am also tired most of the time.

One thing that people say that often gets under my skin is: "Should you be eating that/You can't have that!" People might be surprised to know that diabetics can eat anything they want. If I want a cookie, I have a cookie, but it may mean cutting out that baked potato or yummy slice of bread. I have a carb "budget" and I have to choose each day how to spend it with out going over.

Now that I am married, people also ask about children, sometimes even the most innocent question can be very hurtful to someone suffering from PCOS. Because of the cysts in my ovaries, becoming pregnant is a very difficult, if not impossible task. Once pregnant, the diabetic is high risk and carefully monitored. I would love to have a family, it is a heart's desire, but there is a lot of health stuff to deal with first.

I get frustrated with the commercials on TV that make diabetes an old person's disease, its not. Or that make it look like your are on the verge of death, with proper care, diabetes is manageable. Yes it is a daily part of my life, yes I've had to make some adjustments, and yes the PCOS has made each day a little more challenging, but when I am tired, I will rest, when I am hungry, I will eat, and while I am alive, I will live!

Thank you for taking time to read this essay. My illness may be invisible, but because you read this, I am not!

NICIAW - Adult ADHD

2011-09-17T08:00:00.001-05:00

This is from DJ.

1. The illness I live with is: Adult ADHD

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 1986

3. But I had symptoms since: 1981

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: having to take medications. I have to consciously monitor what I am saying and how I am interacting, to avoid being obnoxious.

5. Most people assume: I'm just obnoxious, but I have no "real problems."

6. The hardest part about mornings are: waking up, of course.

7. My favorite medical TV show is: Grey's Anatomy; House

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: my Smartphone

9. The hardest part about nights are: winding down so I can fall asleep

10. Each day I take wellbutrin and ativan for anxiety, & occasionally vitamins. (No comments, please)

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: sought God and won, for a while.

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: visible, because then people would understand and know what I struggle with. They wouldn't assume everything is fine, or that I just need to suck it up and deal with it.

13. Regarding working and career: I have to be careful how I interact with coworkers so I am not overbearing or obnoxious in opinions and decision making. Sometimes the ADHD causes me to "zone out" and I will spend several minutes staring at my screen, doing nothing.

14. People would be surprised to know: I'm a superhero at night. No, really, I am. Okay. They would really be surprised to know that I am actually a very gentle, trustworthy man.

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: knowing that something I thought was gone for the rest of my life has come back

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: give up medication.

17. The commercials about my illness: are actually pretty honest.

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: watching TV without it becoming all-consuming, and having conversations without a driving need to control what's being said.

19. It was really hard to have to give up: caffeine

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: computer programming.

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: finish at least one of the programs I have started.

22. My illness has taught me: patience.

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: "It was meant to be."

24. But I love it when people: recognize accomplishments for what they are.

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: that they can still do everything they enjoy, and that they can still succeed and do very well at whatever they want

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: The amount of support I get from my wife.

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: a guidance counselor allowed me to drop a class when I was in high school, when the teacher was not going to allow it.

NICIAW - DID, PTSD, Depression, Diabetes, Asthma, PCOS, NCAH

2011-09-16T13:00:00.002-05:00

G didn't fill out a survey, but did share the following:

I previously suffered from DID, PTSD, and Depression. I have no current mental diagnosis, but I will NEVER be totally "over it." My physical challenges are visual impairment, diabetes, asthma, and PCOS (but I suspect the PCOS was a misdiagnosis and I may really have NCAH-- "invisible intersex"-- but I have no way to find out because I have no job and therefore no access to medical care.)

I'm not disabled enough to receive any kind of assistance but not able enough to receive unemployment (because I left my last job due to disability.) I am scratching out a living doing the only thing I can do with the resources available to me: sell my books. I made $60 last month. The toughest thing to live with about having a disability is being POOR.

NICIAW - Dissociative Amnesia or Dissociative Disorder NOS

2011-09-16T08:30:00.032-05:00

The name I use here is going to be "BlackFrog."

1. The illness I live with is: Dissociative Amnesia or Dissociative Disorder NOS (not otherwise specified). But, have had several diagnoses over the years.

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 2011

3. But I had symptoms since: at least since 1979

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: Accepting the latest diagnosis and dealing with what caused it.

5. Most people assume: That I'm too healthy to be that - I function too well.

6. The hardest part about mornings are: Getting motivated to live and do the basic parts of living.

7. My favorite medical TV show is: I don't watch any.

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: Anything that plays music

9. The hardest part about nights are: Getting proper sleep

10. Each day I take _0_ pills & vitamins. (No comments, please)

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: Am open to any that may pass my way.

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: Invisible.

13. Regarding working and career: I am considered permanently disabled by the federal government, but am a stay-at-home mom.

14. People would be surprised to know: How well I can pretend to be okay.

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: Is that it was caused by what my father did to me.

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: Survive this long.

17. The commercials about my illness: don't exist.

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: Being clueless as to why I am the way I am.

19. It was really hard to have to give up: the concept that my mental health problems were organic.

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: N/A

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: Take my children and go do the fun, normal things families do together.

22. My illness has taught me: How much damage the brain can do to itself just to protect itself.

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: When they tell me that the things I can remember are wrong. They tell me because I cannot remember so much, that I twist the memories I do have into pure fiction.

24. But I love it when people: Accept me as I am.

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: "A child who can count to 5, sees infinity in a dozen eggs."

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: Be who you are... no label changes who you are.

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: How little people believe that I'm capable of having a bad day.

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: Compose an entire music album about my struggles.

29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: I was openly invited to and maybe someone will hear us.

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: Like you already know... or you're willing to learn. That makes you beautiful.

NICIAW - Pulmonary Fibrosis and Bronchiectasis

2011-09-15T13:00:00.027-05:00

This is from Smurf.

1. The illness I live with is: Pulmonary Fibrosis and bronchiectasis.

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 2007.

3. But I had symptoms since: some symptoms present from birth which developed into above conditions.

4. The biggest adjustment I've had to make is: Regular hospital treatments/stays.

5. Most people assume: I have a bit of a cough, but otherwise am fit and healthy.

6. The hardest part about mornings are: Breathing.

7. My favorite medical TV show is: None, avoid them.

8. A gadget I couldn't live without is: Portable nebuliser that works in the car.

9. The hardest part about nights are: Breathing

10. Each day I take 30-57 pills & vitamins.

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: Try anything.

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: Invisible. on the rare occasions I wear oxygen nasal tubes in public I can't bare the looks of pity I get.

13. Regarding working and career: I am lucky to have an understanding employer

14. People would be surprised to know: I am scared about my condition and when I wear lipstick, its to hide that my lips are blue through low oxygen.

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: Life expectancy and transplantation prospect.

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: Snorkel in the sea

17. The commercials about my illness: I don't know.

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: Not worrying about medication and correct dosages and times.

19. It was really hard to have to give up: The partying lifestyle

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: None

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: Go scuba diving and run everywhere

22. My illness has taught me: To take each day as a new one

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: I thought you were a smoker coughing like that.

24. But I love it when people: Don't underestimate my capabilities when they know of my condition.

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: 'Thats life'

26. When someone is diagnosed I'd like to tell them: Don't just see a death sentence

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: The amazing people I have met along the way.

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn't feeling well was: Arrange a surprise birthday party when I was in hospital- everyone on the ward got involved and had fun.

29. I'm involved with Invisible Illness Week because: the saying 'don't judge a book by its cover' came to mind when reading about it.

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: Heard

NICIAW - Migraines, PTSD, Depression, Alcoholism, Fibromyalgia, Sleep Apnea, Graves Disease, Hypthyroidism

2011-09-15T08:00:00.038-05:00

This post comes from Sola
1. The illness I live with is: Migraines, PTSD, Depression, Alcoholism, Fibromyalgia, Sleep Apnea, Graves Disease, Hypothyroidism

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: Migraines: 1994, Alcoholism PTSD and Depression: 2004, Fibromyalgia and Sleep Apnea: 2007, Graves Disease and Hypothyroidism: 2010

3. But I had symptoms since: as long as I can remember.

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: Learning to ask for help, accepting that I can't be totally self-sufficient, and lowering my expectations for what I can do in a day.

5. Most people assume: I'm young and healthy

6. The hardest part about mornings are: Getting out of bed when I'm in pain and my body doesn't want to move

7. My favorite medical TV show is: Grey's Anatomy

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: Pill Sorter

9. The hardest part about nights are: Being alone with memories of my abuse and convincing myself to go to bed when that's where I was hurt.

10. Each day I take __ pills & vitamins. (No comments, please) 22-32

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: get massage, see a chiropractor and meditate. I think it's frustrating that insurance doesn't pay for the things that help me the most.

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: Visible

13. Regarding working and career: I haven't been able to work in 18 months. I miss my job, having somewhere to go every day where I felt useful and could help people. I'm in school, but I don't know if I will ever be able to work again. I hate it when people ask me how my job is going because I feel so ashamed that I am not able to work.

14. People would be surprised to know: I dream of hiking and rafting the Grand Canyon some day, but don't know if I will ever be able to.

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: That I'm too sick to be able to hold down a job and show up every day.

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: Learning to stand up for my needs with doctors. Getting over my fear of needles and talking about really intimate body functions.

17. The commercials about my illness: make it sound like I could just take a pill and make it all better. Don't exist for PTSD, migraines, Graves disease or hypothyroidism.

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: Yoga, kayaking, hiking, swimming on a team,

19. It was really hard to have to give up: my job

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: Knitting

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: Go White Water Rafting

22. My illness has taught me: To appreciate every day and the little things. Not to take anything for granted

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: That people on public assistance are lazy

24. But I love it when people: Listen. Sit with me when I cry. Give me hugs. Acknowledge how much I have been through. Tell me I'm a strong survivor, brave or that they admire me.

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is:
"Somebody told me that the darkest hour comes right before the dawn,
And I will find my way back to myself if I could just hold on,
Hold on,
To the light.
And it's going to be all right.
I know it's going to be all right.
Cuz love is on your side.
Don't fear your life.
Cuz it's going to be all right."
~"Dawn" by Gina Bredlove (it's a song)

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: Just live in today

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: that everything I go through makes me stronger

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: When my girlfriend tells me she loves me and wants to be in my life despite the fact that I'm not always able to do fun things.

29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: I want people to stop and think that every person you meet is going through something and doing the very best they can with what they have.

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: Hopeful that someone will work to make more resources available to struggling people.

NICIAW - Fibromyalgia

2011-09-14T08:00:00.001-05:00

This is from Twich. Twich lives with Fibromyalgia.

1. The illness I live with is: Fibromyalgia

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 2010

3. But I had symptoms since: 1984

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: trying to pace myself.

5. Most people assume: I'm just lazy and flaky.

6. The hardest part about mornings are: Not feeling refreshed and the pain caused by morning stiffness.

7. My favorite medical TV show is: Mystery diagnosis.

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: The iPod touch app that keeps track of my meds.

9. The hardest part about nights are: Trying to sleep.

10. Each day I take: 8- 12 pills & 2 vitamins. (No comments, please)

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: Use various types and believe in most alternative treatments.

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: Visible.

13. Regarding working and career: I may have to quit, if I can keep on with my job, I've been told I need to have a "Modified work description" Meaning drastically less hours and responsibilities than I'm used to.

14. People would be surprised to know: My pain level is significant and constant, I just don't talk about it often.

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: That it affects EVERY aspect of my life, both mental and physical.

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: maintain a social life.

17. The commercials about my illness: Don't really cover a fraction of what this illness is really like.

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: 4 hour walks with friends.

19. It was really hard to have to give up: Pushing my limits.

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: It's not new, but I paint more.

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: Go got a run or long walk.

22. My illness has taught me: To slow down sometimes and take care of myself.

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: "But you look good!"

24. But I love it when people: say "I understand, that must be hard."

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: Improvise, adapt, overcome.

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: Don't give up, it gets easier to live with.

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: How different it feels when you have a reason for feeling this way.

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: When my little sister drew me a get well picture

29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: It's important to spread awareness- Just because you can't physically see it, doesn't mean it's not just as debilitating.

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: Like I may have made a difference.

NICIAW - Anemia (Iron Deficiency)

2011-09-13T12:00:00.004-05:00

This is from Niccy:

1. The illness I live with is: Iron Deficiency Anemia

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 2001

3. But I had symptoms since: 1998

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: Getting regular blood draws, and having to miss school, work, and life in general on days when I'm just too tired

5. Most people assume: I am just lazy and whine a lot

6. The hardest part about mornings are: Forcing myself to get out of bed when just moving is hard to do

7. My favorite medical TV show is: House

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: My cell phone (what does that have to do with anemia?)

9. The hardest part about nights are: being so tired I cannot stay up any longer, but not being SLEEPY yet

10. Each day I take __ pills & vitamins. (No comments, please) It depends on what my levels are currently. Usually at least 3.

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: do modify my diet and I have tried "natural supplements" but I am skeptical.

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: visible. I hate being called lazy. If people could see my illness, maybe they would be more understanding.

13. Regarding working and career: I take more sick days than many people. My bosses in the past have thought that because my anemia is caused by iron deficiency, I can fix that and be cured. They don't understand that this is a chronic issue for me.

14. People would be surprised to know: inside, I feel like an energetic, fun, very athletic person - trapped in a broken body.

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: that sometimes, I just do not have enough energy to do the things I want.

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: run in a 5K with my friends.

17. The commercials about my illness: are depressing and not informative.

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: nothing, really. I felt sick for a few years before I was diagnosed, so that particular day didn't really change anything at all.

19. It was really hard to have to give up: there's nothing I gave up.

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: I have gotten pretty good at doing Anime-style drawings.

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: spend the whole day doing things, without thinking about taking my iron supplements and without an afternoon rest period.

22. My illness has taught me: to not take simple pleasures for granted.

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: "My relative/friend/acquaintance had that, and they got better just by eating more meat." I wish it was that simple, but for some people (read, me) it's not.

24. But I love it when people: plan things that even tired people can do, and invite me to be a part of it.

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: I don't really have anything like this.

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: keep your appointments to monitor your blood. Take your supplements. And be honest with your doctors about how tired you really feel.

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: that I can't just stuff it to the back of my mind. It seems like it's always there.

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: my boyfriend brought me soup and a pile of magazines one night when I was too tired to go out with him.

29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: I know there are other people with anemia who don't think it really "counts" as an illness. But it does. Maybe I can help them get the courage to speak up.

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: maybe it is okay for me to share that I just do not feel well

NICIAW - PTSD/Depression

2011-09-13T08:00:00.002-05:00

This was submitted by Kay:

1. The illnesses I live with are: PTSD and Depression

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 2008

3. But I have had symptoms since: 1974

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: realizing I have a disability

5. Most people assume: I am normal with a few quirks

6. The hardest part about mornings are: fighting with a huge amount of anxiety

7. My favorite medical TV show is: House

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: my coffee maker

9. The hardest part about nights are: sleeplessness and anxiety

10. Each day I take 3 pills & vitamins. (No comments, please)

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: have done massage, reiki, acupuncture, and lots of others

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: visible

13. Regarding working and career: it is very scary to think about it as I am often unable to cope with a regular schedule

14. People would be surprised to know: how hard I have to work to maintain a normal lifestyle

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: how much my disability affects every single aspect of my life

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: travel by myself

17. The commercials about my illness: I've never seen one for PTSD

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: living without fear

19. It was really hard to have to give up: living without medications

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: playing music

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: I have no idea. I can't imagine what that would be like.

22. My illness has taught me: that I have to take care of myself first

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: even the tiniest amount of stress

24. But I love it when people: are gentle with one another

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: This too shall pass.

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: Hang in there, it can get better.

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: That others can be so unaware and so cruel sometimes

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: take care of me regardless

29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: It is so hard to live with an illness that others don't see or know about. Having to try and live a "normal" life when you are really messed up is so difficult and most people have no idea.

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: glad to know that you know more about it and maybe will have more compassion for others that you meet with this illness

NICIAW - Endometriosis

2011-09-12T08:00:00.007-05:00

My name is Jenn.

The invisible, chronic illness I live with is Endometriosis, stage IV. Endometriosis, for me, is a disease in which tissue similar to the tissue that normally lines a uterus, grows elsewhere. In my case, that means my ovaries, my fallopian tubes, my bladder (inside and outside), my large intestine, my small intestine, all the spaces between pelvic structures, as well as my kidneys, ureters, my liver, spleen, diaphragm, and right lung. Each time my body cycles, those abnormal growths, which cause pain and problems by simply being there, start to bleed (just like having a period). Only they bleed heavily and intensely, and it drains me of all energy and makes me very ill. Not to mention the pain. The bleeding causes inflammatory responses which cause the formation of adhesions and scar tissue, which then creates more places for the endometriosis to grow, and causes pain and problems of its own. I also get cysts within my ovaries and what's left of my tubes, that get very very large and then rupture, causing loss of blood and bodily fluids, abdominal swelling, and sheer agony. The adhesions that formed prior to my last surgery effectively turned my abdominal cavity into a solid mass. There were new arteries that had grown and the adhesions weren't the typical filmy bits of scar tissue, but were thick, meaty tubes of tissue. My last surgery could not be completed in one procedure, and the second half had to be completed two months later.

I was officially diagnosed following a laporoscopy on March 23, 2007.
But I started having symptoms when I was 13 and had my first ruptured ovarian cyst. The ultrasound revealed that the cyst was denser than typical "luteal or hemorrhagic" cysts, and the word "endometriosis came up in conversation. It was dismissed as I was far too young. At the age of 18, I had my appendix removed as well as a large ovarian cyst that I was told was called a "chocolate cyst." At the age of 21, I had to have a biopsy done on my bladder due to the endometriosis that was growing there. And yet, no diagnosis was offered.

The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is realizing I face life-long pain and knowing that conceiving without medical assistance is no longer possible, and that at the age of 27, I have reached the end of my ability to bear children.

Most people assume that I still have time to have children, but the endometriosis has destroyed so much of my body that I am out of time. If we get an opportunity this year to try, it might work. Otherwise... we are done. I am young, but that doesn't mean I have time. They also assume that Endometrios just means I have painful periods and probably sore ovaries and tubes.

The hardest part about mornings are not knowing if I will be able to stand up when I get out of bed. Will the pain be so severe that I cannot stand up? Will I throw up? If I do, will it be vomit or blood? What about my lung? Am I going to cough up blood? And the adhesions - will one tear free today, causing intense pain and bleeding, possibly even landing me in the hospital?

A gadget I couldn’t live without is my electric blanket. Sometimes, when I'm bleeding internally, I get anemic. And so very, very cold. The electric blanket helps me stay warm, and keeps me from shivering (which hurts even more).

The hardest part about nights are when I am so tired but I am in so much pain that I can hardly make myself breathe, never mind fall asleep.

Each day I take hydrocodone, naproxen, and elmiron pills, and at night I need ambien and ativan to help me sleep. I also take prenatal vitamins, fishoil, and evening of primrose oil. (No comments, please)

Regarding alternative treatments I have tried so many. Supplements, dietary changes, visualization for pain management, faith... all of those things have come into play, and have helped... a little. Also, I have done an experimental run of chemotherapy, which was effective in causing me to loose about 1/2 of my hair and while the disease did not progress, there was no remission. And as soon as the regiment was over, it started growing even faster than before.

If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose invisible. I don't like sympathy, I don't like being the center of attention, I don't like "Aw... you look awful." But at the same time... there are days when I feel like I am being shredded from the inside out and someone will say "You look really great" and I will think to myself "NOT.POSSIBLE.GO.AWAY."

Regarding working and career, it has destroyed my career. Do you know people don't seem to hire you when you openly admit that there are days you can't get out of bed, unpredictably. And you have surgery 2-3 times each year, and each time could mean up to 1 month away from work, plus if you get a period you'll be missing at least a week for that, and if you ovulate, you might get a cyst requiring up to two weeks in bed.... they say they are equal opportunity employers, but.... how can anyone expect to be hired after disclosing such information? And I feel like it is the opposite of integrity to withhold it.

People would be surprised to know how much this disease really, really hurts. And how discouraging it can be. But life is still beautiful, still a gift, still something to cherish and live as fully as possible.

The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been admitting that I really do hurt. I really am in pain, and I really could use your help.

Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was... well, we're still working on this one. I want to have a baby. I want to wait, but I can't. If I'm going to do it, it's got to be now. We will see if this happens.

The commercials about my illness... there are commercials about endometriosis? I've never seen any.

Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is dreaming about future babies - about finding out that we'd gotten pregnant this month. And I miss being able to be intimate with my husband without pain.

It was really hard to have to give up the idea that our children could be conceived, carried, and birthed 100% naturally.

A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is blogging, actually.

If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would spar until my legs quit working, and then lay on my stomach on the beach and trace designs into the sand. To end the day, I'd be painlessly intimate with the person I love most.

My illness has taught me to take care of myself. To not say "I can" when I can NOT. To ask for help, and to not be ashamed when I need a time out.

Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is "If it's God's will for you to have a baby, you will... at just the right time."

But I love it when people give me a big hug and say "I remember" on December 17th, which is the day our little girl was supposed to have been born back in 2006.

My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is,
   "O Lord, My God, when I in awesome wonder
    Consider all the works Thy hands have made
    I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder
    I see Thy pow'r throughout the universe displayed...

    Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee
    How great Thou art, how great Thou art!"

When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them, it's a tough road. But not a hopeless one. Look for the beauty in your life... because it is still there. And now, it can mean even more than it ever did.

Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is how easy it is to get depressed and self-centered because of it.

The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was tell me to lay back down and rest.

I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because I support others who have "invisible illnesses." I know many people who silently suffer, and I want to give them a chance here to be heard.

The fact that you read this list makes me hope maybe it touched something in you that will help either you or someone you love.

It's Not Forever.

2011-09-03T20:30:00.000-05:00

This life, I mean. Eventually, we leave this earth and enter heaven, or we enter hell. Death isn't scary if you are confident of your eternity.

But for those left here on earth after someone dies... it hurts. It often does not feel temporary. It feels like a giant hole has been ripped through you, a hole that will never heal. It DOES heal, at least some. It takes time, it takes faith, it takes hope, it takes support. But healing happens.

Today, one of the best men I know is dancing in Heaven. His son was there waiting, and his granddaughter, and so many others. He's without pain, without chains, without flaws. And I rejoice for him. I truly do.

And my heart is aching, tears are flowing, for his family. Because good-bye hurts, even though it's not forever. I remember how badly it hurt when my Gramma left my house healthy and happy, and didn't make it home. That's as close as I can come to understanding what my friends, my family, are feeling. Steven Curtis Chapman did a pretty good job of saying what's on my heart tonight.

This is not how it should be
This is not how it could be
This is how it is
Our God is in control

This is not how it will be
When we finally will see
We’ll see with our own eyes
He was always in control

And we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
And we will finally really understand what it means

So we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
While we’re waiting for that day

This is not where we planned to be
When we started this journey
This is where we are
And Our God is in control

Though this first taste is bitter
There will be sweetness forever
When we finally taste and see
That Our God is in control

And we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
And we will finally really understand what it means

So we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
While we’re waiting for that day
We’re waiting for that day
We’ll keep on waiting for that day

And we will know
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy
Holy Holy Holy
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy

*This song was written and recorded by Steven Curtis Chapman.

Today's The Day

2011-08-31T17:12:00.000-05:00

Today, the Fed-Ex man didn't knock very loudly. Or maybe I dosed off. We're going to say it was his fault though, not mine. So I didn't know he was here, and he left one of those wonderful tags hanging on my door.

The delivery?

Leuprolide. It's the injectable medication I am starting to help (we hope) with the endometriosis. So he couldn't just leave it. So he took my medicine with him and left.

So I called the pharmaceutical company. And they put me in touch with logistics for Fed-Ex. And they put me in touch with their special group that handles the delivery of perishable medication. And they called the Fed-Ex guy on the phone and told him to come back.

He did. Six hours later. And as I was signing, he smiled and said he had no idea what could be so important inside the box... after all how much could one medication cost someone? Oh, if only you knew what you are so often delivering.

Anyway, I have been waiting and waiting for this stuff to arrive.

And after I opened it and gave myself the first dose... I realized something. I have almost a full two week vial left from last year. It expires 9/30. So I can use it. Duh. Of course the stuff we just got now will be useful, since I'll be on this for at least two months. But still.

And just like I remember, the shots don't hurt a bit, but they leave crazy red splotches on my belly as the medication disperses. Anybody remember if I was premedicating with Benadryl last year? I can't for the life of me remember if I was or not... Yeah. Right. I didn't share the IVF process here. I forgot about that part.

And no, I am not currently in any stage of the IVF process. I am genuinely using Leuprolide to hopefully suppress the endometriosis.

Rewind.

2011-08-30T23:02:00.000-05:00

Do you ever think that you're going through a "rough patch" in life? One of those times where it's not terrible, but you certainly look forward to when things get better?

Have you ever been thinking that and found yourself, just days later, desperately wanting to push rewind, to go back to that "rough patch" because it was so much better than where you are now?

Me too.

It's not my place to say why, and it's probably not even my place to be as impacted as I am. But tonight, I sit with tears running down my face (they have been for a couple days now), wishing with everything in me that I knew what to do, what to say... how to be... how to make sure I don't mess this up. Because it's not about me at all... and yet, I am part of it, in a way. A helpless, confused, sad, angry part.

I'll be fine. I really will. Because it's really not about me. It's about someone else entirely... and while I've learned how to deal with bad things in my own life, how to handle the unknown and how to be patient and remain hopeful and enjoy life no matter what is going on... I haven't learned how to be the "okay outsider." And I desperately, desperately want to do exactly the right things, say exactly the right things... but I don't know if there are any words or actions that are "right."

Rewind, please. Go back to 2010. June. Let me start from there, please. Let us all start from there. Because there's a lot I would do differently, if I had known then what I know now.

National Invisible Chronic Illness Awareness Week

2011-08-30T22:22:00.000-05:00

I am reposting this because I've received several entries already, but I don't want folks to forget - there are still two weeks left. Thank you all so much.

Please visit This Link to learn more about National Invisible Chronic Illness Week.

Thousands, millions even, of people suffer with invisible illness. As months, weeks, and years go by, we learn to stay silent, to quit complaining, to "toughen up." We learn to not ask for support or help. We get tired of being a burden. Sometimes, we find ourselves dreading the next person who says "But you look just fine." This year, from September 12-18th, I will be publishing as many stories as are submitted to me. You can follow this checklist, or you can write it in any other format you choose. But try to view it as an opportunity to show the world what it is like to be you. It's important to me this year, to give my readers a voice. You can email me at kyukidojen@hotmail.com and I will gladly post on your behalf. Please include what you want me to call you in the post dedicated to you, and as well as you can, answer the following questions. It is time to see just how NOT alone we really are.

1. The illness I live with is:

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year:

3. But I had symptoms since:

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is:

5. Most people assume:

6. The hardest part about mornings are:

7. My favorite medical TV show is:

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is:

9. The hardest part about nights are:

10. Each day I take __ pills & vitamins. (No comments, please)

11. Regarding alternative treatments I:

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose:

13. Regarding working and career:

14. People would be surprised to know:

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been:

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was:

17. The commercials about my illness:

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is:

19. It was really hard to have to give up:

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is:

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would:

22. My illness has taught me:

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is:

24. But I love it when people:

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is:

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them:

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is:

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was:

29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because:

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel:

The Highground.

2011-08-29T01:09:00.000-05:00

In Exodus 3, Moses was out in the desert and God spoke to him from within a bush that burned, but didn't burn up. God spoke to him. And Moses was instructed to take off his shoes, because he was on holy ground.

I grew up believing that if God was speaking to people (or a person) somewhere, that place became holy ground. It wasn't the fact that there was a burning bush, it wasn't the miraculous lack of consumption in the fire, it wasn't even the fact that God was there - because God is everywhere. It was the fact that God was deliberately revealing Himself and speaking to Moses.

Saturday, we chose to skip our planned trip to the zoo, and we instead visited a couple veterans memorials. The first was what I expected - lots of plaques, statues, a tank, a jet. Those things are sort of... standard. They are important. They are meaningful. And I really, genuinely enjoy going to them. And I feel honored, and privileged, and so incredibly thankful for all that's been done on our behalf. We took a lot of pictures for a project we are doing, and spent some time reading the plaques and some time being silent in respect and in memory of what had to be done to purchase our freedom here in the United States.

Then we started driving to the second one.

As we slowed to turn off the highway, there was something very... different about it. It felt... well, it felt special. Spiritual, even. I was very strongly impressed, inside, to not wear my shoes.

I walked barefoot down the walkway. It was paved with square stones, each bearing the name of someone who had served our country, who had given the ultimate sacrifice. I could feel the heat of the sun in each stone. And I read the names. All of them. And the heavy, serious, "God is here" feeling stayed, and grew stronger still.

At one end of the memorial is the memorial that is pictured here:

What you can't see in this picture, is what that memorial was truly like to stand before.

I don't know if you've spent a lot of time around statues that generate tears in the people who view them, but I have. Tears leave salt rings after they dry. Sometimes people will wipe the tears away with their hands, and leave a white-rimmed hand print. It washes away as soon as it gets wet, but for just a while, it stays. This memorial, had tear rings. It had a hand print on the side of one of the faces, faint. And then I noticed... the dog tags. The dog tags were hanging off the soldiers' hands, they were around their necks, they were suspended with the many metal rods bearing the names of fallen soldiers.

And it hit me, hard and fast. The "different feeling" and the fact that I couldn't get myself to wear my shoes, and the sadness and peace that were both prevalent... this was holy ground. Here, at this memorial, God speaks to people. Hurting, broken people go there and He ministers hope to them. He ministers life. They leave dog tags, they leave watches and medals, and with these little bits of material, they lay down some of their grief. Because God meets them there, and he takes some of their grief, and gives them what they desperately need.

During the time we spent there, I found myself in tears. The changing of the guards at the tomb of the unknown soldier is more emotional. The rows and rows and rows of silent, white crosses in Arlington cemetery are more somber and are enough to drive me to my knees.

But they are the closest things I've ever felt, to what was at the Highground on Saturday. I read the names on the dog tags. I saw the medals hanging among the chimes. I saw the picture propped by one of the statues, with the words "I miss you and I will always love you" on it. I did not photograph that picture.

My words are failing me tonight. Failing me miserably.

The gist of it all is this: I went to the Highground. It is a place where God meets people. It is holy ground. And it is truly a beautiful, sad place... and also a place of evident hope and faith.

Just One Picture.

2011-08-28T02:37:00.002-05:00

This image combines three photos I took today. And a watermark. And I really, really like it.

Honey, I Love You

2011-08-27T00:12:00.001-05:00

Six years ago today, I married my beloved Derek. People then told us we weren't ready, said to wait, said to slow down... but we knew deep down, that waiting wouldn't change things... just prolong the "hard part" unnecessarily. Yep. We were that smart and also very mature.

But the thing is... when we married, we each had a secret. A big secret, that we hadn't shared with the other. Not in full. For the first several years of our marriage, those secrets would rear their ugly heads and we'd beat them back down. Quickly. Before the other person noticed.

And then they started to be known. Right around the time we had our third, fourth, and fifth miscarriages. And my Gramma was killed in a senseless accident. And I was trying to rebuild a relationship - a new relationship - with a part of my family I hadn't so much as spoken to in years. And then I had my first endometriosis surgery. We did some fertility treatments. I had another surgery. Then we did some more treatments. I got depressed. Derek got depressed. I finally let my secret out, and it shook us until we were barely standing - and that, only by the grace of God. And not long after, Derek let his out, and we were shaken again. And then we tried another fertility treatment and more surgery, and it didn't work.

Derek stood helpless as I spiraled out of control, caught in the snares of PTSD and depression. I was battling not just in my mind, but physically, too. So much - SO much - had to be conquered. The people we'd worked so hard to bring back into our lives ended up sort of being let back out. Not because we didn't love them, but because at the time, our focus needed to be exclusively on our God and our relationship... and any added stress could have caused this house to wash away the next time rain fell or the wind blew. But we held on.

And we've grown closer and stronger, and stronger, and stronger. Two days ago, we were meeting with my counselor (yes, I see one. No, it's not a secret.) Derek had to handle some pretty rough stuff... and I have been noticing that the healthier I get, the more emotional my responses to him are. Not out of control emotional... but emotional as in I feel things now, instead of just being numb. I got angry. I felt hurt. And I told him. And he didn't attack it. He has never, ever, that I can recall, verbally (or physically or in any other way) attacked or put me down. Ever.

And through it all? He is mine. I am his. We are Christ's. Do you know how truly beautiful, and rare this gift is?

And now that I've told you vaguely about the hard stuff, I will tell you some of my favorite parts of the last six years:

Laying in the dark talking until the sun starts coming up. After going to bed early so we can "get lots of sleep."

Laughing so hard we cry, at silly, stupid jokes shared between us.

Having a chance to show love and honor and support to someone who forgives me when I don't do so well at it. And someone who genuinely appreciates everything I do get right.

Having someone irrevocably, unwaveringly on my side. In everything.

Swimming with dolphins.

Being honored and privileged and fortunate enough to know the hopes and dreams of another, intimately.

Seeing my six foot tall, two hundred plus pound husband holding a 24-hour-old kitten, patiently feeding it a bottle and smiling. In the middle of the night.

Watching our five cats light up and swarm around him when he gets home - and watching how happy he gets.

Growing and changing with someone I love.

Discounted admission to the zoo for our anniversary, because they were closing. But let us in anyway and we didn't leave till almost two hours after closing time. And it was okay, because there was a kids' overnight thing and I think the staff thought we were part of that.

Being safe and loved enough to be able to say "I am angry" or "I am sad" and not be afraid of the consequences.

APAP (automatic positive airway pressure) machine. Like a C-PAP only it's not a constant pressure - it varies with his breathing. The little black machine has done more for our marriage than any other possession we have.

Most of all, I am thankful that we have been married for six years. We no longer get "You're so young and you aren't ready for marriage." We no longer get called newly-weds. We haven't heard "be married longer before kids" in quite some time. And yet... it is still just as much work, just as hard, just as beautiful, just as amazing, and just as much an adventure as it was six years ago.

I'm ready for... hmm... about 83 more years? I don't think I want to live to be older than 100.

NICIAW - Thank you

2011-08-24T14:36:00.000-05:00

I've gotten submissions both from my blog, here, and from a few other people I have directly asked. I appreciate the feedback, and I look forward to letting other voices be heard here.

National Invisible Chronic Illness Awareness Week starts on September 12, so there's still lots of time for you to submit your own post. You can use the survey questions I posted here, or you can write whatever else you want. You can submit your posts either in the comments section or by emailing me. If you use email, make sure you include something in the subject to catch my attention, or it might get overlooked as spam.

Anyway, thank you for your participation so far. It's very much appreciated!

In 10 Days...

2011-08-23T15:35:00.000-05:00

In 10 days, I travel to The City. I will go to the Hospital.

And the Surgeon will cut into my body yet again (this will be the tenth time). She will remove the remnants of my scarred and painful and fluid-filled, useless fallopian tubes. She will separate organs that have fused into random solid masses. She will use cautery and wire loops and blades and lasers to obliterate as much endometriosis as she can do safely. Then she'll use InnerCede (a mesh that is body-friendly and dissolves after several months) and stitches to wrap things up and hold them in place and try to prevent scar tissue from going this crazy again. And she has assured me that I will wake up in a lot of pain.

And I believe my God will deliver me.

I believe that His promise is one of children. I believe some day, some how, it will happen. I don't care if it has to involve doctors and embryologists and In-Vitro. That's fine. Because any way you look at it, conception, pregnancy, and then birth - it is all one massive miracle. I will be honest - I used to be bitter. I used to be jealous. I used to feel that it was so unfair that so many people were fertile and I was not. It used to bother me that at a minimum, we required shots and steroids and anticoagulants to conceive. It still bothers me that all nine of my children live in Heaven. Not that they are there, but that they are not here.

But today? If you conceive your babies with ease - I am delighted for you. If you struggle, but it still happens "the old fashioned way" I am relieved that your struggles were rewarded. If you used medication, I am thankful that your body responded correctly. If you used IUI, I am thankful for technology and for your willingness to go beyond "just the basics" in your quest to have a child. If you conceived with IVF, I am amazed by your strength and tenacity (and willingness to stab yourself with needles on a daily basis). And if you conceived by an obvious miracle, when it was not possible for it to happen - it makes my heart swell with joy.

I simply do not care how God works in my life. I know He will, I know He is. I know that if I die without ever once giving birth... my God is still God and still good. I know I do not need biological motherhood to be happy, to feel complete. I want it more than any other earthly desire, but I will be fine if it never happens. My pity party was long and pathetic, but it's over now. It's been over for quite some time. If you were part of it - I apologize. If you missed it, I'm glad.

Some day, someone is going to call me mom. And it's not going to be a slip of the tongue. That someone will be a child. I do not know who will carry and deliver that child. I do not know what that child's biological or legal relationship to me will be. But I believe completely that I will be a mother. And I am fine with whatever it takes for that to happen. When I talk about the fact that to conceive, we will need physicians and needles and procedures and laboratories, and we will call it In-Vitro Fertilization... don't be sad for me. Rejoice with me because there is an answer to our situation. If the day comes when I say we are completely out of the race for a biological child... don't mourn. Rejoice with me because my name is written in the Lamb's Book of Life. When I tell you we are adopting (we aren't, yet), don't tell yourself that it's second best. It has never been second best in our eyes. It is a dream, a separate dream. A dream that is on hold for now, because for now, I still have ovaries. Did you know that you don't need ovaries or a uterus or the ability to support a pregnancy for a successful adoption?

Anyway, I rarely write about fertility issues here. But I wanted to today, because I want people to know that even if my dreams of being a biological mother never come true, I still love my God. I am still thankful. I still thank God for the gift of life. I will not fall out or back away over this. And I am not afraid, not ashamed, and not destroyed.

Rain

2011-08-13T17:41:00.000-05:00

It's raining outside today. Big, round drops of precious water. The air smells of earth and rain and of the crops that are maturing nearby. It is cool and the sound is quiet, steady... soothing. The cloud-shadow makes things look a little flatter, a little less distracting, a little less harsh.

I love the rain, love to stand outside with my arms open to the heavens, letting it wash over my face. Years ago, I was given a key to one of the churches on our town. The pastor has since retired, so I no longer use that key. But, especially during the 18 months of serious trial and hurt and fear that I've so recently come out of, that key was so important to me. The moments of peace were almost impossible to find then, but sometimes... sometimes they were there. Late at night, when the rest of the town was sleeping, I would go to that church. That Pastor and his wife were my "parents" in high school. I know their church as well as I know their home. I would silently open and close the door, locking it behind me. I'd walk on soft carpet through the darkness, up the stairs and through the narrow hallway, out into the sanctuary. I'd turn the sound system off, and I would sit down at the piano. The light from streetlamps or the moon always made just enough light to see by, filtered through the stained glass and gentle. I would play softly, listening as the music resonated and grew around me.

I would pray, I would cry for mercy, for hope, for healing. Mostly for forgiveness. And in the darkness, in the quiet, He would touch my heart.

And then I'd hear the sound of rain. It would start imperceptibly quiet and slowly build until it was a rushing roar that surrounded me like air.

In the Old Testament, when the people really, really messed things up, God withheld the rain. If you want examples, I would be happy to send you a list. They are there though - Genesis, Leviticus, Deuteronomy, 1 and 2 Kings, 1 and 2 Samuel, and so on. When the people sinned and God was angry, it did not rain.

But in Genesis, chapter 49, verse 25, it says "Your father's God helps you. God Almighty blesses you. He blesses you with rain from above..." Psalm 68, verses seven and eight: "When you, God, went out before your people, when you marched through the wilderness, the earth shook, the heavens poured down rain, before God, the one of Sinai, before God, the God of Israel."

And as the rain fell, I knew He was near. As close to me as the air I was breathing, and mightier than every storm on the earth, My God was there.

For me, when the rain comes down, it reminds me of God's love. Of His mercy, His forgiveness, His grace. It reminds me that even when I've done wrong, He is ready and mighty to save. And my heartfelt cries, they do not go unanswered and unheard. The Lord of All hears and answers.

And the rain falls down.

Briefly

2011-08-10T20:55:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I learned five kids' names. In less than a minute. And I still remember them. :) That's neat, no?

But it's not what I want to write about.

I left the City last night about 7:30. We live East of the City, and the sun was starting to set. The first thing I noticed was how very deeply, darkly blue the sky was. And how brilliantly white and gold and crimson the clouds were. Then I noticed that the hills were green... so green. A deep, almost-blue green. And the fields were a bright, almost-glowing green. Barns seemed so red. Houses seemed so brightly colored.

I don't know why it was that way. When I got home and looked at some pictures, they looked normal. The inside of my house didn't seem vivid. But looking out the windows... stuff looked vivid up until darkness made it all fade away. And not just vivid.

Alive. Bright. Full of beauty.

And I don't know why.

All I knew to do was to say "Thank you Lord, for all you have done."

O Lord, my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works Thy hands have made
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder
I see Thy pow'r throughout the universe displayed

Then sings my soul
My Savior, God, to Thee
How great Thou art
How great Thou art!

I Will Be Happy If...

2011-07-17T18:22:00.000-05:00

I've noticed a lot of people lately talking about how they finally have what was supposed to make them happy. Kids, a spouse, friends, money, a home, whatever... and I've noticed something. The ones who are happy now, were happy before. It seems to have almost NOTHING to do with whatever they wanted.

So.

What will make you happy?

Personally, I will be happy if we pull ahead further in our finances. I will be happy if I can actually get pregnant before time runs out (actually, I will be happy if I find out time has not run out already). I will be happy if we can adopt some babies. I will be happy if we can adopt some older children. I will be happy if we finish our house. I will be happy if I can spend more time with friends. I will be happy if I can be healthy. I will be happy when I heal from the surgery I had just over a week ago.

But all of that... all of that is nothing when I try to compare it to knowing my God. I can't even make the comparison, because they are too far apart.

And I realize something... I have to be happy. Not because it's important. Really it's not - my lungs work just as well when I'm sad as they do happy. My finances don't go any further, my life isn't easier, and I'm not any more saved if I am happy than I am if I am sad.

But people are watching. Sad people. Angry people. Hurt people. Scared people. All those emotions I don't like, they feel. And so do I. So I let them see. And then I let them see me happy in spite of it all. I let them see me happy while we can't fathom how we'll pay next week's taxes and bills, while my uterus is painful empty (it really is painful; part of last week's procedure has made sure of that), while I scramble to find a way to try one last time before surgery takes away my chance for the rest of my life, while I dream about adopting babies and older kids and wonder if it will ever really happen, while our house has insulation showing where there is no drywall and I don't know when the last time I hugged certain friends was, and it's been over a year since I last thought of myself as "healthy" and even while I lay curled from the pain of the last operation. I am happy. Yes. Right now, right this second, I am happy. I have something that shines so brightly that all of those other real and painful and unpleasant things lose their emotional pull, and I. Am. Happy.

Are you?

~Psalm 119:2: Happy are those who keep His rules, who try to obey Him with their whole heart.

I cannot even begin to TRY to count the number of times when people have heard me express longing for children. Countless times. Also, sorrow for the children who I've conceived and then had go on to heaven before they were even born. I admit, it's been a big focal point for a bit over five years now.

And so many well-intentioned people have said "Just be happy with what you have." And the reality is, I am not happy "with what I have." I am not happy about the loss. I am not happy that my husband is taking a Sunday afternoon nap with no children around him. I am not happy that the surgeon has said that really, this last surgery was it. End of the line. Time for baby or time to move on. I am not happy that my house is, 3 years later, still a construction zone. I am not happy that our choices as a family have not meant greater financial prosperity. None of those things are reasons to be happy. But truthfully, if I was rich and had ten kids and a mansion and had never had so much as a cold, none of that would be a reason to be happy, either.

The only real reasons to be happy, are not impacted or changed or touched at all by the circumstances of life. Our salvation, peace, eternal life, hope, confidence, and the fact that Romans 8 promises that NOTHING can separate us from the love of God. THAT is why I am happy. I am unshakably, undeniably happy.

And I still want babies. I still cry sometimes when I think about what could be. I still ache to hold a child that is biologically related to my husband and to me in my arms. That may never happen - each day that goes by is a day closer to saying "Okay, nope." But even if that day comes - even if things get painful enough or I find myself in danger again - and I say "Okay, do it" and the surgeon spends her day sectioning off my abdomen and wrapping organs and taking steps that make pregnancy a very dangerous idea... even then, I will still cry about my desire to be a biological mother. But while the tears stream and my heart aches, I will also be happy. Just like I am today.

Better Men - July 4th, 2011

2011-07-04T19:45:00.004-05:00

War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things.
The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling
which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse.
The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight,
nothing which is more important than his own personal safety,
is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free
unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.
~John Stewart Mill
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(C) Potter's Clay Studios. Image may not be reproduced, hyperlinked, embedded, downloaded, shared, or archived in any system, paper or electronic, without express permission from the owner of Potter's Clay Studios.

Today, I am remembering those "Better Men" who are part of my life, part of my being, part of who I am. And I am remembering those "Better Men" who gave of themselves and stepped into eternity. And I am remembering that today is truly a day to remember all of the "Better Men" and to celebrate not just freedom, but those who have given that freedom to us.

RAW

2011-07-04T12:00:00.002-05:00

So after a long absence, one of my favorite bloggy activities is back.

RAW. Head on over to Sailor and Company to check out the rules and submit your own entry.

In short, the photos must be completely, 100% untouched, and must fit the theme for the week.

Here is my entry for the theme "America" - RAW, unedited, unchanged photo. It was taken at a veteran's memorial not terribly far from where I live.

Take My Breath Away

2011-06-29T21:37:00.002-05:00

Many are saying of me, “God will not deliver her.” But You, LORD, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high.
I call out to the LORD, and He answers me from his holy mountain.
~Psalm 3:2-4

There are moments in life that take my breath away. Beautiful moments.

Like the day my nephew Israel was born, and the first time I held him close to me.

Or the day my daddy walked me down the aisle at my wedding. He was wearing his flip flops and I was wearing... nothing on my feet. I had heels but they hurt so I left them in the back of the church. I kept looking at my daddy's face. He'd see me looking and his smile would get bigger still. And then mine would. And then his would.

And then I looked up and I saw my husband. Derek is absolutely, without a doubt, 100% in love with me. Do you know how amazing that is? To have someone so loyal, so committed, so passionate? To not have any real fear of abandonment or even harm or neglect? It will take your breath away, just for a minute, when you realize that there is someone who feels that way about you.

Other moments... walking along a path in the woods, crying privately about the recent death of my Gramma. Knowing I would wait the rest of my life before I could be reunited with her. Aching and broken and trying so hard to be strong. And there, on a snow-covered branch, with big flakes floating all around me, was a flawless cardinal singing so sweetly.

Looking to my left and seeing my dad and my Kelly and my husband and my dad's friend Charlie, all beaming. Looking in front of me and seeing my friends and instructors. Raising my arms up so that a black belt could be tied around my waist... less than a month after getting out of the hospital with my hand, and 8 months earlier than it was predicted I'd be able to even START training with my leg again.

Trying to teach a very happy 10 year old how to do some ground-fighting. Trying to be serious. Starting to get annoyed with his unstoppable laughter and unyielding smile... and finding it suddenly pouring out of me, too. Laying next to him on the mat, just laughing. Looking into his black, almond-shaped eyes, at his tan skin and a smile so big it looks like it almost hurts... and realizing that the isolation and resignation and sadness have faded away.

Hearing my closest and dearest friend after Derek tell someone that I am a good, good friend. That I would be a strong place for them, that I could hold them up during a hard time.

Those moments take my breath away.

Seeing lines of clouds in a deep blue sky, with fields of hay rolling in the breeze and birds singing.

Watching the hillside behind our house blinking with so many fireflies it seems impossible.

Coming in softly late at night, and watching my husband sleep. All the tension gone from his face. Gently kissing him, pulling the covers up over his shoulders. His mumbled "I love you" that is so deeply ingrained, he says it even in his sleep.

Sitting on the back of a horse for what would be her last full-speed run... ever. And what was my first full-speed run with a horse, ever. And feeling for just a moment that I was somehow joined together with this animal who CHOSE to obey me, and that the world rushing by could not touch me.

Tiny, sticky arms wrapping around my waist as two young boys dash across a restaurant to greet me. Spaghetti stains left on my shirt from their faces, and warmth spreading through my heart with their "I love you" still fresh and new.

Feeling my pocket vibrate and hearing the strumming of a guitar, telling me that my daddy - my hero, my protector, my friend - is calling me.

Those moments, take my breath away. Not for long, but briefly. Just briefly, I am too full of so much good, and I don't have room for air.

And then there are other moments.

Watching a young father gently pick up a tiny, tiny white coffin that holds his newborn daughter. Watching him walk, alone, down the aisle of the church while my heart exploded with grief and love for that child's family. Watching that man slowly sink to his knees at the back of the sanctuary as tears poured and his shoulders slumped. Watching him rise up again.

Driving too fast for too long in order to make a cross-country trip in time to attend a "brother's" funeral. Feeling my heart explode with new grief as I notice one of the pictures by his coffin - it was him, holding his baby girl, before she went to heaven. Dreaming so vividly of him stronger even than he was here, with his giggling daughter, dancing in heaven. Seeing his bride comforting those who came to mourn this wonderful man, and vowing not to cause her any more grief or hurt... knowing I would bear all of her pain for her if I could. Hugging her and suddenly feeling the crushing weight of what she was facing, and being so unprepared that I began to cry. Forcing a smile as I said to her, "My heart is broken for you, for your kids, for all of us who will miss him. He is in heaven, and we WILL meet him again."

It took my breath away. So intensely that I wouldn't have been surprised if I had physically turned blue.

Standing with a camera, as requested by my Grandfather. Taking pictures silently, as he bent to kiss my Grandma goodnight. Hearing him tell her she was beautiful. That he loved her - that he'd always loved her, from the first time he met her. Watching the back that had always been straight and the shoulders that had always been square slowly droop. They've dropped further in the years since. And when I look at him, it takes my breath away. This man has known death, has known grief, has known financial hardship, has carried personal burdens that he is afraid to put down... and what did he choose for the inscription on the grave site he will someday share with his wife? "But you MUST be born again."

I relived that moment when the film came back. All you can see is the flowers around the coffin. The middle of the pictures is completely white. It takes my breath away.

Seeing a still, perfectly formed but not-beating heart on the ultrasound screen before the technician turned it away. Falling to my knees in the bathroom of a convenience store on the way home, and crying out to God in sheer, broken anguish. A month later, getting "lost" in the Black Hills with my husband. Still waiting for my body to release its hold on our daughter. And being filled with a gentle peace that did not remove the sadness, but made it easier to bear, as we sat beside a mountain stream surrounded by millions of tiny blue flowers, and tiny blue butterflies. Anna's flowers.

It took my breath away, to be so broken and so at peace and surrounded by both beautiful life and ugly death.

Watching my friend be blasted financially, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. And seeing no end in sight. Knowing I cannot fight this battle for him, I cannot take it on his behalf. And loving him so deeply that I would. I would take every last bit of it, if it would take it from him. Watching that friend give up over and over... and over and over, renew his fight, renew his vow to NEVER give up. Knowing that I am so blessed... to have my husband, my daddy, my friend... men who treat me with respect and love and honor and gentleness, and who defend not just me, but everyone around them.

Walking into a nursing home and having tears start welling up and my throat clamp shut when I see a strong, intelligent man curled up like a baby in the bed, having shrunk drastically in such a short time. Wondering if that day, he'll know who I am or if he'll once again thank me for being kind enough to "visit a stranger." Kneeling down to hug him, and feeling his hands soft and warm gripping my hand and around my neck, holding on with every bit of strength left in his failing body. Feeling his tears wet against my cheek, and hearing him whisper thank you. Trying to stand strong, maintain composure on the way out the door. But unable to stop the ache inside, and unable to stop myself from imagining that it will be my dad in that bed some day. Breaking inside for him, and for his children, for his wife. Knowing that the burden he carries, the aching and sorrow that come when a parent buries a child, aren't fading along with the rest of his memories. Knowing that soon, he'll be with his son in heaven... and that his other son will be here on earth and will be more broken than he's ever been. And knowing I'm powerless to do anything more than be present.

It takes my breath away.

Watching my husband walking the same difficult path I walked down myself just a few short months ago - the path of genuinely and fully grieving the fact that all of our children live in heaven, and not here. Facing the very real probability that we will not raise any of our biological children here on earth. And hearing his stifled sobs as he does what I've been doing... and reads a childrens' book about heaven. As he gets the truth of eternity ingrained more deeply into his heart, giving him the strength and courage to feel the temporary loss here and now.

Seeing so vividly that it seems as if it's playing out in front of my eyes, an image of that daughter who went to heaven. Seeing her holding my Gramma's hand and beaming as they wait for me at the Eastern Gate. Remembering Gramma's soft promise, made each night that she tucked me in. "Make sure you look for me in the Rapture, Jenn. It will be beyond description. But if I beat you to heaven, I promise, I will meet you at the Eastern Gate." Aching for that day with every fiber of my being.

Knowing that in Heaven, there is so much. And loving my life. But wanting so much to just be done. To go there, and be with my Jesus. To see my Grandma smile, to hear my childrens' voices. I wonder if my uncle Paul is a carpenter there? I wonder if Gramma takes care of kids who get there before their parents? I wonder what it's like to truly and eternally be free of oppression.

And it takes my breath away.

And when I have no breath, when life squeezes the air out and I am at the end of myself... I remember these words from Job, chapter 33.

"The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life."

FIberglass, Part 2

2011-06-24T23:07:00.000-05:00

So.

I have neglected this blog. Not out of spite,b ut out of lack of time to write. Lots of new, exciting, good things in life right now.

But also, something old. The endometriosis has gotten bad again. It hurts, every day, all day. And some days, it hurts even more. SO, surgery is scheduled for two weeks from today. I'm glad, in a way. I don't like surgery, and especially don't like recovery, but I DO like being in less pain.

The other issue is my thyroid. It's sort of taken a vacation, or leave of absence, or however you'd like to put it. The doctor is testing for certain autoimmune idsorders, and there's a good chance that a few particular tests will come back positive and if so, it will be an indication that we should no longer attempt to get pregnant. Because my body, if those tests are positive, is not a good place for a baby to be. At all.

At first, I was shocked. And then heartbroken. And then (very shortly after), I realized something. If this pans out the way the doctor supects, and we indeed will never have a biological child, it's not a huge shock. It's a possibility that has grown and been dealt with by us for years now. And people WILL say "You can always adopt instead." And I'll still get angry, and I'll still say to myself "Why can't you say 'you can adopt too' Adoption isn't a replacement, it's not settling, it's not second best. It is a way to become parents, and it isn't seomthing we would do if (and only if) we are unable to have kids 'of our own'. It's something we will do whether we have biological children or not. And by the way... any child we adopt WILL be a child 'of our own.' So pfft."

Yep, in my secret thought life, I really am that snarky.

So I got to thinking last night... what if all the time and energy and money we've spent pursuing biological children has been... well, has been like my cat licking fiberglass when we have really good cat food for her upstairs. What if we've been trying to obtain something we think is going to be so good, and for us God has a different and better plan? Maybe, just maybe, the chocolate cake is just around the next bend. And who knows what that chocolate cake will look like. It might look like Derek and/or I. Or maybe it will have chocolate skin or almond eyes.

Don't Lick Fiberglass.

2011-06-10T21:56:00.000-05:00

I have a cat named Izzy. She's a good kitty, and I like her. But she has this unhealthy obsession... she will work ridiculously hard to fulfill it, too. She'll dig and hunt and search, and finally... she'll succeed. And she'll take her prize and lick it. The object of her affection? Fiberglass insulation.

I was talking to my daddy tonight, and told him that she'd just obtained and licked more fiberglass. I then said I had no idea why any creature would do such a thing - think about how much it hurts when you put your HAND on fiberglass. And then try to imagine licking it?!

He paused, and said, "Well, I think that a lot of times, that's how God feels about us."

My dad sometimes says things that stop me in my tracks.

And now, I am thinking to myself... "How much fiberglass have I licked lately?"

Obviously (or it should be obvious, anyway) I haven't actually licked any. But... what have I worked hard and long for? What have I kept in the front of my mind, devoting my attention, affection, and energy to? And of those things, how much is the equivalent of licking fiberglass?

I am quite certain there are things I find appealing, enjoyable, or for whatever other reason, I like to do. Things that seem worthwhile to me. Things that, from a heavenly, eternal perspective... well, they are like licking fiberglass. God knows what could be and what I could have/do/experience... and He knows what I actually have/do/experience. And I suspect my daddy is right. God probably looks at a lot of it and feels the same way I do when I watch my cat lick fiberglass.

Because truthfully... there is better.

Drawing Anna.

2011-05-16T23:03:00.000-05:00

My God, the Creator of the Universe, speaks to me. Through His Word, every time I read it or hear it, He speaks. I have had very few instances where I believe he has spoken to me that were anything else.

One of those times was in December of 2006. It was the day our daughter was due... the daughter we'd miscarried that summer. I was so broken inside, longing so much for her... I prayed fervently, "Lord, give me peace. I trust You. I love You. And right now, I desperately need You to do something inside me... something to make me okay again."

And then I went back to bed, since I really prefer NOT getting up that early. And I had the most vivid, beautiful dream. I saw my baby girl... she was laying in my lap, wrapped in a very pale purplish-pink blanket. She was brand-new... still red and puffy eyed. But she was so beautiful. Smooth, soft skin. Gently rounded cheeks. A perfect little mouth that turned up at the corners like her daddy's. A cute little chin that reminds me very much of her aunt Cari. A nose that clearly came from daddy (or daddy's mom, however you want to look at it), but was still exquisitely formed. Her eyes were shut, and she had one hand up by her face. I picked her up carefully, and she settled against my chest. I could feel her breath on my skin, smell her new-baby smell, I could feel her heart beating against me and the rise and fall of her chest. I could feel her warmth and her weight, and in the dream, I thought to myself, "This is heaven."

I woke with a start... and could still feel her, almost. It took a long time to fade, and I expected that eventually the dream would fade all together. But then I noticed something... I didn't have the heaviness. I didn't hurt quite so much. I missed her just as strongly, but I knew she was okay.

I believe without any hesitation, that dream was a gift from God.

I kept it to myself for a while - weeks, if I remember correctly. Then I shared it with my husband. And he wanted to know what she looked like. All I could say was beautiful. I tried to describe that mouth, her nose... the shape of her brows being the same as the shape of my Gramma's... her tiny hand that looked just like mine, her chin like Cari's... her complexion dark, like Daddy, with just a tiny bit of soft brown hair. But words don't work for things like that.

So over the next few months, I drew her. I drew her so many times... and each time, I ached to hold her, to have her, and I felt so much peace about where she was. And then I'd finish the drawing, and I'd look at her, my daughter, and I couldn't stand it. The picture would get tucked away into a box... a box I no longer know if we even have.

One year later, we mourned together the fact that our daughter was not turning one. And that night, I saw her. Wobbly, chunky baby legs. Sparkling brown eyes, that mouth that turned up just a little at the corners, soft, dark hair that was almost black. That perfectly adorable little chin. In the dream, she was standing across the room, and I called out her name... "Anna, come to mommy" and she did. She ran to me, and I felt her slam against me and wrap her pudgy arms around my neck and it was so beautiful.

2008, I dreamt of her again. She was obviously two. She told me "I can do it" when I offered to help her get up into a rocking chair. I asked if I could sit with her... she said "Yes mama. I like snuggles." She looked even more like her daddy, and seemed even more beautiful. I held her, and rocked with her in that chair, and it was glorious. I woke aching for her, but filled with joy. I thanked my God.

2009, she would have been three. This last year, she would have been four.

I keep dreaming of her... on her due date. On Mother's day the last couple of years. They are the most vivid dreams I have ever had, and they leave me with so much peace. I miss her, I long to be with her, I long to just... stay with her, always. But I have a life to live here and now, and I have to focus on that.

And I keep drawing Anna. I keep drawing and it feels so good to get it down on paper, and then I look at her face, and it's a reminder of what is not here, of what is missing... and I can't keep the drawing.

But this year, I want to share her with Derek. I want to show him. I want to draw Anna for my husband, and I need God's help and strength to do it.

I know this may not make sense, but... it is where I am at today.

Hurting... It's Mother's Day Tomorrow.

2011-05-07T23:24:00.000-05:00

Mothers' Day is so hard for me, in so many ways. I want my own mommy, I want my Gramma, and my Grandmother. I want my babies - I want Annaliah and I want the two sets of twins and I want the other two, too.
But I don't have them.

And tonight, today... I feel like the storm has sent so many waves and they are crashing all around me. So I am ending this post with a quote in a great book I read. By the way... if you have not yet, please read Mary Beth Chapman's book, "Choosing to See." You can download free kindle-for-pc software, and purchase her book here at Amazon.com. It is the most raw, honest look at grief tempered by hope of forever that I have ever seen, and has meant so much to me in the last weeks as I've poured over the book time and again.

The quickest way for anyone to reach the sun and the light of day is not to run west, chasing after the setting sun, but to head east, plunging into the darkness until one comes to the sunrise.
Jerry Sittner

When I Get Where I'm Going

2011-04-28T17:51:00.000-05:00

Brad Paisley and Dolly Parton. It's not that I actively dislike them, it's just... well, you won't normally find anything from either one of them on any of my play lists.

But there is one song... one song that I just plain like. I know it's not 100% scripturally correct. But. It IS accurate in its message and outlook. Focus on what is yet to come, what we cannot see, what we have not felt or heard or breathed. Focus on when we get where we are going.

I am going to heaven. Maybe this very same hour, maybe 80 years from now, or maybe anywhere in between. I do not know. All I know, is I am going there, and when I do... when I do, I will see my Jesus face to face. I will worship without end. I will love without fear. I will be made perfect. I will meet my daughter Annaliah, and all of her siblings. I will see my Gramma's shining face, and I will walk beside my Great Grampa Max, and I will see my Grampa Jean. I will meet David, and Peter, and I will meet Paul. I will meet so many I've never heard of. And we will all be there forever. And we will all be there because God loves us.

So for now, when things get rough and I have a hard time just living day to day, I have been listening to this song and letting it get my mind back where it needs to be.

When I Get Where I'm Going.

When I get where I'm going
On the far side of the sky
The first thing that I'm gonna do
Is spread my wings and fly

I'm gonna land beside a Lion
And run my fingers through His mane
Or I might find out what it's like
To ride a drop of rain

Yeah when I get where I'm goin'
They'll be only happy tears
I will shed the sins and struggles
I have carried all these years
And I'll leave my heart wide open
I will love and have no fear
Yeah when I get where I'm going
Don't cry for me down here

I'm gonna walk with my grand daddy
And he'll match me step for step
And I'll tell him how I've missed him
Every minute since he left
And then I'll hug his neck

Yeah when I get where I'm goin'
They'll be only happy tears
I will shed the sins and struggles
I have carried all these years
And I'll leave my heart wide open
I will love and have no fear
Yeah when I get where I'm going
Don't cry for me down here

So much pain and so much darkness
In this world we stumble through
All these questions I can't answer
So much work to do

But when I get where I'm going
And I see my Maker's face
I'll stand forever in the light
Of His amazing grace

Yeah when I get where I'm goin'
Oh when I get where' I'm goin'
They'll be only happy tears
Hallelujah
I will love and have no fear
When I get where I'm going
Yeah when I get where I'm going

No Words. Just Tears.

2011-04-26T02:39:00.000-05:00

Heavy heart this past week, and it's not for me. So much going so wrong for those I love...

SO tonight, I am going to share so much going so RIGHT for so many.

And I freely admit, this makes me bawl my eyes out.

Driving Home

2011-04-21T23:12:00.000-05:00

The other night was a "tough" night for me. You know how sometimes, things just pile up inside and you feel like you're going to explode (emotionally)? Well, whether you can relate or not, that's what it was. I went to Martial Arts class, and that helped but only a little. So after, I stayed. I kicked, and kicked, and kicked. My leg gave out in front of everyone still there, and it was really embarrassing. But I got up and kicked some more. Then I did forms and quizzed Derek about everything I could think of related to Martial Arts at the same time. And then he left and I finished something on the computer there for my instructor. And then I talked with him a while, and it ended up getting late.

And then I drove home. Usually, when you're half way through the month of April, a week after 60 degree weather that included tornado warnings and vicious thunderstorms, you don't expect snow. But snow we had, and a fair bit. Enough that NOBODY was on the road as I drove home. Solitude. I turned the brightness almost all the way down on my display lights, used only low beams as the world was glowing from the fresh snow, and drove in wonder.

If you've read here for long, you know tears don't come easy. But that night... tears came. It was that beautiful. Still. Perfectly serene.

I think that must be what it was like when Silent Night was written. So beautiful that a timeless song could be written about it.

And I thanked my God, with tears in my eyes and voice failing me, for the beauty. For the peace. For the gentle whisper "I will will never leave or forsake you."

For my God is with me always, even to the end of the age. And it's actually really, really easy to know that on a night like that.

It's April 17th.

2011-04-17T16:06:00.000-05:00

Today is April 17th. When I woke up this morning, my phone was blinking. It was telling me something.

I let myself think about him... about Roy. And his wife, Carman. And their three children. And about how Carman is still living life and having joy. I prayed for her, and the children, that they'd know the strength and hope that only our Father gives us. That they'd never lose sight of the fact that the day is coming when they'll be reunited with Roy. And that they'd live life to the fullest, today and tomorrow and every day until our Lord returns for us.

You see, today is Roy's birthday.

He went to heaven in 2007. I remember that phone call so clearly. It was Sunday morning, and Derek and I were standing outside our tent in that early-morning mist, half a country away from home. And we got that call... our 'brother' died. It ripped at our hearts and we knew we had to get home. Get home and be with our 'family.' There may not be any legal relationship to these people, but they are blood-brothers, having chosen Christ as Lord. We drove, and drove, and drove... it was a long, rough trip, but we did it.

It wasn't that long after my Gramma died. I feel like we (Roy's legal and biological family, and I) have grieved together. And I pray that today, they are where I am. I pray that they can think of him and smile, even though their hearts are a little sad. I pray that there is peace and hope, not sorrow. I pray that they feel whole again.

1 Thessalonians 4:15-18

For this we say to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive and remain until the coming of the Lord will by no means precede those who are asleep. For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words.

Happy Heaven Day.

2011-04-09T05:30:00.000-05:00

I know I haven't posted much (okay, not at all) in the last months. It's not for lack of words or motivation, it's... well, trutfully, it's because I've been using up my words in otherplaces, before I make it here to write. This post is two years old now, but I want to bring it back... for a special anniversary.

Original Post - April 9, 2009
This post is one that I feel ill equipped to write. It needs to be written - deserves to be. But I don't think I'm in a position to actually write it the way it should be written. It's something I don't know anything about. It's something I've never experienced. And yet... I do know something about it. I have experienced it. Or rather, something like it.

You see, today is special. It is special to a mother and a father. It is special to sisters. It is special to an aunt and an uncle. Two cousins. Countless others I've never even heard of. And it is special to me.

Today is an anniversary. Not the sort of anniversary that is usually associated with happiness, balloons, cakes, or cards. Not the sort that everyone dreams of one day "celebrating." You see, this is an anniversary of sorrow. On this day, too many and yet not enough years ago, an earthly life was ended.

It was unexpected. I have been to the place of unexpected death. I have felt the very breath I need to live knocked out of me. I have felt so shocked, so... unprepared. I have whispered into the darkness, "It wasn't supposed to be this way." I have forgotten, upon awakening, that my lived one was no longer "with us." And I have been crushed all over again when I remembered the truth.

It was tragic. This was not a gentle death at the end of a long life. It was fast. It was violent. IT was traumatic. It was unfair. Many would say it shouldn't have happened. I have been there. I have listened as my grandfather whispered from his hospital bed, "this never should have happened." I have felt the sting of unfairness. I have known death that wasn't just a fact of life, death that was the result of tragedy. A single terrible event, which stilled the beating of a beautiful heart.

It was deliberate. This is the part that really gets me. It's one thing to keep living in the wake of an accident. Something that we had no control over. But in this case... there was no accident. There was nobody left on earth to blame. This deliberate, tragic, unexpected death - suicide - leaves nobody behind to take the blame. Yes, this particular suicide left a mother behind, believing that if her faith had been just a little stronger, she'd still have her son. It left a scared young girl who tearfully named her firstborn son after her brother. It left a particular twinkle in the eyes of children, a twinkle that reminds his loved ones that he was here. And it left, truly, nobody to blame. But it was deliberate.

To that end - he is not to blame, either. Not really. Yes, he made the choice. He took the actions that took a life - his own life. But he had help. A demon, perhaps several, whispering to him. Convincing him that if he just ended things, all would be well. Striving to keep him from living, from doing what God had planned for him. I have heard those voices. Felt compelled to obey them. I am ashamed to say, I even tried to listen to them. I failed - and I am thankful. He did not fail. I wish he had. But he didn't. I've heard people say that suicide leads inevitably and instantly to an eternity in Hell. I don't see this in my Bible. I see that there is nothing - neither life NOR death, nor height nor depth, nor anything in all creation (see Romans 8) can separated us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus. I see that salvation can't be earned, nor can it be accidentally "lost." Given up, walked away from, and declined, but not lost. And I believe that the young man I am writing about is in heaven. I believe that this act, this decision, was not a choice to turn his back on God. I believe it was a lost battle with temptation. We've all lost battles with temptation. We've all sinned. The difference here? There are so many left here trying to sort the results of this sin out. I believe that this young man's parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends... family... classmates... they can see him again. And I... well, I will meet him for the first time.

You see, I never knew this young man. At least not while he was here. I feel like maybe I know him a little, now. Now that he has changed my life. Permanently. His death shook so many. But they kept living. In their sorrow, they looked around. They saw me. For whatever reason, they took compassion on me. They took me with them to church. They, in many ways, made me a part of their family. And in knowing them over the last seven years, I feel like I have gotten to know this young man. I am thankful to him. I am grateful that he lived. And I look forward to meeting him.

Today is not about me though. It is about them - his family. His friends. So, today, I want to say this to them:
I remember. I am glad he lived. Glad he was loved. I won't say who I am writing about... but those of you who knew this young man, know who you are. You don't need a reminder of what happened on this day years ago. You don't need me to say he is missed, and you don't need me to remind you of the pain. But one thing you do need... is for me to remember. For me to say, "It matters to me. I won't forget. I know it hurts. And because I love you, on this day, I hurt with you."

I remember. It matters. I won't forget. I know it hurts. I love you. And I hurt with you.

And on this day, I celebrate. Will you celebrate with me? Will you celebrate the fact that this one life has touched so many? The fact that even cut off prematurely, his presence on this earth made an impact that we can't begin to fathom? Will you celebrate the fact that on this day, years ago, a young man shook off the chains of this life and stepped into his eternity? But most of all, will you celebrate the truth? The truth that like us, he was a sinner SAVED BY GRACE. The truth that not even death can separate him from his God? Because that is something to celebrate. Even in the midst of tears and sorrow.

Quick One

2011-03-03T02:16:00.000-06:00

I've got my splint on for the night, so this is going to be fast and probably full of errors.

I am no longer taking the Cipro, Augmentin, and Bactrim. The cephadroxyl is out too, along with the gati amd the vancomyacin and rocephin. Only one kind of antibiotic left and it is the cream I have to apply to all open owies for... um... a long time.

Still needing the Vicodin two or three times most days.

Still taking 900mg of Gabapentin three times a day to deal with the nerve pain.

Faith. Holding onto that as I fight to stay awake.

______________________________________

In other news, I get a periodical emailed to my inbox each morning, and I skim the headlines and call it good enough. I know that the format sometimes cuts off words at the end, but this one was just too great not to share with you:

"Occupation of the WI Capitol protestors fighting efforts to strip public workers carried on Sunday after police decided not to forcibly remove demons."

Also, I pass a sign that boasts of "Pre-need burial plans." Well... um.... how do you plan for something after the fact? And when someone is "post-need" of burial, well... how far post-need can one get before friends and family start to hide?

Dreaming of Aiden

2011-02-22T13:30:00.001-06:00

I have a confession to make.

For the last three and a half years, I have been dreaming. Not day-dreams. Night dreams. Vivid, hard-to-pull-away-from dreams.

It started with dreaming about a tiny baby boy with soft blond fuzz on his head and ordinary blue eyes. A softly rounded face, a perfect chin and a rose-bud mouth. The first dream had no sound.

A few months later, I dreamt about a bigger baby boy. More blond fuzz. Blue eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled. A dimple in his left cheek. A soft, warm, typical baby boy.

A few months later, I dreamt of him again. He was sitting up, and would rock forward to his hands and knees and crawl. I dreamt of him many nights in a row. It was in these dreams that I started hearing sounds. His gurgly laughter and his squeals. My own voice, calling him Aiden.

A few months later, I watched him walk in my dream. I called his name, and he toddled toward me. And then he simply vanished. I woke with tears in my eyes and a tight ache in my chest, and what seemed almost like left-over warmth in my arms.

I went over a year without dreaming of him at all. I would have forgotten if I hadn't written it here, in posts I never published.

Then it went back to the intermittent, random dreams for about a year. Lately, it's gotten more frequent.

In these dreams, I've watched him grow physically. I've interacted with him. And he's shown all the signs of a child without parents. A child without attachments, without hope, without a home. In my last dream, my husband and I went to see him in an orphanage. He was there among beautiful babies. A lanky 3.5 year old, laying in a bed with a blank face. Large blue eyes with no expression, that dimpled left cheek and perfect chin. Freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks. His hair was sandy blond, coarse and cut shaggily. We played with him, and at first he seemed so normal. As the day (dream) progressed, he showed more and more of the signs, and my heart broke more and more. This one had tears streaming when I awoke, and a heart that ached. And the name of this made-up child rolling through my head. Aiden. It means little fire, in case you wondered.

I have no idea what it's all about. None at all. It's certainly not a wish of mine for ANY child to be that way - to hurt, and cry, and struggle, and grow to need intervention more desperately each day. I have never intended to name any child of mine Aiden, so it's not a sub-conscious fulfillment of a name I fear I'll never get to use (trust me, I have those dreams too, but they aren't like this one). I don't work with kids with attachment disorder anymore, so it's not a work life carry-over. In fact, I have known two children with the disorder that were younger than age 8, ever. They were both African, and I had no special feelings for them, so it's not because of THEM.

Maybe it's frustrated maternal instinct. Maybe I feel like my children (or the hopes I have for them and of them) are slipping away and coming apart. Maybe it's a real child that will some day come into our lives. Maybe I'm just a weirdo who has a set of serial dreams that depict an accurate progression of time and development, that aren't based on anything at all.

Just curious. I get a lot of good feed-back from you guys. I'm curious what you all will have to say. As always, if you want your comment/question to remain private, just say so and I won't hit "publish."

It's Not Me - It's Him

2011-02-21T21:58:00.000-06:00

It seems like most of the time, life involves trying to prove something to someone. There are tests, requirements, standards which must be met or exceeded. We go to first grade and our efforts begin to be graded - not based on our actual abilities, but on the way our performance adheres to certain standards.

Truth is, it's exhausting. And it contaminates our thinking and beliefs regarding our God. At least, it contaminates mine, and I've seen the contamination in the words and actions of so many others that I've lost count. Maybe it doesn't impact you. Maybe it doesn't carry over into your faith, into the one thing that will matter for eternity.

It seems like we look at our lives, and see the short-comings, and think either one of two things:

-"I have to try hard, do more, be better, or I will never make heaven and God will never accept me."
-"I cannot possibly succeed, cannot possibly be good enough... I've already messed up so much, what is the point of even attempting to do any better?"

Okay. I know what a lot of you are saying: "No, it's not that black and white."

And you are right. It isn't that clear-cut. At least not on the surface. We rationalize. We tell ourselves we aren't being extreme so it must be right. Do any of these thoughts sound familiar?

-"I know He forgave me for lying yesterday, but today I did it again. I'm out of chances."
-"I am worthless."
-"I won't actually make it to heaven."
-"I cannot continue this way. I am done."
-"I can't do this. What is the point of even trying?"
-"I know this is wrong, but I am already condemned so why does it matter?"
-"I give up."
-"I will never win."
-"I am captive."
-"I am not really saved. If I was, I wouldn't really (insert the thing you battle most)."
-"I have to do (insert ideal that you hold in your mind and/or heart) so that I can be accepted by Him."

I don't know. Maybe the emails, the questions, the comments that I have received represent a dramatic minority of those who trust Christ for their salvation. I doubt it though.

Read Colossians 2, verses 11-14 with me:

Entering into this fullness is not something you figure out or achieve. It's not a matter of being circumcised or keeping a long list of laws. No, you're already in - insiders - not through some secretive initiation right but rather through what Christ has already gone through for you, destroying the power of sin. If it's an initiation ritual you're after, you've already been through it by being baptised. Going under the water was a burial of your old life; coming up out of it was a resurrection, God raising you from the dead as He did Christ. When you were stuck in your old sin-dead life, you were incapable of responding to God. God brought you alive - right along with Christ! Think of it! All sins forgiven, the slate wiped clean, that old arrest warrant cancelled and nailed to Christ's cross.

Look at these words. Just look. Do you know what they mean?

They mean it isn't up to you to earn salvation. You don't have to earn your way into favor with God. There isn't a test or a set of standards that you have to conform to before He will love you, before you can become part of His kingdom. It's already been taken care of.

It isn't you. It's Him.

**Disclaimer: I am not suggesting, not even remotely, that sin in our lives does not need to be addressed. Our actions and thoughts are to conform with the Word of God, and we are to try our hardest to make that happen. What I am saying is that our failure to be perfect isn't what we're going to be judged or charged by. The thing that will determine our guilt or innocence for eternity is Him and what He did. Not us and what we did.**

But what about those things that consume us? What about the sin that we vow every day to never repeat, and then the next day, it happens again? What about the thoughts we can't seem to capture. The intentions that are not pure, the fear, the anger, the hurt?

What do we do with the things that our adversary, the devil, has stacked against us?

Colossians 2:15:
God disarmed the principalities and powers that were ranged against us and made a bold display and public example of them, in triumphing over them in Him and in the cross.

Did you catch that? The devil, and his minions, those powers and principalities that are out to destroy us, have lost their ammunition. They are disarmed. No war can be won if one side is armed and the other is not.

But wait. Yes, this says the other side is disarmed but if we have no weapons, then how can we win?

Read Ephesians 6:17
Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.

The principalities and powers get disarmed, and we get a sword. Seems like we will win. It may take us a while to figure out how to actually use the sword. We might not remember we even have it sometimes. But we do. We are armed; they (it, he, etc.) are not.

We win.

The fight is hard. We take hits. We fall down. We fall short. Our technique is flawed and our courage sometimes fails. We may wave our white flags and we may fall to our knees, believing we are defeated. It can hurt, it can be overwhelming, it can be terrible and frightening sometimes.

But He (Jesus) said to me, "My grace, my favor and loving-kindness and mercy is enough for you; it is sufficient against any danger and enables you to bear the trouble manfully (successfully and with strength). For my strength and power are made perfect, fulfilled, and completed, and show themselves most effective in your weakness.
(2 Corinthians 12:7a)

He can handle our weakness. He planned for it. He paid for it. It's already been dealt with. Those areas where we simply can not, He can.

It's not us. It is Him.

So what do we have to do about it? What's is expected of us in response?

Hebrews 4:14-16 answers that:

Now that we know what we have - Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God - let's not let it slip through our fingers. We don't have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He's been through weakness and testing, experienced it all - all but the sin. So let's walk right up to Him and get what He is so ready to give. Take the mercy, accept the help.

I'm running out of steam for tonight. So I leave you with this final statement:

Yes, I believe we are required to act upon what He did. I believe our faith isn't truly faith without actions to back it up. I believe we should live the best lives we can and strive to be free of sin. But I also believe that when we stand before God Himself, the thing that matters most isn't going to be us, but Him.

Because it's not me. It's Him.

Colossians 3:1

2011-02-19T12:30:00.001-06:00

Since, then, I have been raised with Christ, I set my heart on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. I set my mind on things above, not on earthly things. For I died, and my life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is my life, appears, then I will also appear with Him in glory.

I remind myself of this today. Today, I am not the only one missing a child. I am not the only one who knows my child is in heaven, but does not know the color of his eyes or the texture of his hair.

I have a friend who is missing his child today, too.

It is a secret, painful ache. One that people don't run around talking about.

"Hey, Bob, what's up? Me... oh, well, I'm just thinking an extra lot about my dead children today."

Right. When is the last time someone admitted such a thing to you?

That's what I thought.

So today, rather than talk about my friend or his child, I will talk about me. Because if you know about me, you will know about my friend. And you will know about Suzie and Matt, and you will know about J. & C., and M. & J., and S. & J., and R. and J., and T. & E., and L. & F., and so many more - and these are just people in my life. I am sure there are just as many in yours.

There are parents who knew their child. Who looked into his or her eyes, who stroked his or her hair, who prayed desperately to not have to say good bye. Parents who have stood before a tiny coffin, tears streaming.

There are parents who have paid all the fees, filled out all the papers, been approved on every level... and who must spend the rest of their earthly lives knowing their child (or children) will never come home because for whatever reason, the adoption never came to fruition.

There are parents who met their child briefly... tiny babies, babies too tiny for life in the world. Babies with beautiful souls and eternal spirits and no breath. Babies who spent minutes, hours maybe, here on earth.

There are parents who have not met their child. Parents who knew the child was on the way, and parents who didn't. Parents who found out later, or who knew right at the moment, that a tiny life was leaving this planet and going to "a better place."

Some of these parents have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful for the children you do have." As if they do not have, and never had the child or children that are already in heaven. As if one child replaces another.

Some of these parents do not have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful you don't have to do the work of parenting. Be thankful you can do whatever you want." As if raising their children would have been hurtful. As if they didn't want to raise their child. As if pain and sadness were what that parent really wanted.

Today, I ask you to do something with us. With these parents who have children who don't live on earth, but live forever in heaven. You may or may not be one of these, but that doesn't change my request.

Picture us in heaven, with our children. Don't worry about getting the hair color or eye shapes or smiles all right. I suspect that in heaven, these things are not going to be so important. Just picture us together. See that in your heart. And remember this togetherness, in perfection for all eternity. Remember this is what His perfect will is.

I leave you with this... an image generated by a just-for-fun website. If aging were to proceed in heaven as it does on earth, our children would be four years and seven months; four years and two months; three years and nine months (twins); three years and four months; and our recent twins were due in August of this year.

Truth is, it hurts. It always hurts. But when I close my eyes, and picture our family of nine walking through eternity together, it hurts less.

Chronology of an Owie

2011-02-18T22:46:00.001-06:00

In pictures, here is what my hand has done over the last three weeks. This is all the result of having blood drawn from one of the veins in my hand for a routine test. It formed a clot and for whatever reason, the clot didn't dissolve. Over time, the bacteria introduced by the blood draw multiplied and formed an abcess inside the vein. They then spread to surrounding tissue, including my skin. Officially, it is septic thrombophlebitis. The two pictures that are NOT of my hand mark the start of each hospitalization. One showing the three IV bags and PCA meds I had, one showing the goofiness of my doctor and his and my mutual friend.

The pictures are low quality because they are all from my cell phone.

This post is brought to you in response to some requests I've gotten.

3 Times Crazy

2011-02-18T14:57:00.000-06:00

Third admission is behind me. If there is a fourth, it will be in a city about two hours from here, a city filled with world-famous really good doctors.

The last admission went badly from the moment we walked in to the emergency room. Strike that, it went badly in the hours prior, too. Lots of anger and fear and irrational outbursting on my part. Plus going into shock, which involved six blankets in a 70 degree building, with one of the stronger space heaters I've ever "known" blasting full-tilt in my face while I still got colder and colder and colder (my temp in the ER was under 96). And me whining about the cold and the fact that the heater "didn't work." And a spectacular and very mis-placed, poorly timed, and inappropriate display of anger.

In the ER, we found out that the orthopedics doctor on call was the one that I would never let touch me, ever. Not even with a ten-foot spaghetti noodle. She wanted to attempt to aspirate the fluid out of every joint that was swollen, to make sure it wasn't infected. That means nine joints on one hand. Nuh-uh no way, not a chance. Stab through skin and the deeper tissue that we already know is infected and full of bacteria, and into joints that may or may not be infected? Many times over? No way. Especially not her. We told her that - including the not her part. She yelled. Derek yelled. The ER doc yelled. I yelled. She refused to call a hand specialist (she most definitely is NOT) because "they work all day and have lives, too." The ER doc refused to call because she did. He refused to call my regular doctor. Refused to allow us to have a second opinion.

They took me to a room that, well... let me just say it triggered some massively bad memories. Bad enough that I cried and vomited uncontrollably for the two hours we sat in it. With grumbling and "harrumphing" from the nurses on the floor they then moved me to, it was off to a different floor, different unit, different room. I refused to "make a decision" about the aspiration until after the timeline the surgeon set forth, since she had to go home because a full day of surgery awaited the next morning. Score. If she was in surgery, I wouldn't have HER anywhere near me with a needle, right?

Not so right. I consented at about 10:15 PM, too late for the night and I knew it. But that consent kept me from having to sign an AMA form.

The next morning at 6 AM, my nurse mentioned that this doctor would be in to talk to me about the aspiration and figure out when she could squeeze it into her schedule. Ahem. This is not what I planned. So I told the nurse that I was refusing to see the doctor, at all. That she could not touch me or have contact for the remainder of the stay. The nurse said that since I was admitted under that doc, I couldn't get rid of her completely. And I said I didn't care if she managed things from afar, so long as she didn't get near me.

They informed me later in the morning that I'd be going to interventional radiology, and the radiologist would be doing the aspiration - of one joint. Seemed much more reasonable, but I've had needles in joints before and knew it would hurt. Probably a lot, given the amount of inflammation.

My regular doctor came up to see me. I was freaking out about the procedure for reasons only partly related to the procedure (this is one of those deliberate withholding of information things). He stayed with me. Tried to get me to squeeze his hand. I don't squeeze hands in pain. Especially hands of people I don't want to hurt. The procedure itself didn't hurt terribly. Meaning it didn't make me scream or cry or pull my arm away. No, they didn't have it restrained in any way. Just draped and laying on a foam thing. The grating sound followed by a crunch was the worst, both audibly and feeling-wise. It was when he was pushing through the joint capsule. The capsule is very, very inflamed - it looks kind of cool on ultrasound, actually. Fluid came back clear initially, but the bacteria in my hand are gram-negative so they don't pick up a gram stain. The culture was taken Wednesday, and since day 5 is Sunday, won't actually be checked until Monday.

They discharged me yesterday. Said if the culture grows anything, then they'll call me and I'll have to be readmitted for I.V. antibiotics for a week. Again. Meanwhile, that joint is so big and hard and massively swollen and hot, as are the two next to it and the one above it. The redness on my hand is accented quite well by the purple marker they used to mark the edges (which have expanded well past the marker).
As I told my doctor when he said "just hold on a while longer, Jenn," - I am all done. I am out of hold on. I am out of gritting my teeth and tolerating. I am out of being patient. I am all done. All done. Maybe in the next couple days I'll get some fight back, but for today, I just don't have any left.

Wow.

2011-02-14T18:54:00.000-06:00

Sorry to have left you all hanging.

I stayed home from the hospital for ALMOST 36 hours. Almost.

When I was readmitted, my temp had gone from 96.8 when I was discharged to 103.9 when I showed up back in the emergency room. Seven degrees doesn't matter much in weather but inside a human body, it's a really big deal. Hot stuff.

Okay, that was across the lame line. But it made you either smirk or groan, right?

Reality is, I first mentioned my hand to a nurse at the end of December. I had the fertility doctor check it on January 5th.

I made my first trip to urgent care on January 12th. No labs were drawn and the only advice was "use lots of heat. If it weren't for your leg, I'd say this wasn't infected at all. But it looks similar to how that did, so I'm going to prescribe this particular antibiotic for you for seven days." I dutifully soaked my hand many times a day, making sure to move it and use it and get it good and toasty.

Nine days later, on the 21st, I was back in the ER with a temp of 100.9 (normally run 96.5-96.8) and my hand looked... rough. Bad. Not so good. Swollen and red and pretty sore. I had thought I was getting the flu Wednesday night (24 hours after the last dose of antibiotics), and it proceeded to worsen along with the appearance of my hand. That doctor said that since the first course of antibiotics worked so well (It did? Really? How'd I miss that?) he thought I must be one of those "rare people where seven days isn't long enough" and he was going to prescribe the exact same medicine, at the exact same dose, but this time for ten days. He said that if the heat helped, I should continue it but it didn't really matter.

My husband and I both felt very uncomfortable with the hasty exam (more just a glance than actual exam), the lack of blood work, and the lack of follow up. Especially since at that point my hand was acting exactly the same as my leg did last year - and the doctor was acting exactly the same as the doctors did last year. We kept insisting we were uncomfortable and the doctor got more and more irritated, until he finally offered a referral to the wound clinic. We knew that the 48 hours until I'd be able to see them (if seen immediately) could see things go south really quickly, but at least we also knew that the wound clinic is home to a bunch of very smart, talented, experienced infectious disease doctors and surgeons.

Wound clinic called Monday morning, offering me an appointment less than 30 minutes later. It's a 40 minute trip in this weather, minimum. I asked for a later appointment and was put off until the next afternoon. That night, I did not sleep. I used heat, I tried ice, I tried compression, I took Advil, I took Zofran, I took Vicodin 7.5 (two of them). I finally fell asleep at 7:30 A.M. I slept until noon, and when I woke up I knew I would be admitted. For what started out as a simple skin infection of the hand, and even Friday night, could have been handled on an outpatient basis if it had been done correctly. But now my hand was so swollen that it looked fake. The skin was shiny and tight and deep, dark red. It was very hot to touch, and I could no longer move my pinkie, ring, or middle fingers. The pinkie and outside edge of the ring finger were numb. And I felt generally sick. Achy, sweats, chills, fever jumping between 99 and 102.9, unable to keep anything down. I packed some books and clean underwear and socks and a stocking cap along with my favorite pillow, and off I went to the wound clinic. My appointment was at 2 PM, my blood was drawn and x-rays taken by 2:30, husband got there at 3:00 just in time to watch the orthopedics consult jab an insanely large, thick needle into my hand in an effort to "aspirate" the pus. By 4:00 I was getting settled into my room and waiting for IV therapy to come get things started. After five days of high-dose Rocephin and Vancomyacin, with a Fentanyl PCA pump and frequent IV Zofran, I was sent home with Bactrim, Vicodin, Zofran, and Neurontin for the pain in my now-damaged nerves. I'd been seen by infectious disease, orthopedics, plain internal medicine, neurology, OT and PT, an intensivist, and about a million interns and 500,000 residents.

I was thrilled to be going home. Finally, healing and doing well.

I lasted from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning.

When I was readmitted, my hand was blowing back up, I now had no sensation or reflexes below the wrist in my ulnar nerve and limited sensation and reflexes in the others, and my temperature went from 101 when we left home to 103.9 when the admitting nurse took my temperature.

More Vancomyacin and Rocephin, more Vicodin ans Neurontin, more days on the Fentanyl PCA pump, More Zofran, more doctors, and an operation to remove the abscessed vein (yes, apparently a not-quite-sterile blood draw can lead to the development of not only phlebitis and cellulitis, but also abscesses inside of your veins) and the necrotic (i.e. dead) tissue that was around it, and I was sent home. After finding out that the infection I was fighting was directly linked with human saliva. Eeeeewwww. There is only one person who could have introduced the germs, and that is the technician who drew my blood in December when all of this started. I was actually asked this past week, by one of the infectious disease doctors, if this infection was self-inflicted. Um... no flipping way. Besides, how would I have done it? "Excuse me, Ms. Lab Tech person, before you stab my hand with that needle, would you mind letting me lick it first?" Seems unlikely.

Now here I am, halfway through February and two months out from the original offending blood draw, and I am struggling hard to stay out of the hospital. Three admissions might just send me over the deep end. Well, not so much the admissions... it's the need for the admissions and the fact that this can all be traced to one person and the fact that we aren't ever going to even be apologized to for any of it, plus the fact that I have long-term, likely permanent, damage and loss of function in a previously healthy hand.

I know, I'll let go of the anger and sadness, and I will learn ways of making my hand do what I need it to do, but right now, tonight, I am so very ticked.

MRSA

2011-01-29T20:52:00.000-06:00

So, the hand?

It was MRSA.

It snowballed, big time. It got worse throughout the day on Friday the 21st. Went to the ER that night when Derek got home from work.

The doctor frustrated me... not because he was a bad doctor, but because he didn't listen to what I was saying. He felt a second course of antibiotics was the best choice. That is pretty standard when an infection recurs. He also felt that since the first course did impact it, he'd use the same kind again. I disagreed, but he is the doctor, not me. I repeatedly voiced my concern that this was eerily similar to the progression my leg initially followed this past spring, but he assured me this was very different. However, he did refer me to the wound clinic.

Monday, things were not any better but hadn't worsened drastically, either. Talked to my doctor, told him how I felt, and he told me I needed to be seen that day. I told him they'd refused to work me in until Tuesday. He called them, and then called me and said that the infectious disease doctors said it would be fine to wait. He told me to go in if things got worse quickly or significantly.

Overnight Monday, my fever went back up to 102.3, which is not the 103.9 that it had been. I didn't sleep at all, until about 4:30 or 5:00 AM. I slept through until noon, then got up to get ready to go to the wound clinic. I freaked out when I looked at my hand - it had grown a lot in the 7.5 hours or so I'd been sleeping, and I felt super crummy. I knew they'd probably admit me or at least run a dose of IV antibiotics, so I brought my backpack with my phone and charger, my favorite pillow, and books to read.

The doctor initially seemed very calm - rude, but calm. He sent me for blood work and x-rays - I've never walked into the lab with red-edged orders before. It gets you to the front of the line. (Note to self - if ever in a hurry, bring a red sharpie for lab appointments. Kidding. Mostly.) In the 30 minutes it took to do those things, the redness visibly darkened and the swelling increased.

My appointment was at 2:00. At 4:00, I was getting settled into my hospital bed after having seen the infectious disease doctor and the orthopedic/hand surgeon and having had really big, long, painful needles jabbed into my hand in an attempt to aspirate "infectious matter" for pressure relief and culture.

It got worse throughout the evening Tuesday. Wednesday, the put me on a PCA pump (pain control) with fentanyl, and I was getting pushes of tordal and taking hydrocodone by mouth. My hand was so swollen that the skin started getting dark red lines where it was starting to tear. My temperature was fluctuating up to 103. They had me on rocephin and vancomyacin. Plus the zofran and benadryl and pepcid to control the effects of the vanc.

Yesterday, things started to pick up pace improvement-wise, but the pain changed and worsened - the smaller my hand got as the swelling went down (and the bigger my forearm and elbow got as they continued to sell), the worse it hurt. The doctor on call was a fairly new resident, who insisted that there was no reason for the pain and chose to discontinue the PCA pump and cut the amount of pain-relievers down to 1/16th of what I'd been getting right up until she made rounds. Talk about a loooooong night.

This morning, the regular attending came in, took one look, and got me some hefty doses of the meds I'd been given previously, and they didn't really help. I saw my hopes of going home slipping out the window, and slipping fast.

Neurology came in and found that my ulnar nerve is very displeased with all that's gone on and has ceased proper function starting just above my wrist. I was told it will recover, but it'll take "up to two months." Two months... I can handle two months. I don't like two months, but it's better than forever. Besides, I have a God who is bigger than one tiny little nerve. And they gave me... something... for which I can't remember the name. It's a medication that was made to treat seizures, but didn't work for that, but someone noticed that in people with nerve damage, it really helps that sort of pain. That medicine, paired up with hydrocodone and ibuprofen (and zofran) got things under control. I went to occupational therapy, got to sit with my arm in a whirlpool and then get a thorough massage, and then they gave in and let me go HOME.

It feels so good to be here, in my house with my cats and ready to crawl into my very own bed.

And it turns out, the infection was MRSA. I've got five more days of oral antibiotics and then in a week I follow up with infectious disease.

Moral of the story? Apparently, it's that you should go to the hospital every time a blood draw results in more than a super-tiny bruise.

Okay, not really. The actual moral is that if you jump on top of infections early, like was done this time, and you get proper and prompt treatment... you may still spend hospital time, but they don't have to start chopping chunks of flesh out of your body. I'm thankful for my friend being pushy and not letting me shrug it off or say "oh, it can wait." Thankful for my doctor being mean and riding me about getting it rechecked sooner, and calling infectious disease to make them get me in sooner (they were going to give me an appointment Friday, i.e. yesterday). If not for those two, I'd have crawled into bed and gutted it out until Wednesday or maybe even Thursday before going to the emergency room, and it'd have been a much longer road to recovery, probably involving surgery and permanent damage.

Also, if not for those two, the information board by my bed wouldn't have had the following on it: APPTS (supposed to be an abbreviation for appointments) - No, she lives in a house. Get it? I know, I know... apartments only has one P, but it was funny at the time. The doctor and friend thought so, especially.

Pray?

2011-01-23T23:20:00.000-06:00

So these are low-quality pictures off my cell phone. Sorry for that. But here's the deal:

December 17th, I had my blood drawn for a simple test. They only needed ONE tube. They stuck me a LOT of times in my left hand, and then a lot of times in the right, before they met with success.

Three days later, my left hand had bruised and swelled and looked like this:

After about a week, it looked like this:

Then it almost disappeared, and then came back and got red and hot, and about the second week of this month, I ended up in the emergency room (because urgent care wouldn't see me... grr...) for antibiotics. After 7 days, it was better and looked like this again:

24 hours after my last dose of antibiotics, I got what I thought was the flu. As in, not a cold, but influenza. Super achy, headache, throat was kind of sore, and I had a nasty fever (103+). Still have that, by the way. After a day in bed, I noticed my hand getting more painful. Friday, over the course of 8 hours, it went from looking pretty decent to looking like this:

I know this isn't my typical post. But I'm asking, will you pray? This is exactly, EXACTLY, how things were initially with my leg last year. I'm back on antibiotics (was on cepholexin last week, this week I'm on cephadroxil; not sure what the difference is, if any). I feel a tiny bit better today, almost 48 hours after starting this new course of antibiotics (plus the loading dose I got in the ER) and it's supposed to be "a lot better" within three days. I can NOT go through the surgeries and the wound vacs and hospital stays and skin grafts and all of that again. I WILL not. My God IS bigger and better than all this.

I see the wound clinic (staffed by surgeons and infectious disease docs) tomorrow since the infection recurred so promptly, and also since it's the second significant infection I've had in less than a year.

In Devotion...

2011-01-18T20:30:00.000-06:00

There's a song I've liked since the first time I've heard it. "Our God Reigns" by Brandon Heath. We've recently started singing it in our church sometimes. I don't like to sing songs, though, without thinking about what they mean... about what's coming out of my mouth. What I'm truly saying.

There is a line that I haven't thought about though. A line I just sort of brushed past, thinking "Yep, know all about that."

In devotion, to His bride.

I guess I sort of let it slide because, well... God is perfect. Jesus is perfect. I'm not. The devotion, comes easy for Him, right? And even though I'm not perfect, I'm not terrible (at least not always).

Today, I had an appointment with my doctor. Nothing major - just needed a new prescription for the pain in my leg and to have him re-check my swollen, clotted, and recently un-infected hand.

I thought I was going to explode with love, and appreciation, as I sat in the waiting room.

I was a half hour early (not because I'm super-punctual, but because I forgot what time my appointment really was). As I sat in the chair, my mind sort of drifted to different things. I watched with disinterest as an old classmate came in with her son (he's almost eight; how does time go by this fast?), and as an irate man came and demanded to see a physician who actually hasn't worked there for nearly a year. I laughed when the receptionist started giggling on the phone. Not because I knew what she was talking about (or hearing) but because her giggle is infectious.

Then the elevator doors opened again, and a dapper, older man (I'd put him around 70) came out pushing a wheelchair. And a tiny, tiny wisp of humanity was folded in that chair. Literally folded. In half. Chest resting on knees, head lolling to the side, tongue protruding. There were stumps instead of fingers on her left hand, and the right hand was gnarled and curled. She wasn't wearing shoes. Her right foot was visibly swollen, even through the heavy wool socks she wore. Her left foot was clubbed, and I'm reasonably sure there were no toes left. Her hair was tangled and gray, skin wrinkled. Her skin was nearly transparent, but she was still clearly of Mediterranean decent. Her brown eyes were vacant and unfocused, and her face without expression. There is no way she weighed any more than about 70 pounds... and that's if her clothes was maybe not as baggy as I think. She looked to be about 200 years old... or more realistically, probably the same age as the man.

She was, in so many ways, not what I picture when I imagine a beautiful woman. Bear with me here... I'm not being rude, or mean, or prejudiced. I certainly didn't view her as ugly - far from it.

The man pushed her chair to the desk, and was quietly checked in and handed a pager. As he slowly wheeled the chair in my general direction, he started talking. He told her how he felt the doctor would help her today, that he thought this would be a good day. He told her that her blanket was folded up in the pocket of her wheelchair, so it wasn't cold when he wrapped her up in the car. He took her over to the fish tank they have there... it's full of very large goldfish and a couple plicostomouses (I know I butchered that spelling, by the way). He knelt carefully beside the chair, angled toward the woman just a little. I had wondered up until then if he was close to the woman, or merely providing transport. I noticed that he was wearing a wedding band on his left hand... and a smaller one on a chain around his neck.

He began to talk in earnest to the woman, as if he expected a response. I tried not to stare, but I couldn't help it. As he looked at her, it was enough to melt any heart. Such love. His eyes danced as he told her about the fish, about what kind they were. He started talking about a trip he'd taken, to Australia. He'd gotten to go scuba diving, and saw "the most beautiful, beautiful fish you've ever imagined. Thousands of them." As he talked... an amazing thing happened. The woman's chin lifted just a little. Her eyes opened a tiny bit wider and began to shine. Her tongue quit moving side to side. A dimple - an actual, real dimple - appeared in one cheek. The man held her hands - the one gnarled and useless, the other missing all five fingers - and spoke to her, leaning close. I watched as saliva started to run down her chin... and I hated it. I hated that something so basic, so natural, was interfering with the beauty of this moment. The man never paused. He released her left hand, and used a towel that was folded carefully in the woman's lap to wipe her face. He let the towel fall, and cupped her chin in his hand. Gently, sweetly, he kissed her forehead.

He began to talk to her about his plans for having the men in their youth group stay overnight one Friday, and the women the next. About how a particular speaker had agreed to do both weekends for them. About campfires and sleeping bags and s'mores. Her eyes shone even brighter, and that dimple reappeared. So did the saliva. She must have felt it - she grimaced. He wiped her face again, gently, carefully. His fingers caressed her cheek. He asked her if the medicine he'd given her at home had tasted okay, or if it was really terrible. I didn't see a response, didn't hear anything... but he did. He laughed - a deep, rich laugh - and said "It was that bad, was it? But at least you didn't get sick in the car, right?" The dimple reappeared.

This man knelt there, in front of this folded up, mangled, helpless woman, and told her he was going to take her camping. Because she always seemed so happy outside, and he wanted her to see all the beauty he got to see. He was going to ask the doctor what extra things he should bring. He told her how they'd put their tent near the water, and he'd set their air bed up with extra pillows so she could see outside while he built a fire. Then he would hold her, and they'd have marshmallows and watch the fireflies and the stars.

The buzz of their pager interrupted my (probably somewhat rude) observations. The man stood, slowly. He pushed the chair toward the hallway, and the nurse smiled and said "How are you both doing today?" The man gave another of his laughs, and said "We are doing very well today. It's a beautiful world, and I get to spend the entire day with my beautiful wife." He laid one of his hands on the woman's back. I caught one last glimpse of her face - eyes once again blank and unfocused, tongue protruding and moving slowly side to side, no expression... nearly resting on her knees. He smiled down at her then... rubbed her back and squared his shoulders. And said to the nurse, "Isn't she lovely?"

In devotion to his bride.

Think about it.

Tiny Bit of Whining.

2011-01-13T00:10:00.000-06:00

So, for a couple weeks now, my battery in my car has been going dead overnight. It's a new battery. It's a GOOD battery. And my alternator is good. But there is/was a short in the blower (fan) or possibly the heater control switch thingy (don't you just love my technical terminology here?). Sometimes it would turn itself on AFTER I took the key out of the ignition. Which was annoying, but I have one of this little plug-in jump start things. So it was fine.

Well, tonight, the short 'fixed' itself. My fan no longer works at all. And with the fan function, I lost my heat. I live in a cold, frozen land. Well, it's cold and frozen now. It'll thaw in two or three (or four) months.

I don't WANT to pay someone to tear apart my dashboard to find the short. If it's in the blower motor itself, that's fine. That's cheap to buy a new one, and I could replace it myself. But the blower motor is new. The old one died this summer. Which is why I suspect the short is elsewhere. It probably fried the last motor, and has now fried this one. And eats my battery.

I suppose I could always plug a space-heater into the inverter while I drive, though that seems somehow unwise. And yet... tempting.

Hee Hee Funny.

2011-01-12T02:09:00.000-06:00

My Grampa sent me the following in an email, and I really like it. I suspect you will too.

Here is a bit of humor to lighten up your ~~Monday~~ Tuesday. Enjoy!

Paraprosdokian humor!

A paraprosdokian is a figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to re-frame or reinterpret the first part. It is frequently used for humorous or dramatic effect.

I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn't work that way.
So I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness.

Do not argue with an idiot.
He will drag you down to his level and beat you with experience.

I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather.
Not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car.

The last thing I want to do is hurt you.
But it's still on the list.

If I agreed with you, we'd both be wrong.

We never really grow up; we only learn how to act in public.

War does not determine who is right--only who is left.

Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit;
wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

The early bird might get the worm,
but the second mouse gets the cheese.

Evening news is where they begin with "Good evening," - and then proceed to tell you why it isn't.
To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism.
To steal from many is research.

A bus station is where a bus stops.
A train station is where a train stops.
My desk is a work station.

How is it one careless match can start a forest fire,
but it takes a whole box to start a campfire?

Dolphins are so smart that within a few weeks of captivity,
they can train people to stand on the very edge of the pool and throw them fish.

I thought I wanted a career; turns out I just wanted paychecks.

A bank is a place that will lend you money if you can prove that you don't need it.

Whenever I fill out an application,
in the part that says "In an emergency, notify:" I put " A DOCTOR."

I didn't say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars,
but check when you say the paint is wet?

Behind every successful man is his woman.
Behind the fall of a successful man is usually another woman.

A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory..

You do not need a parachute to skydive.
You only need a parachute to skydive twice.

The voices in my head may not be real,
but they have some good ideas!

I discovered I scream the same way whether I'm about to be devoured by a great white shark
or if a piece of seaweed touches my foot.

Some cause happiness wherever they go.
Others, whenever they go.

There's a fine line between cuddling and holding someone
down so they can't get away.

I used to be indecisive. Now I'm not sure..

I always take life with a grain of salt . . . plus a slice of lemon . . . and a shot of tequila..

You're never too old to learn something stupid.

To be sure of hitting the target,
shoot first and call whatever you hit the target.

Nostalgia isn't what it used to be.

A bus is a vehicle that runs twice as fast when you are

after it as when you are in it.

Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine.

Back.

2011-01-09T17:54:00.001-06:00

Whew. That was TEDIOUS.

I had to create another blogger account. I exported the blog, imported it to the other account, edited posts to remove certain information, unpublished some, deleted some, and then exported it and re-imported it here.

But I'm back now. And that's good.

And to answer those who commented or emailed...

Yes, things are okay. Yes, I am okay. Yes, I plan to continue blogging. No, I can't really share what prompted the removal, editing, and replacing of my old posts.

By the way, have you ever wasted several hours watching old online episodes of shows you don't even like very much? Nope, me neither.

A Few More Days - Matthew West

2010-12-28T09:45:00.002-06:00

Driven By Eternity - Day 8 - Repost

2010-12-27T18:00:00.002-06:00

Scheduling a re posting of this old post of mine. I really liked it then, and so did several readers. I hope that this holds true.

Therefore let us go on and get past the elementary stage in the teachings and doctrine of Christ (the Messiah), advancing steadily toward the completeness and perfection that belong to spiritual maturity. Let us not again be laying the foundation of repentance and abandonment of dead works (dead formalism) and of the faith [by which you turned] to God, with teachings about purifying, the laying on of hands, the resurrection from the dead, and eternal judgment and punishment. [These are all matters of which you should have been fully aware long, long ago.]

In other (my own) words, eternal judgment isn't just something some people have come up with based on some obscure passage or their own interpretation of the last little dash at the end of the line. It's not just real, not just relevant... it's elementary. In the book, in Chapter 4 (I'm skipping notes on the story of Affabel - I don't feel right about trying to condense it and I won't plagiarize. http://www.messengerintl.org/ Go to the website, order the Affabel series. It will be worth your time, I promise). Anyway, back to chapter 4... following that scripture, Rev. Bevere writes,

"One dictionary defines elementary as "constituting the basic, essential, or fundamental part." It's the essential part we must have right from the start to build upon; it's a foundation."

To me, this means that we can't move on beyond those basics until we get it. We may get tidbits - just as a baby occasionally gets a little morsel of mommy's food. But we need these foundations before we can truly move forward in our walk with God.

Maybe I'm unique, but I'm hung up the eternal part of this judgment. Judgment isn't necessarily bad... it can be good, too. As in the judgment to award someone compensation for a wrong done to them. It's not the judgment part that concerns me. God is just, He is Holy and Righteous. Of course there will be judgment. Our works aren't in vain. Or, rather, they don't have to be in vain. Some things we do here will be gold, silver, or precious stones in heaven. Other things, things that may not be bad or sinful but are still not for the Kingdom, will be wood, hay, and stubble. They'll all be tried by fire, and what remains will be purified gold, silver, or stones. The rest will be waste. I get that. I understand that. We need to remember that while we're here, because once we're there, it will be judged. The part that throws me, that concerns me, that keeps me awake at night, is the eternal part. While we're here, we can always say "Well, I'll get to that later." There's the notion that we'll have a chance to make it right, to do better. But once we get there... that's it. There's no more chances to do works that will yield a lasting reward. If we come through that fire with nothing but our lives, it is infinitely better than spending eternity in Hell.

But... we'll all find ourselves before Christ, wanting with everything in us to lay our treasure at His feet. As a way of thanking Him. For those who are saved but have nothing to show for it, they'll have one thing - a palm branch. A pitiful offering. I don't want to be one of those. And it's eternal. I've not seen any scripture that indicates that once we get to Heaven, we can do anything to earn more rewards or to change our status. That's the scary part... knowing that here on earth, I am choosing my eternity. Not just where, but how. And that's why I've only read one page of chapter four tonight. Because this is one of those things that keeps me awake. That messes with my head. That messes with my own theology and desires and beliefs.

The other thing that gets me is this... He is coming quickly. Come Lord Jesus. I want Him to come. But really, I don't think I actually get it. If I got it, would I live differently? Maybe. If I knew for a fact that in exactly one week He was returning, what would I do? What if it was one day? What if I knew it was in an hour? Would my sense of urgency increase? Would I be so concerned about offending people? Or would every second be spent warning people that He's coming. And it's not like if you're on the fence about it, you'll be given a chance to say, "Oh, wow, I guess that I should change my mind and follow Him" and then still get to come with us. It will be in the twinkling of an eye. We, the believers who are going, will have a brief warning - the loudest, most majestic trumpet blast we'll have ever heard. But the rest of the world? It's clear in scripture:

"No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son,[f] but only the Father. As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. For in the days before the flood, people were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, up to the day Noah entered the ark; and they knew nothing about what would happen until the flood came and took them all away. That is how it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. Two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left. Two women will be grinding with a hand mill; one will be taken and the other left."

Matthew 24:36-41

See? That's what it will be. Nobody is going to CHOOSE to stay - the choice is made before hand. When you choose whom you will follow. We've been learning in church about how in the last days, it will become possible to see the difference between wheat and tares. In other words, instead of having a bunch of people who appear saved, and not being able to tell who is and isn't, it will be clear who truly belongs to God. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems to me that as each day ticks away, it becomes more obvious who in this world has a relationship with my King and who is truly and eternally lost. And that, too, keeps me up at night.

Big Change

2010-12-26T16:11:00.000-06:00

I am making some really big changes here. I'll be back, but things will be... different. Give it a couple weeks. And yes, I saved the old posts. They have been moved to a new blog, where I have begun removing anything that would link this blog with me specifically.

Sorry guys - but it's got to be done.

Great Love.

2010-12-26T00:17:00.002-06:00

You might remember this post from a while back. After a lot of reading and praying and looking carefully at what is actually being done by each program, our choice was narrowed down to one region, one center. At that center, we chose a child to sponsor through Compassion. I have said before that they are excellent stewards of the funds they receive. I've looked at a lot of sponsorship programs, and Compassion stands out as making a tangible difference, with a focus on enabling the children and their families to be independent. And they stand out in consistent expenditures. I've seen programs where as little as 40% of what is donated goes toward anything that actually impacts the child. Compassion is, and has consistently been, much higher than that. When you look for a child to sponsor, you can read what it's like where he or she lives, as well as see what, exactly, will be provided by their local program. It varies at each location.

Back to our child.

We chose her region, her center, because they provide basic food supplies, medical procedures, exams, and treatments, school supplies, and tuition. All of that... but most importantly, they teach her the Word of God. They will tell her of His love, of His provision. They'll teach her, as she grows, to be able to support herself. They will help her family, too, to be better able to provide.

Our child's name is Marpendo, which means Great Love. She is beautiful, and I love the meaning behind her name. In the way she holds her body, face pointing at the camera but eyes averted, an empty smile... she seems so love-starved. I don't believe her family is depriving her of love... but if she's not had His love, she's starving. We'll get that fixed. She reminds me of my Rico that I sponsored so long ago... he had that same face, the same expression. Over that first year, her smiles started to get more genuine. Light appeared in his eyes. I loved seeing that change, and I am so excited to witness (and be a part of) that same change in Marpendo.

I pray that Marpendo would grow in stature and wisdom and knowledge of Him. I pray that the love of God would be undeniably present in her life, and that the ministry she will be receiving will overflow to the family member who takes care of her. Marpendo's parents are no longer living on earth. I pray that my God would help to heal her wounded heart. Fill her with hope and expectation... that she'd learn that He has plans for her, good plans, plans to give her a hope and a future.
I'm just so excited and feel so peaceful, choosing to finally go back through the door God never closed.

Stars. And Him.

2010-12-15T15:50:00.001-06:00

Last night, I spent some time with a good friend and my husband. Then my husband went home and I got to chatting with said friend and ended up staying pretty late. Then I had the 35 minute drive home.

It was so quiet... no other cars (I saw one, in 35 minutes. A county sheriff on patrol who followed me for the last 5 minutes of my trip. I assume to run my plates out of boredom.). The sky was so clear, with little patches of steam and smoke rising up from houses. No lights other than in the one tiny town I went through.

The stars were so bright. It was so cold and so still that they didn't really even twinkle. Everything looks bigger that way. And there were meteors. Lots of them. Just as I reached the top of the final hill, a particularly large and bright one flashed into view and trailed further than usual. It was one of those rare moments when you look up at just the right instant; one of those moments that burns vividly into memory and can be recalled at will. Or maybe you need to think in pictures for that to happen? Regardless, it did.

I got to spend those 35 minutes worshipping and praying. "God time" is the most special time... to be able to communicate with the One who created the entire universe is just so... humbling, and beautiful, and amazing. It is a time when I can express myself, yes. But more than that, and better, is that He can communicate with me. Peace. Joy. Hope. Assurance. Correction. Rebuke. Love. Most of all, love.

Do you know how amazing that is? That One who can created everything, Who knows all, sees all... that that One loves me? It is something that is irrevocably true, and yet... and yet, I cannot wrap my mind around it. HE loves ME. Wow.

Psalm 8
LORD, our Lord,

how majestic is your name in all the earth!
You have set your glory
in the heavens.
Through the praise of children and infants
you have established a stronghold against your enemies,
to silence the foe and the avenger.
When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,
what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
human beings that you care for them?
You have made them a little lower than the angels
and crowned them with glory and honor.
You made them rulers over the works of your hands;
you put everything under their feet:
all flocks and herds,
and the animals of the wild,
the birds in the sky,
and the fish in the sea,
all that swim the paths of the seas.
LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is your name in all the earth!

Actually...

2010-12-11T10:34:00.001-06:00

Actually, I am pretty sure it's impossible to be in a bad mood with Tabi around. Tabi (short for Tabibito) is our 10 week old kitten.

I admit, when I woke up to hear "scraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaape scraaaaaaaaaaaaaaape" coming from the office, I wasn't impressed. Until I saw what he was doing. He had his front feet in the plastic dish we gave him snow in (Derek's idea - Tabi loved it). He was running as fast as he could with his back feet. Like skateboarding. Only different. More accurately described as food-bowling, perhaps. He was zooming across the wood floor like this, bouncing off furniture, walls... it was absolutely hilarious. I brought him to bed with me - it was 5:15 AM and I was not ready to get up yet, especially on a Saturday. I was almost asleep when I heard a little chirp and felt his rough but gentle little tongue - grooming my eyebrow. I opened my eyes and he started to wiggle and purr. So much for sleep... but also, so much for being cranky about the lack of sleep.

Who could be cranky with this around?

What I Want For Christmas

2010-12-10T22:27:00.002-06:00

I was asked by my step mom (who I think is fantastic, by the way) what Derek and I want for Christmas. Every year, that question is harder and harder to answer.

This year, what I want and what others can give me are very far apart. And yet, so much of what I want I already have. And what I need? Yep - got that too.

Anyway, as I considered that question, I came up with the following answers.

I want a home, a good husband, and something meaningful to do in the world. I have a home that is nearing completion... we'll have it done before spring. I have a husband who loves God, who loves me, who works hard, and has done so much to make me proud this year. Meaningful contribution? That's there too. And not in just one way.

I am blessed.

I want to be able to pay off our debt. All of it. I really do not like owing money to anyone - be that a person or institution. We're not in a position to eliminate our debt right now, but we've whittled away at it this year. Finances are improving, and I am so thankful.

I want to pay off the debt our church has (nothing bad, just a mortgage that's already paid years ahead of schedule; but there's still a chunk left).

I want to pay off the debt a close friend has on the building he runs his business out of.

I want someone to rent the second half of said building.

I want to bless people financially, especially in these times when people are hurting so much in that area.

I guess what I want is lots of money... but not to buy things with. I want it to give. Since I don't have that... I will give what I can give - time, prayer, love, support; I can set my hands to work and I can do it cheerfully.

I want to be a mom. Not going to happen before Christmas, obviously... we'd either have to be significantly pregnant or in the final stages of becoming a foster parent or in the very end stage of adoption. None of those are true. Besides that, nobody could give that to me.

But my heart? My deepest longing, the thing that others can do?

There are children everywhere who are hoping, praying, longing for love... and there are children everywhere who have given up on it completely. They don't know what it is, they don't have any in their life. Nobody has loved them, or it's been so long that they can't remember. Nobody tells them about God. They don't know who Jesus is. They don't know what it feels like to be safe and warm and get a big hug.

I have no official connection, nor do I have any other motivation to promote, Compassion. For years, I sponsored a little boy named Rico. I do not know what became of little Rico; he withdrew from his program. But in the years I sponsored him, I watched him grow so much. From a shy, under-nourished and fearful child to a strong boy who wrote to me about his dad's job search, his adventures at school, and always included a tracing of his little (but growing!) hand on his letters. I don't know if he moved or if his family's status changed; I don't know where he is or what he is doing now (he'd be 14). I only know that he is a part of my heart for the rest of my life. And I know that Compassion is a well-established ministry with proven results. They are excellent stewards of the financial support that is channeled through them. And most importantly, they are using love and the meeting of needs to show Jesus to children everywhere.

The Christmas gift I would truly like to see is this: for each person who reads my blog and can afford the $38 each month to sponsor a child through Compassion. That's less than $10 each week. One trip through the drive through for a couple - if they eat cheap. Would you consider doing that? If you cannot - if it is beyond your means or if your financial situation isn't stable - would you consider donating once?

As I said, I have no connection to Compassion other than the knowledge that what they do is good and the little boy that I sponsored.

That is what I'd really like for Christmas.

Top Secret Information

2010-11-29T20:29:00.002-06:00

**If you have requested an invite to my fertility blog and have not received it, please check your junk-mail or request another invite. I have over 30 open invitations right now, so I know not everyone has gotten theirs.**

First, if you want to read my fertility blog, you will have to either email me or leave a comment as it is now protected. It will stay this way for at least the next few weeks, as we go through retrieval, fertilization, and get "the news." It's not that I want to hide from the world... it's just that I want to have a way to update people, but not have the added stress of nay-sayers.

Now, on to the Top Secret Information I have for you.

Truth is, I have been holding out on you guys big time. There was a big thing that happened back in September, a thing that we didn't want anybody to hear about second-hand. We also didn't want to tell certain people until we had a resolution to said thing.

Derek was working, and he made a statement to a customer that seemed perfectly acceptable at the time - both to Derek and to the customer. However, the manager monitoring the call felt that Derek was trying to avoid helping the customer and chose to terminate his employment. We were truthfully terrified. Especially me. He was more ashamed than afraid, I think.

But over the days and weeks following, I was prouder of him than I've maybe ever been. Like me, he's still imperfect. Because he's still human and trapped on earth. In the past, I've ached for him to step up and be the leader I believe God has called him to be. For him to be decisive, firm. To lead our family. And it hasn't always happened (don't get me wrong - there have also been times I've chosen not to follow or submit, which is in my opinion probably more dangerous). But this time, he didn't back down.

He told me what we were going to do. He stuck to his word. He worked so hard to get a new job - and had one 3 days after he was informed that he was fired. Not a great job - not the best fit for him, poor wages and no benefits. But better than starving, right? He worked at that job diligently, all the while searching for an alternative (I helped, but the spotlight here is on Derek). He's applied at so many locations, but as many of you know, the job market just isn't the best right now. There was one job he was promised that never came to fruition. He was so disappointed when the date he should have started came and went. He wanted to work for that company - still does.

Then, last week, he got a phone call informing him of a different, unexpected opening at that company. It pays $3.60 more per hour than the job he originally wanted, and is in the IT field (something Derek really wanted to break into). His position right now is officially temporary, but will hopefully be made permanent in January. Meanwhile, at the other job he was working, he asked if he could go part time. They were disappointed - they were planning on promoting him very shortly after he completed training. They said yes though. So he is staying there part time, with the knowledge that if he were to return to full time, the promotion is waiting for him.

Can I just say, I am proud of him? I think he's acted very honorably and very much the "man" in all of this. Thank you Derek, for leading our family, for loving me, and most of all, for loving God.

Lest We Forget...

2010-11-11T01:59:00.001-06:00

You might remember this post - the one where I told you about reading every name on the walls at the memorial near my home.

I asked you then - and I'm asking you now - read those names. Find a place and read the names. And remember.

Remember that our opinion of war is irrelevant, that what we believe about our president or the choices he has made don't really come into play when it comes to remembering. Remembering what these people have done for us. For me. For you. For this nation.

They have stood alone in the dark, facing those things that invoke nothing less than stark terror. They have had to live with the blood of innocent people on their hands, on their hearts. They have walked where few dare to imagine.

They have been strong. Courageous. They have been loyal. They have been the epitome of what America is supposed to be.

I cannot speak for those who have lost the ones they love the most. It hasn't happened to me. But I can remember them. I can try to imagine their sadness, their devastation.

I cannot speak for those who wait each night for that letter, that note... the one that says "I am okay. I love you." I've never had to do that. But I can remember them. I can think about them when I'm awake in the early hours of the morning.

I cannot speak for those who have come home. Those who remember faces that will never be seen again. I don't know how it feels to be a soldier carrying a lifeless child. I've never seen a battle. But I have seen death, I have seen the loss of innocent life... I have even felt responsible. So I can remember them. When I am feeling guilty, or there is a face I can't get out of my head... I can remember them.

I cannot speak for those who have gone on. I wish I could say with certainty that every one of them is in heaven now - a "better place." I don't know that. But I do know this... their sacrifice was ultimate. There is nothing more they could have given. We can give ourselves, but there is nothing more we can give. I don't know what that is, not really. But when I feel like I am just tired, like I don't want to give anymore... I can remember them.

Will you remember with me? The old men in the coffee shop, wearing the VFW jackets... the homeless man standing on the street corner wearing the tatters of old fatigues or a uniform... the young man behind the counter at the bank... the police officer who seems just a little more alert than most... teachers, pastors, factory workers... people just like us. Just like us.

Except today isn't about us. It is about them. I can remember.

Can you?

**Please note: photographs are exclusive property of Potter's Clay Studios and may not be used or reproduced without express written permission.**

RAW(e) Entry

2010-11-08T20:54:00.002-06:00

This weeks theme is Little. I have a million pictures of a special little someone, but unedited, and sort of randomly chosen, here is my entry for the week:

Kitten Update

2010-11-02T18:09:00.001-05:00

I could go on and on about the kittens - how they are, how they've grown, how much healthier they are. I think though, that I'll let pictures speak on my behalf. The shots aren't great, I know, but... they'll show you the progress.

"Yoku"
Kiryoku - Inner Strength
Day 3 - Age 16 Days

Yoku
Day 13 - Age 26 Days

"Tabi"
Tabibito - Voyager
Day 3 - Age 16 Days

Tabi
Day 13 - Age 26 Days

"Kohta"
Kohtamashii - Fire Spirit
Day 3 - Age 16 Days

Kohta
Day 13 - Age 26 Days

"Nari"
Kaminari - Thunder
Day 3 - Age 16 Days

Nari

Day 13 - Age 26 Days

Every Name.

2010-10-28T23:29:00.002-05:00

There is something about me that most people don't know. In fact, I don't think my own husband even knows.

Each time I drive to the City (which is almost daily), I pass a veterans memorial. About once a week or so, I stop. I get out of my car, and I go to the Walls. I read the names.

I don't know anybody else who does. There's hundreds. I know a lot of them - or of them. Or know their children, or grandchildren. Their names are inscribed there for a reason. They gave of themselves - walked away from so much - carry burdens that cannot be lifted - many of them gave all. All. For you, for me... for their country. There are so many walls like this - more all the time. Black, marble walls with white names.

I can't read them all. Can't remember them all.

But on these walls... on the walls I drive by, on the walls I see nearly every day... on these, I can read the names.

And I do.

I read every one. Every one deserves to be read. To be remembered. There are six who I went to high school with, who have already reached their eternal destination... six names next to which I rest my hand, and sometimes get teary eyed.

But I don't stop their... it's where I go first, but then I move forward. I start at the beginning, and walk all the way around both walls. I read every name.

There is something I'd like to ask you. It doesn't matter if you support war, or this war, or your home country or your own government. That's not what those walls are about. They are about the people who believed so strongly in something that they were willing to sacrifice all... and who were willing to do what most of us never would dare. Not just the heroics and the danger to self... but the taking of lives. The destruction. The devastation. The nightmares that won't stop, seeing the young faces in crowds and thinking for just a moment, it's that one person... that one enemy soldier who turned out to be still a boy and not yet a man. It is that, those things we abhor, those things we despise... they were willing to bear that burden for you. Remember that. Remember that they believed, that they stood for what they knew in their hearts. Remember that they chose to make the greatest sacrifice they could... for people like you and me.

Remember that.

And read every name. Even if you do it just once... read every name. Each has a story, a life, a family... and each deserves to be read.

Leg Update.

2010-10-27T14:38:00.001-05:00

Have had a few people wondering how my leg is doing... so I thought I'd post an update. I am 5.5 months post-op, and almost 33% of the way through the "active healing" phase.

The graft is doing well, after I split it open a while back. Other than the scars from that, it looks pretty good. It's turning colors, and is closer to the color of my regular skin. There's something going on with one of the muscles in the front of my shin - it hasn't functioned since I bruised and split things.

Yes, I bumped the contrast a little on this, so you could see the outlines of the muscles. See that big gap in my shin? That's not supposed to be there.

It's hard to sit idly by as adhesions form between the graft and the muscle facia, since I know eventually they'll tear free. Surgeon sais absolutely no efforts are to be made to stretch or break them until after that 18 months, though, so... I watch. The medial edge of the graft is adhered to my periosteum. THAT part of it actually really hurts. Very sensitive to the touch, very uncomfortable if it gets pulled on.

But over all, I am thrilled with how well it is doing. It is healing, I have TWO functional legs, I am alive.

And as a friend said the other day... it's starting to look like a leg again. :)

Kaiah.

2010-10-24T21:54:00.001-05:00

Meet Kaiah. She is about 4 months old, and is from the a previous litter by the mother of our current fosters.

I have to admit... she's stunning. Her eyes seem to shoot sparks, and are the palest blue I believe I've ever seen. She's marked mostly like a lopsided siamese, but does have the "eye-shadow" on one eye, and the tips of her ears are peach. But more than her physical beauty, she possesses a zest for life that amazes me. And I want her in the WORST way...

Unfortunately, Kaiah is too loved by her family - they won't let me steal her. ;)

Have Kittens.

2010-10-24T00:22:00.001-05:00

I know, I know, we're too busy to be fostering. And yet... there are FOUR two week old kittens in our bedroom right now. Two tiny bottles in our fridge. And a container of Clavomox. And we are remembering how much we love doing this.

First, I want to introduce Chaileh (HIGH-yeh) - the name is derived from the Hebrew word for "alive." Chaileh did not survive. Her mom had distemper while pregnant, and of the six kittens, three ended up with cerebral hypoplasia. One died within the first week. Chaileh did okay, and then we got called to go get her because she was fading fast. We brought her home, filled her with fluids, put her on and under heat and she still shivered, and gave her as much antibiotic as her tiny body possibly could have handled... but it wasn't enough. When it became clear she was dying, I did give her some pain medication so it didn't hurt. THIS is why I don't hesitate to tell people - SPAY AND NEUTER YOUR PETS.

This is Kiryoku. His name means "Inner Strength." Of our four remaining kittens, he was in the worst shape when he arrived. Very passive, very weak. Didn't have any interest in eating. Could barely lift his head. No hair on his chest or throat. But he's a whole other kitten after just 48 hours. Still looks silly with the missing hair, but is doing well over all. We call him Yoku.

This is Tabibito. His name means "Voyager" and boy, he sure is. He's into EVERYTHING. Has to see, has to touch, has to smell, taste... If we thought we could possibly add a 5th cat to our own permanent menagerie, he would probably never leave our home. BUT, we can't.

We call him Tabi (TAH-bee).

This is Kaminari. His name means "Thunder." In the picture, he looks a little big gray and not all that cute. In reality, he is stunning. Jet-black, gorgeous baby boy. Although he did pee all over the bed tonight. Not his fault - we didn't make sure his bladder was empty before we let him wander. He's got spunk, and out of all of them, seems the healthiest. He jumps - or tries, anyway. He can barely walk, but he launches his tiny self into the air, and usually either gets hung up on whatever he's trying to jump over or falls on his face. Doesn't bother him a bit. He likes to put his front paws on faces and lick noses, and he sucks his thumb while he sleeps. I have GOT to find a way to photograph that fact.

We call him Nari (NAH-ree).

This sweet little girl is Kohtamashii. Her name means "Fire Spirit" or, as we in America would say, "spitfire." She is, too. She's very intense. She also is the crankiest of all of them. Sadly, she also has hypoplasia, but not to the degree the other two did. She's just got some of the classic signs - the head wobble, a bit of muscle weakness, lack of coordnation, and her feet don't really do what she wants a lot of the time. But she will be able to walk, maybe even manage a clumsy run. She can never be an outside cat, so it's a good thing she's already got an inside home lined up. We call her Kohta.

What We Remember.

2010-10-15T14:00:00.001-05:00

In my shortage of words (yes, I actually do occasionally have a shortage of words), I have chosen a video. I don't care if you watch it... but listen to it. I don't have anything to say about war, or when it's right or wrong (or IF it's right or wrong). All I can say is that I believe it is right to support those who are willing to sacrifice everything for something they believe is worth fighting for.

Sorry.

2010-10-09T20:40:00.001-05:00

I apologize for asking for prayer and then disappearing.

Because of certain people reading this, I can't really say WHAT the mountain is yet. But it's still there, looming up in front of us. Big, scary, intimidating. I know this is just a season... but it is a difficult and scary season, one filled with choices to make and things to do that are terrifying in so many ways.

We're okay though. We will keep being okay.

We still love God. Still serve Him. And that's not going to change.

Soon, I'll be able to tell you about this mountain and to thank you for the prayers.

Meanwhile... I will try to come up with something to say here. :)

Please Pray?

2010-09-25T17:34:00.001-05:00

My husband if facing a giant and a mountain and something that would be very negative if it happens. So if you could pray for him, please do so. Pray for favor, wisdom, knowledge, provision... and for peace?

Thank you.

Repetition

2010-09-24T01:40:00.001-05:00

They say that repetition is a great way to learn things.

I am trying to learn my beautiful nephew Israel. So I have spent more hours staring at his face, feeling him breathing against my chest, breathing in his sweet baby smell.

And of course, more pictures. Mom says she's not ready to make me leave the camera in the car - yet. :)

May God Reign

2010-09-16T23:54:00.005-05:00

Israel... beautiful, amazing baby boy. You came into this world the day before our anniversary. I remember sitting in the waiting room, wishing the rest of your family would hurry up and see you and leave - I couldn't wait to meet you.

You were everything I had expected you to be - and yet nothing I expected could have been as amazing as you. I expected you to be wonderfully, beautifully made - and you are. I expected you to be strong - and you are. I expected the new-baby smell, the tiny fists, the dark blue eyes. I even expected you to steal a big part of my heart.

But I didn't expect you to look SO much like your daddy... and at the same time, make exactly the same faces your mom makes. I didn't expect you to capture my attention so fully. I didn't expect to lay awake half the night, smiling at the memory of the time I got to spend with you in my arms. I didn't expect to love you so much it hurts (in a good way).

I expected your daddy to love you, to be proud of you, to be protective. But I never could have imagined the look he has on his face when he looks at you. I haven't ever seen him like this. He thinks you are the most amazing creation in the world, I think. He talks about you, a lot. He takes pictures, and shows them to us. He will be there for you for the rest of his life, Israel. He loves you with the intensity and passion of your God. He would lay down his life for you - of that, I have no doubt.

I expected your mommy to love you, too. I expected her to be happy, to be relieved, to be proud. And she is all of those things. But Israel, if I could freeze her face, her voice, her eyes for you, I would. Then, when you are older and it's harder to see things like a mother's love, you would have a reminder. She holds you tight and close, like you are the most precious thing ever to exist... and she stares at you with a look of pure love, amazement, and joy. Sweet child, you have made her happier than I have ever seen her.

I also expected that your mommy and daddy would let Tio and I hold you... and love you... eventually. I didn't expect the trust, the love, the way they let me feel your heart beating against my chest and breathe in your new baby smell. Well, I did expect those things. But I didn't expect to have the honor of doing it so much.

I didn't expect that you would melt my heart the way you do. I expected to feel this way when I have children of my own... but for you? It wasn't something I thought could happen, and yet it has. I would give everything I have, including my life, for you.

Tio got to really hold you yesterday, got to stare into your eyes and listen to your noises. And it's happened to him, too. As much as your parents want us to, and as much as we can, we want you to be part of our lives. Your in our hearts, our prayers... on our minds.

We love you.

Your name, Israel, means "May God Reign." And I pray that He does in your life, always. Your mom and dad will raise you to love and serve Him. Listen to them closely... and follow Him with all of your strength. When you lay down at night, remember that He is with you, He keeps you safe and gives you peace. When you're facing giants, remember that you do not stand alone. If you will let Him, He will win those battles for you. I pray that your faith would be strong, unwavering... child-like even when you grow old. Search His Word every day, sweet boy. It will help you to become the man you were created to be. It will answer your hardest questions, comfort you when your heart is broken, and it will give you hope when all around seems wrong. Let Him reign in you, Israel. Honor your mom and your dad. While you are still a child, obey them - not because they are right, but because obedience is right. They are Godly people - our brother, our sister - and they will do everything they can to teach you the important things in life.

And so will we. To whatever extent possible, in whatever ways we can, and regardless of the cost, we will support them as they raise you. We will pray. We will love. We will laugh and cry with you, with them.

And of course, we will probably take thousands of pictures of you. Before you even turn one. If your parents to make us start leaving our cameras in the car.

Today, you are three weeks old. I am not sure how that happened so quickly. Yesterday, I drove you and your mom to the airport so you could say goodbye to Abuela. She doesn't cry, Israel. At least not when she's getting on a plane to go home to Rodrigo and Abuelo. But when she held you, and they announced that it was time for people on her flight to be processed through security... she cried. Big, shining tears. She looked so torn, so heartbroken, that it made me almost cry.

All of that, to say this:

Let God reign in your life. Honor and obey your mom and dad. Never stray from the Word of God. I pray you come to a saving relationship with Christ early in your life, and never walk away from it. And while you're here... you are loved. You are cherished. You are amazingly, wonderfully, beautifully made. You are wanted. You are safe and sound.

And I for one count it an unspeakable honor to be granted the title of Tia. And I love you, Israel James. Happy 3 week birthday.

I Might Be In Love...

2010-09-13T14:10:00.001-05:00

with this perfect little boy...

His parents let us call him our nephew. When I hold him in my arms, his warmth, his softness, his perfectly formed face and super-fine hair, the way he smells, the way he puckers his face just like his mommy and the way his features are shaped just like his daddy... the feel of his heart beating against my chest, his breath rising and falling against me... I am in heaven. Or as close as it comes this side of earth. Little Israel James... Tia and Tio love you so very, very much.

In Rememberance of 9-11

2010-09-09T16:42:00.001-05:00

I don't have a lot of words right now.

But I found this song. And I am posting it in place of words of my own.

Das Boot.

2010-08-30T00:16:00.002-05:00

This is a leg update, just in case you want to quit reading now.

It's been REALLY sore the last week or so - I think from nerves regenerating. Or something. I've been getting some spots of superficial sensation back, but the spatial awareness isn't there at all yet. Tibial plateau is still very sore and bruises randomly (and often), but I haven't had a fever in over a month. I've been working out and for the most part, tolerating it pretty well. By working out I mean doing Martial Arts and pushing as I do. But over all, in spite of the soreness, I feel like it's been doing really well.

Today, I put some things into a cave for a friend. Heavy things. That I was dragging in a big blue toy bucket with one hand, while I used the other hand to hold a rope and walk backwards down a VERY muddy incline. A very steep, very muddy incline. And then I climbed up for a second load. And then climbed up to untie a rope to use down in the cave. And then climbed out again. And then built a fire (I'm an excellent fire builder). At some point, either in dealing with the cave or in breaking up wood for the fire, there was an impact to the back edge of my graft. It didn't hurt - I never felt it happen. But now there's a nasty bruise underneath the graft, the muscle compartment is rock-hard, and the skin graft is split in a few places.

SO... I'll be backing off on the physical exercise for a week or two, and wearing BOOT again until the swelling goes down and the muscle softens back up. It's frustrating, but... it will be okay.

**I am editing this to add a picture? Why? Because you guys asked for it. I'll leave it small for those of you who might be a bit... squeamish. But this is what it looks like if you happen to have a skin graft wrapped halfway around your leg, and you subsequently happen to bang it into... something.

Prayer Request Update

2010-08-12T22:07:00.003-05:00

Specifically... pray for wisdom, for favor, and for hardened hearts to be softened?

Sunrise.

2010-08-12T22:03:00.002-05:00

So this thing which I requested prayer for kept me up all night.

There i s a bonus to staying up all night. You get to see the sunrise. I was obvlivious initially, but looked out the window and there was light.

Hope you enjoy... I know I did.

Captivating.

2010-08-08T00:13:00.001-05:00

That is the word I would choose to describe Abi. Her strength, her character, her integrity, contagious joy, generosity, her compassion, devotion, and sold-out passion for her God... they go together, and are captivating.

Spent Thursday and Friday enjoying the wedding of one of my favorite people. Love each other well and without reservation. Congratulations, Abi and Caleb.