One of my brothers-in-law has been diagnosed with malignant melanoma in his scalp. He is having surgery tomorrow (Thursday) to remove as much as possible and see if the cancer has spread to the lymph nodes. We are praying that God will have mercy in this situation. If you are a praying person, would you please join us? Thanks. Please also pray for his wife, children, grandchildren, and other family members as we process this sobering diagnosis and treatment options.
I will be taking a little break until Tuesday of next week for a variety of reasons.
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
GratiTuesday #1: Of Medical Care
A local Christian radio station has started "GratiTuesdays" and ask listeners to call in and give thanks for something. I have several things today to mention, which I will simply put in bold letters.
We took two of our sons to Johns Hopkins Hospital for echocardiograms and genetic consultation beginning at 8:30 a.m. and ending at 12:30. (After that we grabbed lunch, tok our eldest down to his college south of Baltimore, came home for a 40-minute nap, after which I took the youngest to piano lessons and then went back down to the college to pick up his brother. Got home at 7.) A long day, but it has made my heart full (no cardiac pun intended--really!). From the moment I stepped foot on the Hopkins campus I felt mixed emotions, all of which were heightened at being there, not simply knowing that America's #1 hospital is only an hour from our home. Hopkins is a world-renowned hospital that treats every disease known to man and studies seemingly every disease man wants to know about! And there we were, being studied by some of the best doctors in the world. It blows my mind, and yet makes me sad that we lost two family members 25 years ago, before recognizing a problem. But mostly I felt grateful, truly grateful, that we have access to top-notch medical care, the insurance to pay for it, and enough medicalese in our vernacular to understand what the doctors are explaining. And enough confidence in those doctors to know that it's okay that we don't understand the details of genes and alleles and other facets of DNA that they dedicate their lives to discovering. Above that, we have confidence in God that this family disorder is completely in His hands and He designed every molecule. Not one maverick molecule escapes His notice.
The youngest son had a meltdown over having to give blood. It was his first experience that he remembered. Talk about drama. Twenty minutes it took his parents, brother, and pediatric nurse to "talk him down from the ledge." He was trembling, "Don't you know if you give too much blood you'll die???!!!! I don't want to give my precious blood!!!" Well, at that display of hysteria, I had to turn my head to stifle a laugh. Finally, the nurse went out and brought back her iPad for him to play with. It had a cool app that he could maneuver with one hand while his dad held his other arm still as the mammoth leech sucked all his precious blood out. I certainly could never be a nurse. I just don't have what it takes. God bless nurses.
Probably the most touching bit of thanks I had was for the chief doctor's unmistakable concern for our family in the event of emergency. I told him I am not confident that our closest ER will be as proactive as they should be, that they might treat "chest pain" the ordinary way. He said, "If you ever feel like anyone is not taking you seriously about this, raise H-e-double toothpicks--" (except he didn't say it quite like that) "--and then call me. Here's my cell phone number." Whoa! I mean, I've only gotten one other doctor's own cell phone number in my life, and that was the Chief of the Field I Needed Other Kind of Help With back in January. I feel so blessed! I am not special, but these doctors make me feel that way when they extend care beyond office visits and hotline numbers.
We took two of our sons to Johns Hopkins Hospital for echocardiograms and genetic consultation beginning at 8:30 a.m. and ending at 12:30. (After that we grabbed lunch, tok our eldest down to his college south of Baltimore, came home for a 40-minute nap, after which I took the youngest to piano lessons and then went back down to the college to pick up his brother. Got home at 7.) A long day, but it has made my heart full (no cardiac pun intended--really!). From the moment I stepped foot on the Hopkins campus I felt mixed emotions, all of which were heightened at being there, not simply knowing that America's #1 hospital is only an hour from our home. Hopkins is a world-renowned hospital that treats every disease known to man and studies seemingly every disease man wants to know about! And there we were, being studied by some of the best doctors in the world. It blows my mind, and yet makes me sad that we lost two family members 25 years ago, before recognizing a problem. But mostly I felt grateful, truly grateful, that we have access to top-notch medical care, the insurance to pay for it, and enough medicalese in our vernacular to understand what the doctors are explaining. And enough confidence in those doctors to know that it's okay that we don't understand the details of genes and alleles and other facets of DNA that they dedicate their lives to discovering. Above that, we have confidence in God that this family disorder is completely in His hands and He designed every molecule. Not one maverick molecule escapes His notice.
The youngest son had a meltdown over having to give blood. It was his first experience that he remembered. Talk about drama. Twenty minutes it took his parents, brother, and pediatric nurse to "talk him down from the ledge." He was trembling, "Don't you know if you give too much blood you'll die???!!!! I don't want to give my precious blood!!!" Well, at that display of hysteria, I had to turn my head to stifle a laugh. Finally, the nurse went out and brought back her iPad for him to play with. It had a cool app that he could maneuver with one hand while his dad held his other arm still as the mammoth leech sucked all his precious blood out. I certainly could never be a nurse. I just don't have what it takes. God bless nurses.
Probably the most touching bit of thanks I had was for the chief doctor's unmistakable concern for our family in the event of emergency. I told him I am not confident that our closest ER will be as proactive as they should be, that they might treat "chest pain" the ordinary way. He said, "If you ever feel like anyone is not taking you seriously about this, raise H-e-double toothpicks--" (except he didn't say it quite like that) "--and then call me. Here's my cell phone number." Whoa! I mean, I've only gotten one other doctor's own cell phone number in my life, and that was the Chief of the Field I Needed Other Kind of Help With back in January. I feel so blessed! I am not special, but these doctors make me feel that way when they extend care beyond office visits and hotline numbers.
Friday, June 17, 2011
When It's Time to Change, You've Got to Rearrange
Does anyone remember that song from "The Brady Bunch" ? The kids wanted to audition for a radio song by singing something together. But there was problem; Peter was going through puberty and his voice was changing. The change was embarrassing because his voice would crack mid-song . The solution to the embarrassment was to change songs, and they actually wrote a new song for the audition. Rather than fear the hormonal change, they emphasized it with spunk and humor.
The only lyrics that stick with me from their song are these:
"When it's time to change, you've got to rearrange."
Every time they said "change," Peter's voice would crack. (A little too predictably, but hey, it's television. Creative licensing at its best. Or not.) It made for another episode of can't-get-enough-of-the Bradys for this Greg-smitten girl.
At this juncture of my life, my "voice" is cracking, too. The way life's always been is about to change. We will be parents-of-the-groom in the spring, both vehicles (mine and my hubby's) have about 112,000 miles on them, the mold-ridden master bathroom must be remodeled for health's sake not vanity's (although we are getting a new vanity, tee hee), and our youngest son will most likely be attending a private Christian school in the fall. Oh, and yes, we want to go to Italy for our 25th. I think I've mentioned that a time or two! And we want to do something substantial for my parents' 50th.
Like my husband, I see a whole bunch of dollar signs.
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
If we are to continue with our goal to live within our means, then I have to start supplementing the income. And to be honest, I am ready. I am ready for change, to get out of the house more, be in a social environment, find work that I pray is fulfilling, not just "a job," and still be able to care for my home a few days a week. (I do like being at home, and I'm not a "career-minded individual" by any means. I just want to be busier enriching other people's lives, and contribute to the family coffers now that it wouldn't mean neglecting children's needs.)
That is not the only change for which we are about to rearrange. I want to start now by giving up some computer time for higher priorities. I haven't been doing a good job of homemaking lately. I haven't gotten in better shape physically. I haven't gotten involved in serving outside my home except for Sunday School once a month and the occasional meal taken to a sick person's family or to help someone out with child care. (My parents thus far have been self-sustaining, running each other to the doctor and skipping about town...well, as much as two arthritic seventy-somethings can skip.) In short, life has been too comfortable and it has proven detrimental. This "comfort" has added to, not relieved, depression. Isolation is not good.
So for the coming several weeks, I'm rearranging my priorities. A little experiment, you could say.
I want to
-do more fun things with my nine-year-old
- tackle the nagging jobs of cleaning and organizing around the house
-scrapbook some more
-find the fixtures, paint, tile, etc, for the bathroom job
-meet with friends face-to-face, on purpose, for girl-time
-concentrate on the being the kind of wife I'd want to be married to if I were him
-look for meaningful work for the new school year
-exercise 4x/week for starters and eat better
-spend time in prayer and Bible study, not just "devotions"
-limit blogging to 2 days/week, Facebook just 30 minutes a day (yes, computer time has been in control of me, not the other way around, and that form of "socializing" is not healthy)
Soo...my voice cracks now.
Sing with me, Cindy, Marsha, Jan..
When it's time to change, you've got to rearrange.
-
-
Monday, January 24, 2011
Shoe Leather is an Acquired Taste
Shoe leather is an acquired taste. I think I started acquiring it long before my brain had developed, and frankly, there is ample evidence to prove my brain has not fully developed even now at the tender age of "middle."
I realized I was tasting shoe leather again today at my post-op visit to the GYN. I love him dearly, I do. Best doctor I've ever had, and I've had my share. And one thing I dearly love is that he is the teaching type, which means that he doesn't mind answering questions. Lots of them. Borderline stupid ones. But it also means he always has a team of students there, too. In tight quarters. Wearing tight faces.
Well, when some folks are nervous, they wear no expression. Or they turn red. Others get the shakes. Some giggle, pass gas, or pass out.
Me? I put my foot in my mouth. I deal with nerves with comedy, and some things you just have to laugh at when life gets uncomfortable. Stand-up comedy is impossible at certain venues, like the ones where you're asked to please lie back. So the exam table was my stage for a few minutes of fame. Or infamy.
Unfortunately, I was absent during comedy class the day they taught "Consider Your Audience." I don't always consider every member in the "crowd" when I'm "on stage" like I was today as I scoochied on down for the doc. In a room the size of my minivan were: the good doctor himself, his RN/assistant, a resident (woman with the last name of Jacobs...I say this because it's part of the shoe-leather thing I'm about to tell you), and an Indian fellow whose last name unfortunately rhymes with a GYN instrument. (I knew I had to stop that image STAT before I made a complete fool of myself.)
So as I got into position I kept running my mouth. "This is kind of awkward," I said musically, looking my doctor squarely in the face, blocking out the others and speaking of them in third person. "I mean, I am so not used to having an audience for this type of thing. But...I guess if they hadn't wanted to see the show, they wouldn't have bought a ticket!"
They all laughed, too--Instrument Name Dude, assistant, and the gal named Jacobs whose name didn't register anywhere in my underdeveloped brain as possibly being Jewish-- because she was a tall bottle blonde. (I was, after all, at a Jewish hospital, but my doctor is Asian, the RN black, the med student Indian, and the patient--me!-- Protestant by choice.) So I kept on blabbing as a means of distracting myself from what was really the point of being there.
"I've got to thank you, Doctor, for the mean sedative you gave me before the real anesthesia. It was powerful good! I don't remember the O.R. at all. No bright lights, nothing. The last thing I remember is being wheeled down the hall on the gurney and seeing this Jewish man in a black jogging outfit, smiling down at me. I think he said "you'll be fine" or "you're mine" or something reassuring like that. Do you remember seeing him?"
The doctor chuckled and said, "No, I missed him."
"Well, you probably weren't the only one. I mean, I thought at the time he must be the Messiah-- and was I the only one in this Jewish hospital to recognize Him? Or maybe he was just my personal guardian angel."
The room busted up.
"Maybe so, maybe so," said the doctor, eyebrows raised, chuckling nervously. Then he answered my serious question related to my altered anatomy, told me he'd see me in a month, and they all left the room.
Then it hit me as I put my boots on. Oh. my. word, Zo. Did you just claim to have seen the Messiah at this hospital? In front of the medical student named Jacobs? Hello?? Well, maybe her name just sounds Jewish, and like my friend, Beth, she's really not Jewish and won't be offended. But why? Why couldn't you have just kept your mouth shut except to say something intelligent?
I realized I was tasting shoe leather again today at my post-op visit to the GYN. I love him dearly, I do. Best doctor I've ever had, and I've had my share. And one thing I dearly love is that he is the teaching type, which means that he doesn't mind answering questions. Lots of them. Borderline stupid ones. But it also means he always has a team of students there, too. In tight quarters. Wearing tight faces.
Well, when some folks are nervous, they wear no expression. Or they turn red. Others get the shakes. Some giggle, pass gas, or pass out.
Me? I put my foot in my mouth. I deal with nerves with comedy, and some things you just have to laugh at when life gets uncomfortable. Stand-up comedy is impossible at certain venues, like the ones where you're asked to please lie back. So the exam table was my stage for a few minutes of fame. Or infamy.
Unfortunately, I was absent during comedy class the day they taught "Consider Your Audience." I don't always consider every member in the "crowd" when I'm "on stage" like I was today as I scoochied on down for the doc. In a room the size of my minivan were: the good doctor himself, his RN/assistant, a resident (woman with the last name of Jacobs...I say this because it's part of the shoe-leather thing I'm about to tell you), and an Indian fellow whose last name unfortunately rhymes with a GYN instrument. (I knew I had to stop that image STAT before I made a complete fool of myself.)
So as I got into position I kept running my mouth. "This is kind of awkward," I said musically, looking my doctor squarely in the face, blocking out the others and speaking of them in third person. "I mean, I am so not used to having an audience for this type of thing. But...I guess if they hadn't wanted to see the show, they wouldn't have bought a ticket!"
They all laughed, too--Instrument Name Dude, assistant, and the gal named Jacobs whose name didn't register anywhere in my underdeveloped brain as possibly being Jewish-- because she was a tall bottle blonde. (I was, after all, at a Jewish hospital, but my doctor is Asian, the RN black, the med student Indian, and the patient--me!-- Protestant by choice.) So I kept on blabbing as a means of distracting myself from what was really the point of being there.
"I've got to thank you, Doctor, for the mean sedative you gave me before the real anesthesia. It was powerful good! I don't remember the O.R. at all. No bright lights, nothing. The last thing I remember is being wheeled down the hall on the gurney and seeing this Jewish man in a black jogging outfit, smiling down at me. I think he said "you'll be fine" or "you're mine" or something reassuring like that. Do you remember seeing him?"
The doctor chuckled and said, "No, I missed him."
"Well, you probably weren't the only one. I mean, I thought at the time he must be the Messiah-- and was I the only one in this Jewish hospital to recognize Him? Or maybe he was just my personal guardian angel."
The room busted up.
"Maybe so, maybe so," said the doctor, eyebrows raised, chuckling nervously. Then he answered my serious question related to my altered anatomy, told me he'd see me in a month, and they all left the room.
Then it hit me as I put my boots on. Oh. my. word, Zo. Did you just claim to have seen the Messiah at this hospital? In front of the medical student named Jacobs? Hello?? Well, maybe her name just sounds Jewish, and like my friend, Beth, she's really not Jewish and won't be offended. But why? Why couldn't you have just kept your mouth shut except to say something intelligent?
Friday, January 21, 2011
Recovering, Recounting, and Renewing
I had surgery on Wednesday for two things. The deeds have been done.
1) I can no longer have children.
2) I hope I can go longer between potty stops.
That's as detailed as I'm gonna get online.
What I found in the hospital were many reasons to force myself to be thankful when I felt like complaining or caving into my emotions. Most of the time I succeeded, but sometimes I realized I'd already messed up and then had to refocus.
I had complete peace going into the hospital, but during the pre-op stuff when a less-than-gentle tech was having trouble finding not just one vein but two, I got queasy (went "vago" from sudden drop in blood pressure) I had "a moment." I asked aloud, "Do I have to go through with this?" I was asking myself, really. Do I really want to keep suffering for more years with my problems, knowing well we have no desire for more children? Or do I want to subject myself to a temporary trial so that my future is almost certainly one with increased iron, energy, and fervor? I prayed for peace, gave thanks that I was surrounded by a team of great doctors and nurses, and that was about the last thing I remember before "going under."
When I was in a lot of pain, morphine helped immediately. But I had to give thanks for it, because it also made me immediately nauseated, and when the puking was over, the morphine still touched my belly pain. It made me wonder how people going through chemo treatments get the will to continue. I felt my temporary suffering could not compare, but it heightened my awareness, for in that very same hospital, a teenage friend of mine is undergoing chemo each week.
Another complaint I had to turn to thanks was about the sleeping conditions. I am very sensitive to light and noise. The hospital was fairly quiet, but occasionally nurses would laugh out loud (and the nurses' station was just outside my door) at the very moment I was about to drift off to Slumberland. On my bed were LED lights illuminating my up/down arrows. I had to be thankful for the ability to reposition my head and feet. I could have been lying on a cot in a third world country. But I wasn't. Even though the bed wasn't super comfy, it nevertheless provided me what I mostly needed.
I also realized a big difference between the level of care I got when I came out of the OR versus the way I felt essentially a DIY gal the next day. Even though I called for help, the nurse would take too long. (I know they had 10 patients each.) So I pushed myself to the limits of pain to get out of bed, unplug the IV machine, drag it with me to the bathroom, take care of myself, get the machine replugged, get myself back in bed. (This was all before Paul showed up because I didn't want him sitting around bored.) But I gave thanks for the stamina and the mental ability to process what needed to be done--and also thankful that being a mom taught me to push beyond the limits of what I knew to do--especially one-handed!
So recovering is an ongoing exercise for me, in recounting God's faithfulness, and renewing my mind. In my flesh I want to be selfish and picky and painfree. But what I want more is to somehow glorify God in this trial, to minimize the demands on other people who didn't ask to
be part of my surgery or recovery, and to continue giving thanks. I fail miserably at times. I whine and complain and cry, but I don't think I'm as miserable a patient as I could be!
1) I can no longer have children.
2) I hope I can go longer between potty stops.
That's as detailed as I'm gonna get online.
What I found in the hospital were many reasons to force myself to be thankful when I felt like complaining or caving into my emotions. Most of the time I succeeded, but sometimes I realized I'd already messed up and then had to refocus.
I had complete peace going into the hospital, but during the pre-op stuff when a less-than-gentle tech was having trouble finding not just one vein but two, I got queasy (went "vago" from sudden drop in blood pressure) I had "a moment." I asked aloud, "Do I have to go through with this?" I was asking myself, really. Do I really want to keep suffering for more years with my problems, knowing well we have no desire for more children? Or do I want to subject myself to a temporary trial so that my future is almost certainly one with increased iron, energy, and fervor? I prayed for peace, gave thanks that I was surrounded by a team of great doctors and nurses, and that was about the last thing I remember before "going under."
When I was in a lot of pain, morphine helped immediately. But I had to give thanks for it, because it also made me immediately nauseated, and when the puking was over, the morphine still touched my belly pain. It made me wonder how people going through chemo treatments get the will to continue. I felt my temporary suffering could not compare, but it heightened my awareness, for in that very same hospital, a teenage friend of mine is undergoing chemo each week.
Another complaint I had to turn to thanks was about the sleeping conditions. I am very sensitive to light and noise. The hospital was fairly quiet, but occasionally nurses would laugh out loud (and the nurses' station was just outside my door) at the very moment I was about to drift off to Slumberland. On my bed were LED lights illuminating my up/down arrows. I had to be thankful for the ability to reposition my head and feet. I could have been lying on a cot in a third world country. But I wasn't. Even though the bed wasn't super comfy, it nevertheless provided me what I mostly needed.
I also realized a big difference between the level of care I got when I came out of the OR versus the way I felt essentially a DIY gal the next day. Even though I called for help, the nurse would take too long. (I know they had 10 patients each.) So I pushed myself to the limits of pain to get out of bed, unplug the IV machine, drag it with me to the bathroom, take care of myself, get the machine replugged, get myself back in bed. (This was all before Paul showed up because I didn't want him sitting around bored.) But I gave thanks for the stamina and the mental ability to process what needed to be done--and also thankful that being a mom taught me to push beyond the limits of what I knew to do--especially one-handed!
So recovering is an ongoing exercise for me, in recounting God's faithfulness, and renewing my mind. In my flesh I want to be selfish and picky and painfree. But what I want more is to somehow glorify God in this trial, to minimize the demands on other people who didn't ask to
be part of my surgery or recovery, and to continue giving thanks. I fail miserably at times. I whine and complain and cry, but I don't think I'm as miserable a patient as I could be!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Word for the Year: Peace
Back in late September, I sensed the Lord spoke something to me very clearly: "Suffering is coming, but I'll be with you."
I stiff-armed the "suffering" half of the message because I was trying hard to be upbeat. The summer had been difficult enough, what with accepting our school closing and being without half my children for eight weeks.
But then came pain like I hadn't known in eight years. Pain that doubled me over and nearly sent me to the ER. Pain that forced me to have an MRI to determine the severity of the cause. Pain that convinced me to have the source surgically removed. (The surgery is next week.)
Back in the fall, things weren't going well in several relationships either, so I felt alone in many ways. Some relationships have improved, others worsened. Sometimes you just have to distance yourself from people who continually cause pain. And you have to let go of the expectation that people who claim to love you will call and ask how you're doing.
The last thing I needed to combat physical pain was the fear of forthcoming suffering. I have a lot of fears, and am at war with anxiety much of the time. It's strange; I sort of "grew into" this sin, because as a child I was carefree and happy. As a teenager my biggest fear was getting a pimple or forgetting my cheerleading socks on game day. As a college student, I feared getting less than an A in any class of my major, or less than a B in any non-major class. As a newlywed, I became a little more tenuous; was my cooking good enough? Did my husband regret getting married to someone so flawed? When the baby came along, forget it. My self-confidence went kaput. I felt guilty practically from the day I found out I was pregnant. Mother Guilt looms larger than a 9-month preggo belly and sticks around till...I dunno...at least till after college graduation (because none of my four has reached that milestone yet).
In the middle of all this, I had the gall to say I wasn't a worrier. I poo-pooed others for worry, thinking things like, "Are you crazy? You worry about something THAT small in the whole scheme of things?" or "Just get over it. It's only money." Or, of shy people I'd think, "That's stupid to be anxiety-ridden over meeting new people. Don't be so self-conscious that you're not others-conscious. Shyness is selfishness."
Fast forward to about the year 2001. Suddenly I began to experience anxiety, not just depression. Little things I would've counted as trivial concerns suddenly became larger than life, like those dumb inflatable chimpanzees at a new car dealer's lot. Claustrophobia kept me from sharing an elevator with more than four people. Lying flat on my back put me into panic mode. Driving made me nervous (not altogether irrational since I'd been in two accidents, not my fault, in the year 2000). Feeling like I was always forgetting something made me fear early-onset Alzheimer's. Choosing the wrong word in a conversation made my face turn red. Stupid, huh?
Fears mounted to large scale. Fear of paralysis. Losing a child. Losing Paul. Infidelity. A house fire. Drowning (which really did nearly happen in 2000 at Rehoboth Beach, with two of my kids when we were pulled out by undertow).
A decade is too long to contend with anxiety and fear. What am I truly believing about God when I quake inside, when I try to avoid situations in which I have no control? Am I deceived into thinking I even HAVE control? Do I believe He loves me like a good father? My own father gave me every proof by example that God is a good Father, so why have I doubted so many times?
It's probably that I want to share control--to let God give me the "feel good" stuff while I stay on guard against anything uncomfortable. At the core, I believe I don't deserve to suffer. That's my #1 problem.
------------More later---------------------
I stiff-armed the "suffering" half of the message because I was trying hard to be upbeat. The summer had been difficult enough, what with accepting our school closing and being without half my children for eight weeks.
But then came pain like I hadn't known in eight years. Pain that doubled me over and nearly sent me to the ER. Pain that forced me to have an MRI to determine the severity of the cause. Pain that convinced me to have the source surgically removed. (The surgery is next week.)
Back in the fall, things weren't going well in several relationships either, so I felt alone in many ways. Some relationships have improved, others worsened. Sometimes you just have to distance yourself from people who continually cause pain. And you have to let go of the expectation that people who claim to love you will call and ask how you're doing.
The last thing I needed to combat physical pain was the fear of forthcoming suffering. I have a lot of fears, and am at war with anxiety much of the time. It's strange; I sort of "grew into" this sin, because as a child I was carefree and happy. As a teenager my biggest fear was getting a pimple or forgetting my cheerleading socks on game day. As a college student, I feared getting less than an A in any class of my major, or less than a B in any non-major class. As a newlywed, I became a little more tenuous; was my cooking good enough? Did my husband regret getting married to someone so flawed? When the baby came along, forget it. My self-confidence went kaput. I felt guilty practically from the day I found out I was pregnant. Mother Guilt looms larger than a 9-month preggo belly and sticks around till...I dunno...at least till after college graduation (because none of my four has reached that milestone yet).
In the middle of all this, I had the gall to say I wasn't a worrier. I poo-pooed others for worry, thinking things like, "Are you crazy? You worry about something THAT small in the whole scheme of things?" or "Just get over it. It's only money." Or, of shy people I'd think, "That's stupid to be anxiety-ridden over meeting new people. Don't be so self-conscious that you're not others-conscious. Shyness is selfishness."
Fast forward to about the year 2001. Suddenly I began to experience anxiety, not just depression. Little things I would've counted as trivial concerns suddenly became larger than life, like those dumb inflatable chimpanzees at a new car dealer's lot. Claustrophobia kept me from sharing an elevator with more than four people. Lying flat on my back put me into panic mode. Driving made me nervous (not altogether irrational since I'd been in two accidents, not my fault, in the year 2000). Feeling like I was always forgetting something made me fear early-onset Alzheimer's. Choosing the wrong word in a conversation made my face turn red. Stupid, huh?
Fears mounted to large scale. Fear of paralysis. Losing a child. Losing Paul. Infidelity. A house fire. Drowning (which really did nearly happen in 2000 at Rehoboth Beach, with two of my kids when we were pulled out by undertow).
A decade is too long to contend with anxiety and fear. What am I truly believing about God when I quake inside, when I try to avoid situations in which I have no control? Am I deceived into thinking I even HAVE control? Do I believe He loves me like a good father? My own father gave me every proof by example that God is a good Father, so why have I doubted so many times?
It's probably that I want to share control--to let God give me the "feel good" stuff while I stay on guard against anything uncomfortable. At the core, I believe I don't deserve to suffer. That's my #1 problem.
------------More later---------------------
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Living in this Tension
Our dog is confusing the heck outta me!
Last night she was too weak to get up and greet Sarah's friends who came back here at 11 pm after a trip to New York. I had changed Molly's bandage and it was really bloody. The boys carried her outside on a blanket and she just stayed on her tummy--didn't get up to pee, didn't mess the blanket, didn't rally at the sight of anything moving in the night air. They brought her back in.
I buried my face in her neck and sobbed. For the 443rd time this week I told her what a good dog she is, how much I love her, how she's been a handpicked gift from God.
I went to bed with a shattered heart, dreading the morning. Woke up dreading what I'd find downstairs. Scared to go to the kitchen alone.
But she was on her tummy and wagged her tail to greet me. Still too weak to rise, and needing a change of bandage, she stayed put. Steve woke soon and helped me do the nurse work. Before Paul left for work, he spoke tenderly and rubbed her head. That's not typical for Paul, so I really thought, "This is it. Even he knows her time is really short."
I cooked six egg whites and she devoured them. On her side. She drank water. On her side. She couldn't stand without help.
But at noon, Ben and Sarah carried her outside and she walked around a little and peed. Then she headed for the van. She loves her car rides. So we decided to take her for a ride. Went through the drive thru where Steve works. Gave her a bite of chicken sandwich and some fries.
Came home and parked the van. But every time Ben tried to lift her from the back seat, she pulled away. She wanted to stay there. Maybe another car ride? Maybe her way of saying she'd rather die outside than in? Maybe to die alone while looking out windows?
At any rate, I thought her eyes were saying, "It's my time. Please..."
Bonnie, Evie, and Emmy came over and took turns crawling into the van to pet her and to share our grief. Friends who care about your pets are the best. I told Bonnie I appreciated their company but hoped they'd understand we wanted to be alone with Molly when we went to the park. She completely understood. No apologies needed.
I called the vet and asked if it was okay to give her a whole chicken sandwich. He said, lovingly and yet with expert knowledge, "Is she still bleeding?" Yes, I said. "Then we can say it's not an autoimmune disease. It's a vascular bed problem. With her anemia, she probably doesn't have much absorption. Her intestines lack the lining to break down a lot of food--but by golly, at this stage, if my dog wanted a whole McDonald's cheeseburger, I'd give it to her. But maybe an eighth of it every few hours."
So, through tears, I thanked him for his compassion and advice. Then I called Steve home from work. I figured he'd want to be his siblings for the goodbye ride to the park.
We drove and drove to find a really private spot away from traffic, under trees, a soft place for her to walk. Ben lifted her out, and straightaway she peed on the ground. Then she pooped. (Sorry for TMI, but she hadn't defacated since at least Sunday and I was worried she'd go septic.) There was no blood in any "specimen." What a relief!
Then she proceeded to walk around like a young dog. You'd never know she had an ace bandage.
Her face was bright and happy. She wagged her tail and explored the land. Sniffed leaves. Sniffed rocks. Steve videotaped her youthful romping. It reminded me of what heaven might be like.
Then, when we felt she shouldn't put any more pressure on that bad leg, or tire her any further,
we guided her back to the van. I was a distance from the van so couldn't see what was happening. I figured Ben was lifting her back into her comfy seat.
But no, Molly had hopped up into the van all by herself!
Where did she get the strength? The motivation? The energy? All I could do was say, "Amazing! Thank you, God! I am so confused, but I'll take it!"
And when she got home, she laid down again in the kitchen. Then she got up and went to the family room where Sarah was sleeping. Steve put a blanket under her bad leg, but it has not bled. I don't understand. I don't have to change the bandage. What is going on? Are the meds working and this IS indeed NOT cancer? Does she have an autoimmune disease that's controllable and will meds be able to prolong her life well? Or is it a glimpse of heaven carved out to give us hope, to comfort us? I don't know. The tension is hard to live with, but I will gladly release my dog to a park-like heaven full of trees and leaves and squirrels and birds and whatever else I picture God creating for those He loves--those with two legs or four, or with wings. It's a beautiful thought to dwell on while living in this tension.
Last night she was too weak to get up and greet Sarah's friends who came back here at 11 pm after a trip to New York. I had changed Molly's bandage and it was really bloody. The boys carried her outside on a blanket and she just stayed on her tummy--didn't get up to pee, didn't mess the blanket, didn't rally at the sight of anything moving in the night air. They brought her back in.
I buried my face in her neck and sobbed. For the 443rd time this week I told her what a good dog she is, how much I love her, how she's been a handpicked gift from God.
I went to bed with a shattered heart, dreading the morning. Woke up dreading what I'd find downstairs. Scared to go to the kitchen alone.
But she was on her tummy and wagged her tail to greet me. Still too weak to rise, and needing a change of bandage, she stayed put. Steve woke soon and helped me do the nurse work. Before Paul left for work, he spoke tenderly and rubbed her head. That's not typical for Paul, so I really thought, "This is it. Even he knows her time is really short."
I cooked six egg whites and she devoured them. On her side. She drank water. On her side. She couldn't stand without help.
But at noon, Ben and Sarah carried her outside and she walked around a little and peed. Then she headed for the van. She loves her car rides. So we decided to take her for a ride. Went through the drive thru where Steve works. Gave her a bite of chicken sandwich and some fries.
Came home and parked the van. But every time Ben tried to lift her from the back seat, she pulled away. She wanted to stay there. Maybe another car ride? Maybe her way of saying she'd rather die outside than in? Maybe to die alone while looking out windows?
At any rate, I thought her eyes were saying, "It's my time. Please..."
Bonnie, Evie, and Emmy came over and took turns crawling into the van to pet her and to share our grief. Friends who care about your pets are the best. I told Bonnie I appreciated their company but hoped they'd understand we wanted to be alone with Molly when we went to the park. She completely understood. No apologies needed.
I called the vet and asked if it was okay to give her a whole chicken sandwich. He said, lovingly and yet with expert knowledge, "Is she still bleeding?" Yes, I said. "Then we can say it's not an autoimmune disease. It's a vascular bed problem. With her anemia, she probably doesn't have much absorption. Her intestines lack the lining to break down a lot of food--but by golly, at this stage, if my dog wanted a whole McDonald's cheeseburger, I'd give it to her. But maybe an eighth of it every few hours."
So, through tears, I thanked him for his compassion and advice. Then I called Steve home from work. I figured he'd want to be his siblings for the goodbye ride to the park.
We drove and drove to find a really private spot away from traffic, under trees, a soft place for her to walk. Ben lifted her out, and straightaway she peed on the ground. Then she pooped. (Sorry for TMI, but she hadn't defacated since at least Sunday and I was worried she'd go septic.) There was no blood in any "specimen." What a relief!
Then she proceeded to walk around like a young dog. You'd never know she had an ace bandage.
Her face was bright and happy. She wagged her tail and explored the land. Sniffed leaves. Sniffed rocks. Steve videotaped her youthful romping. It reminded me of what heaven might be like.
Then, when we felt she shouldn't put any more pressure on that bad leg, or tire her any further,
we guided her back to the van. I was a distance from the van so couldn't see what was happening. I figured Ben was lifting her back into her comfy seat.
But no, Molly had hopped up into the van all by herself!
Where did she get the strength? The motivation? The energy? All I could do was say, "Amazing! Thank you, God! I am so confused, but I'll take it!"
And when she got home, she laid down again in the kitchen. Then she got up and went to the family room where Sarah was sleeping. Steve put a blanket under her bad leg, but it has not bled. I don't understand. I don't have to change the bandage. What is going on? Are the meds working and this IS indeed NOT cancer? Does she have an autoimmune disease that's controllable and will meds be able to prolong her life well? Or is it a glimpse of heaven carved out to give us hope, to comfort us? I don't know. The tension is hard to live with, but I will gladly release my dog to a park-like heaven full of trees and leaves and squirrels and birds and whatever else I picture God creating for those He loves--those with two legs or four, or with wings. It's a beautiful thought to dwell on while living in this tension.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
A (Spinal) Column of Thanks
*My thanks are highlighted in autumn red. These aren't links, just a quick way to substitute a list. --------------------------------------
Just when you think it's safe to wash your hair in the shower like you've done 20,137 times before, you reach up around to scrub it real well, and then--suddenly--POW! It happens. The spot on the inside of the right shoulder blade, five inches from the base of your neck--the spot that kinda/sorta troubles you on and off and just needs to be popped once in a while--THAT spot decides it's had enough. It decides to take you down and make you wonder, "Now, how am I gonna get dressed when it hurts to raise my arm over my head?"
That was the scenario on Tuesday. But God's grace-- and my overwhelming embarrassment at the thought of going out in public wearing only my birthday suit and some hair clips-- provided me the impetus I needed to fulfill the mission. The mission? Get thee to a chiropractor.
But who? Which one? The one I'd been to in 2000 (when I, the overachiever, had two car accidents in ten months) was no longer taking my new insurance. He hadn't for quite a while, so I just hadn't gone. I had let the problem of degenerative arthritis in my upper spine be treated with home remedies--a back pop once in a while, ibuprofen, exercise (and those in descending order of motivation).
My only choice for obtaining info as I lay moaning in the prone position on the carpeted family room floor, with pain so fierce it took my breath away? Call someone! Kelly! She uses a chiropractor nearby AND I have her number memorized. (I won't tell you that she empathizes by laughing hysterically while you're herniating.) I am a pain in the neck because I am the company I keep!
Anyhow, within the hour, I was at the new chiropractor's office getting x-rays. They confirmed a bulging disc and degenerative arthritis. Thankfully, the degenerating part is localized, not rotting away my entire spine.
So, as I consider all things possible, I am thankful for many things: pain that signals something is really wrong; ways to communicate; transportation; good insurance; ibuprofen, electrical stimulation, massage, chiropractic adjustments, patient kids who give me back-pops in between visits; a flexible schedule; a great bed; the ability to laugh while in pain, and slow improvement which has enabled me to clean a bit more which means I see progress, not just deterioration.
After all, next week we are hosting Thanksgiving and the house needs to get clean. As for my hair, I might not wash it again for a long, long time. It's simply too risky.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Gratitude List: Health Edition 11.8.10
Since I've had health problems for six weeks, this list will consist largely of what I'm thankful for in regard to medicine, hospitals, wellness, doctors, and the like. I feel I should apologize for the "topicalness" of it, and the self-centeredness it could appear to have. But truly, my thanks are toward God, and so I won't apologize, but rather enumerate.
I'm thankful for
1. my womb, the first home my babies ever knew
2. the joy and mystery of human conception
3. the thrill of feeling babies move and dreaming of holding them
4. the grace to go through the sorrow of losing babies
5. OB/GYNs who do what they do , whether specializing in infertility, high risks, or cancer
6. pain, which, in CS Lewis's words 'is God's megaphone"
7. significant blood loss that told me something was really, really wrong with me
8. phlebotomists who can stick me w/o a problem, whether I have 16 oz of water in me or not
9. labs that run necessary tests
10. doctors who respond quickly and compassionately
11. a mom who taught me to question things, not simply accept an authority's word on things that could be dangerous
12. common sense
13. a cousin who came back into my life at this critical time, who happens to be a Nurse Practitioner with myriad health problems herself, and therefore offers practical advice full of understanding from both sides of the bed, so to speak
14. a friend who coordinated meals to be brought to me when I was too weak to think about putting ingredients together, let alone stand and cook --a grace I thought was "reserved" for times when someone's just had a baby, surgery, or a death in the family. Grace is not reserved.
15. vitamins
16. access to first, second, third opinions
17. excellent health insurance
18. not feeling overly claustrophobic during my MRI
19. the opportunity to spend a painful one hour on my back during the MRI. The agony from stiffness in that single position reminded me of Jesus on the cross. My suffering could in no way compare, but it did make me appreciate his, and to be able to say my afflictions are light and momentary.
20. snail mail that encouraged me
21. the food that was brought to us--delicious, iron-rich food. Often the food was things I had been craving (pumpkin pie, salad including boiled eggs and bacon, hot chili on a cold rainy day, Italian anything--my fave comfort food)
22. pain medication
23. heating pad
24. comfy bed
25. clean drinking water
26. the loss of the taste for coffee because coffee inhibits the absorption of iron
27. the beauty of the leaves outside my window
28. humor, the best medicine. When I told my friend Kim that I'd probably be having a hysterectomy, she cheered me with this. "Zo, what was it my mom used to say?... 'The crib will be gone, but the playpen will still be there!'"
I'm thankful for
1. my womb, the first home my babies ever knew
2. the joy and mystery of human conception
3. the thrill of feeling babies move and dreaming of holding them
4. the grace to go through the sorrow of losing babies
5. OB/GYNs who do what they do , whether specializing in infertility, high risks, or cancer
6. pain, which, in CS Lewis's words 'is God's megaphone"
7. significant blood loss that told me something was really, really wrong with me
8. phlebotomists who can stick me w/o a problem, whether I have 16 oz of water in me or not
9. labs that run necessary tests
10. doctors who respond quickly and compassionately
11. a mom who taught me to question things, not simply accept an authority's word on things that could be dangerous
12. common sense
13. a cousin who came back into my life at this critical time, who happens to be a Nurse Practitioner with myriad health problems herself, and therefore offers practical advice full of understanding from both sides of the bed, so to speak
14. a friend who coordinated meals to be brought to me when I was too weak to think about putting ingredients together, let alone stand and cook --a grace I thought was "reserved" for times when someone's just had a baby, surgery, or a death in the family. Grace is not reserved.
15. vitamins
16. access to first, second, third opinions
17. excellent health insurance
18. not feeling overly claustrophobic during my MRI
19. the opportunity to spend a painful one hour on my back during the MRI. The agony from stiffness in that single position reminded me of Jesus on the cross. My suffering could in no way compare, but it did make me appreciate his, and to be able to say my afflictions are light and momentary.
20. snail mail that encouraged me
21. the food that was brought to us--delicious, iron-rich food. Often the food was things I had been craving (pumpkin pie, salad including boiled eggs and bacon, hot chili on a cold rainy day, Italian anything--my fave comfort food)
22. pain medication
23. heating pad
24. comfy bed
25. clean drinking water
26. the loss of the taste for coffee because coffee inhibits the absorption of iron
27. the beauty of the leaves outside my window
28. humor, the best medicine. When I told my friend Kim that I'd probably be having a hysterectomy, she cheered me with this. "Zo, what was it my mom used to say?... 'The crib will be gone, but the playpen will still be there!'"
Friday, October 29, 2010
Breaking Up is Easy to Do
A letter to Mr. I, a dude I met this morning. Most people call him MRI. But that seems so impersonal. I thought I owed him a letter since I separated from him so quickly.
Dear Mr. I,
It's almost 10 a..m and I am....getting...very....sleeeeeepppy. But I just wanted to write you a quick note that expresses my feelings for you. Or to be quite honest, my feelings against you.
Sorry to leave you alone in that cold, half-dark room, but I just needed more space. I need room to breathe and not feel trapped in our relationship. It's not you, it's me. Well, actually, it is you, too. We're not a good match for each other. You deserve a girl who doesn't need drugs in order to hang around with you,. Someone who loves you for who you are--a whitewashed tomb with a serious thing for grandma's music.
And no offense, but I'm not crazy about your barrel chested physique, either. I appreciate the good things you do for people; you really know how to see into people's deepest recesses, actually into things they didn't even know were there. And not to be crude, but you do give a girl a lot of bang for her buck.That much I can say for you. It's just that I am not into a lot of noise and confusion. I would prefer a massage and spa treatment. Actually, I'd rather have another root canal than spend one more minute with you.
Ouch. I know that hurts to hear. But it's true. I'm just being open. I think you should be, too.
And that is why I thought I owed you an explanation. Don't worry. I'm sure you'll have plenty of other flings. You have a magnetic personality, after all. Take care of yourself.
Apologetically,
Zo
Dear Mr. I,
It's almost 10 a..m and I am....getting...very....sleeeeeepppy. But I just wanted to write you a quick note that expresses my feelings for you. Or to be quite honest, my feelings against you.
Sorry to leave you alone in that cold, half-dark room, but I just needed more space. I need room to breathe and not feel trapped in our relationship. It's not you, it's me. Well, actually, it is you, too. We're not a good match for each other. You deserve a girl who doesn't need drugs in order to hang around with you,. Someone who loves you for who you are--a whitewashed tomb with a serious thing for grandma's music.
And no offense, but I'm not crazy about your barrel chested physique, either. I appreciate the good things you do for people; you really know how to see into people's deepest recesses, actually into things they didn't even know were there. And not to be crude, but you do give a girl a lot of bang for her buck.That much I can say for you. It's just that I am not into a lot of noise and confusion. I would prefer a massage and spa treatment. Actually, I'd rather have another root canal than spend one more minute with you.
Ouch. I know that hurts to hear. But it's true. I'm just being open. I think you should be, too.
And that is why I thought I owed you an explanation. Don't worry. I'm sure you'll have plenty of other flings. You have a magnetic personality, after all. Take care of yourself.
Apologetically,
Zo
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Job Jar
These are the four jobs I drew fromthe job jar on Day 1 of school this
year. Joel drew four different ones.
I'm looking at it now and thinking what a draining chunk of work.
The things you take for granted
when you're healthy.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Please Pray. Sounds Serious to Me
Joel's shoulder was injured during football practice tonight. We were not there, we were in care group, so did not see it happen. He says it happened during a tackle, but doesn't recall details. He cannot lift it up to the side.
Please pray. This really has me concerned.
Please pray. This really has me concerned.
Friday, August 06, 2010
26 x 26
I'm a numbers gal. No, I don't[ mean I like math, but I like numbers for setting goals. I set my timer for housework, watch the miles on the trip meter in the van because I know my gas gauge is faulty and my tank stops at 347 miles. (Learned the hard way.) I use numbers when baking because the goal is a decent-tasting, presentable dessert. (Also learned the hard way.)
But mainly I use numbers when setting exercise goals. On the treadmill I change up the goals from distance to speed to time to incline or a combo thereof.
My current goal is to walk 26 by 26. That is, 26 miles total (closest whole number to a marathon) by the 26th of August (my birthday)
The track at the football field is about 1.25 and the walk to and from our car certainly brings it to 1.3. On Tuesdays, my friend Lauren has agreed to walk with me, and she is a duathloner, so she can push me to 2.5. (She could try to push me to 9.5, but I can push back:). I'm sure these numbers sound very lame to some of my fit readers, but let's just say they are baby steps for me. I want to have lost 10 pounds by my b'day, and have shed 2 this week already from walking.
Please say a prayer. In the past, I have set goals, started out great, and failed more times than I can count.
But I'm getting back up again.
26 by 26. And she's off!
But mainly I use numbers when setting exercise goals. On the treadmill I change up the goals from distance to speed to time to incline or a combo thereof.
My current goal is to walk 26 by 26. That is, 26 miles total (closest whole number to a marathon) by the 26th of August (my birthday)
The track at the football field is about 1.25 and the walk to and from our car certainly brings it to 1.3. On Tuesdays, my friend Lauren has agreed to walk with me, and she is a duathloner, so she can push me to 2.5. (She could try to push me to 9.5, but I can push back:). I'm sure these numbers sound very lame to some of my fit readers, but let's just say they are baby steps for me. I want to have lost 10 pounds by my b'day, and have shed 2 this week already from walking.
Please say a prayer. In the past, I have set goals, started out great, and failed more times than I can count.
But I'm getting back up again.
26 by 26. And she's off!
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Getting Ready to Detox
Feeling like sludge has replaced blood in my veins, I am embarking on a 2-week plant protein detox. I did something similar a few years ago .Basically it's a Daniel diet, but I have a written plan this time from a magazine to help me get enough protein.
Anyone got advice?
Anyone got advice?
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Explain Whale to Me
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Sunday, December 20, 2009
Urgent Care and Ugly Clothes
Paul had been shoveling snow this morning since about 10 a.m., Sarah since 10:30. Ben joined them at 11. At around 11:45, when they had about five more minutes of shoveling left, Paul slipped on a patch of ice, fell, and sliced his thumb open on the rusty old shovel's blade.
It was his left thumb, in the crease, and he wondered how deep it was. To the tendon? It was bleeding pretty badly when he came in saying he had to go to the hospital or Urgent Care or something for stitches. He was hoping aloud he hadn't severed a tendon. He was saying he hoped he could play guitar again, and he hadn't eaten anything all morning, and was getting nauseated.
All this followed an argument Sarah picked with me last night. She was asking me why I give the impression I'm Martha Stewart, and part of that (according to her) means I always have to leave the house looking nice, never in sweats, always with at least some make-up on and my hair fixed.
At the very least, I put on jeans. I just hate to see people in sweats in public except at the gym. It brings me down to look at people who don't seem to care that other people have to look at them, too.
But when Paul came in holding his thumb skin together with pressure, I only whipped a brush through my hair and tossed on a sweatshirt of his. Fighting Irish, grey, boxy, do-nothing-for-ya kind of shirt. And I had been doing laundry in purple sweatpants.
Out the door I headed with Paul, (after taking a picture of his gross thumb, that is!) as Sarah shut the door behind me complaining, "Oh, MOM! I can't believe you're going out in public like that!"
I called back, "Your dad's bleeding and no one looks good at the ER. Not even Martha Stewart."
True to my hunch, no one did (except the receptionists, nurses, and doctors who had planned to be there).
Anyway, Paul got five stitches, but even he razzed me while waiting for the doctor. "Seriously, I can't get over how you're dressed. I had to walk behind you."
I threatened to do surgery on him myself if he didn't apologize. He just smiled.
It was his left thumb, in the crease, and he wondered how deep it was. To the tendon? It was bleeding pretty badly when he came in saying he had to go to the hospital or Urgent Care or something for stitches. He was hoping aloud he hadn't severed a tendon. He was saying he hoped he could play guitar again, and he hadn't eaten anything all morning, and was getting nauseated.
All this followed an argument Sarah picked with me last night. She was asking me why I give the impression I'm Martha Stewart, and part of that (according to her) means I always have to leave the house looking nice, never in sweats, always with at least some make-up on and my hair fixed.
At the very least, I put on jeans. I just hate to see people in sweats in public except at the gym. It brings me down to look at people who don't seem to care that other people have to look at them, too.
But when Paul came in holding his thumb skin together with pressure, I only whipped a brush through my hair and tossed on a sweatshirt of his. Fighting Irish, grey, boxy, do-nothing-for-ya kind of shirt. And I had been doing laundry in purple sweatpants.
Out the door I headed with Paul, (after taking a picture of his gross thumb, that is!) as Sarah shut the door behind me complaining, "Oh, MOM! I can't believe you're going out in public like that!"
I called back, "Your dad's bleeding and no one looks good at the ER. Not even Martha Stewart."
True to my hunch, no one did (except the receptionists, nurses, and doctors who had planned to be there).
Anyway, Paul got five stitches, but even he razzed me while waiting for the doctor. "Seriously, I can't get over how you're dressed. I had to walk behind you."
I threatened to do surgery on him myself if he didn't apologize. He just smiled.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Phenomenon
Tell me if this happens to you.
You get violently ill at 1:30 a.m. After that you sleep for only six hours, and you wake up feeling like cleaning. Not the bathroom, but the living room, as if the proverbial mother-in-law has just announced she'll be here in two days. But you don't have a mother-in-law, you just have a lot of clutter to deal with. You have 38 library books due on various days, can't see through the windows clearly, and have the urge to rearrange your pretty things and get rid of all the things that don't bring you up.
You are easily distracted, but not as bad as you were 10 years ago, so you realize you've grown. In a good way. For a change. The Windex does wonders for the windows. Guess that's its purpose. The sky is a vivid blue. Azure. "Azure cleaning the windows," you wonder if there's a scientific reason the sky is bluer, or if it's just that the golden trees against it makes such a brilliant contrast. At any rate, you find you love the word blue as much as the color.
And yet, the blue feelings, though slightly less vivid than they were yesterday, are still with you.
It happens every year at this time. I find myself realizing I have so many blessings, yet I feel blue, and I don't want to celebrate anything. As cathartic as it is to give thanks, it doesn't mean you don't still feel a little sick.
You get violently ill at 1:30 a.m. After that you sleep for only six hours, and you wake up feeling like cleaning. Not the bathroom, but the living room, as if the proverbial mother-in-law has just announced she'll be here in two days. But you don't have a mother-in-law, you just have a lot of clutter to deal with. You have 38 library books due on various days, can't see through the windows clearly, and have the urge to rearrange your pretty things and get rid of all the things that don't bring you up.
You are easily distracted, but not as bad as you were 10 years ago, so you realize you've grown. In a good way. For a change. The Windex does wonders for the windows. Guess that's its purpose. The sky is a vivid blue. Azure. "Azure cleaning the windows," you wonder if there's a scientific reason the sky is bluer, or if it's just that the golden trees against it makes such a brilliant contrast. At any rate, you find you love the word blue as much as the color.
And yet, the blue feelings, though slightly less vivid than they were yesterday, are still with you.
It happens every year at this time. I find myself realizing I have so many blessings, yet I feel blue, and I don't want to celebrate anything. As cathartic as it is to give thanks, it doesn't mean you don't still feel a little sick.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Weight Weport # ??
Losing track is so much easier than losing weight, but I'm happy to report a small loss of 1.4 this week. Total is 18 and change, exactly half of what my WW partner, Karen, has achieved.
She is really burning her butt off up in the hinterlands. I ran into her for the first time in a long time at our WW meeting place, mostly because she and I can't make it at the same time every week anymore. Nonetheless, seeing her fly out the door while I flew in was a highlight in my day.
I need to get back to seriousness in my journey downward. I am nowhere near where I wanted to be when I started in April. I had hoped to have lost at least 30 by now. Mostly need to return to doing the things I was doing in the beginning--keeping track of points, exercising at least 4 times a week, reading uplifting material on the subject, planning for hunger, making menus, and shopping accordingly. The thought of doing this in Foodville reminds me to also return to the things that made my marriage stronger in the beginning, but that's a whole 'nother post.
Thank You, Lord, for this small victory, and for letting me rest in your mercy when I'm feeling defeated. Please help me stay the course for Your glory and my good.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Testimony of a Food Prisoner Set Free
It is not easy to break habits, and I cannot say I've arrived. I think I'll always been just one sleeve of Oreos away from a return to Egypt if I don't continue to think about God's love and comfort. That's really where the battle is: the mind. And when I remember His love--and really, really think on how much He wants to love on me till I'm fully satisfied, I don't binge. My testimony is this: since April 29, 2009, when my walk in repentance from gluttony began, I have only "stuffed" myself twice. Twice in three months. I cannot tell you what a miracle that is. I used to eat to the stuffed point every single day, sometimes every meal. I just never knew satisfaction, that I could quit at a certain place before my stomach was in rebellion, my brain numb, and my heart filled with guilt.
I am on the verge of tears as I write this because it's the first time in almost 16 years I have felt this way. At the age of 28 I started spiraling downward emotionally and expressed it "outwardly" with food. I probably would've been a fatso long before that had it not been for my metabolism. I was still in bondage then, but thin. I think , looking back now, that gaining weight was what God used to show me my idolatry. I couldn't look in the mirror or at pictures of myself and feel free of shame.
But now, although I am still very much overweight (and have 80 pounds to go to my healthy, ideal weight) I look in the mirror and see a miracle. Someone else might see a fat girl, but I see a prisoner who's been set free and loving life in the outside world! Now losing weight is just a matter of fact and choice; I'm not a slave to my appetite anymore. I am free! Free to love the taste of food without depending on it for comfort or a temporary high. Nobody but God could do this. Nobody.
Last Wednesday night we had ladies' game night at church. On the snack table were loads of sweets and plenty of junk food. On the drink table, sugar free lemonade and water, maybe other choices. In the past, I would've made a beeline to fill a little plate with brownies, salsa and chips, cake, you name it. But Wednesday night, even after smelling it, seeing it in motion (being eaten), hearing people tell their recipes, and reaching the 8:30 habit of reaching for food (hungry or not), I was still not in the least tempted to eat any of it. All I can say is: this is not of my willpower. It's the power of God.
I am on the verge of tears as I write this because it's the first time in almost 16 years I have felt this way. At the age of 28 I started spiraling downward emotionally and expressed it "outwardly" with food. I probably would've been a fatso long before that had it not been for my metabolism. I was still in bondage then, but thin. I think , looking back now, that gaining weight was what God used to show me my idolatry. I couldn't look in the mirror or at pictures of myself and feel free of shame.
But now, although I am still very much overweight (and have 80 pounds to go to my healthy, ideal weight) I look in the mirror and see a miracle. Someone else might see a fat girl, but I see a prisoner who's been set free and loving life in the outside world! Now losing weight is just a matter of fact and choice; I'm not a slave to my appetite anymore. I am free! Free to love the taste of food without depending on it for comfort or a temporary high. Nobody but God could do this. Nobody.
Last Wednesday night we had ladies' game night at church. On the snack table were loads of sweets and plenty of junk food. On the drink table, sugar free lemonade and water, maybe other choices. In the past, I would've made a beeline to fill a little plate with brownies, salsa and chips, cake, you name it. But Wednesday night, even after smelling it, seeing it in motion (being eaten), hearing people tell their recipes, and reaching the 8:30 habit of reaching for food (hungry or not), I was still not in the least tempted to eat any of it. All I can say is: this is not of my willpower. It's the power of God.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Weight Weport, Week 12: Fury and Honor
One week it was grace that seemed to summarize my weight loss (or maybe I should have termed it mercy, because it's all grace) when I did nothing to deserve progress on the scale. Another week it was perseverence, when I kept going after a gain, feeling crushed in spirit.
I would describe the past two legs of my journey with the word honor.
To make this brief, let me say that Paul wanted me to consider quitting Weight Watchers for two reasons:
1. He thinks I can lose weight on my own now.
2. We could save $12 a week.
My response?
Fury.
I felt he was trying to sabotage my success. I stomped my feet metaphorically and wagged my tongue not-so-metaphorically. It was unfair of me. He was simply saying that his confidence is in God, not in Weight Watchers, and now that I was applying self-control to knowledge, walking in repentance, did I really need a support group or to spend 12 dollars a week to get on a scale? Wasn't Karen enough as a human accountability partner?
I seriously thought he had reduced my progress to dollars and cents and maybe he secretly didn't want a thin, attractive wife. (Yeh, like that's ever be going to be thought by any man!) I wish I didn't have to confess how furious I became, but such is the nature of the beast within.
When I finally calmed down, I realized I had unfairly accused him. He truly believed I had reached a point at which I could go it alone. And he truly thinks about money way more than I do. Honestly, he thinks about money to the degree I think about food--which he has confessed is a problem--but I will say he's made far more wise choices with money than I have with food, prior to April 29th when my journey began.
He really had no ill will toward me. Isn't that sick that I could think my beloved would not want me to continue this blessed quest for satisfaction in God, as well as health and freedom? How my thoughts had distorted his meaning and built a case against my prince!
Still, I was not ready to quit WW cold turkey. So I asked him if he'd be okay with my going every other week? He said it was up to me. Oh, joy! I had the opportunity to put my newfound
habits to the test of 2-week accountabilty as well as the chance to prove to Paul that I honored his (very deep) desire to save money. All I asked of God was to please help me lose at least 1.5 pounds a week for two weeks. All I asked of Paul was that if I couldn't do at least that much, please believe I still need weekly plunking down of money in exchange for motivation.
Well, I am thrilled to report how God honored both Paul's desires and mine.
After a two-week hiatus from WW, I weighed in today.
Loss? 3 pounds.
I almost giggled when the lady told me. The Lord seemed to whisper to me as I stepped off the scale, "He who honors Me, I will honor." (I Sam. 2:30)
Total now: 18.4.
I'm down a dress size and a pants size.
Most importantly this week, I have seen (by looking hard for) increased faith in God because of my husband's request--a request that initially sent shockwaves of fear and subsequent fury through my body. It revealed to me just how powerful my thought life is and that's what I really need accountability for.
I would describe the past two legs of my journey with the word honor.
To make this brief, let me say that Paul wanted me to consider quitting Weight Watchers for two reasons:
1. He thinks I can lose weight on my own now.
2. We could save $12 a week.
My response?
Fury.
I felt he was trying to sabotage my success. I stomped my feet metaphorically and wagged my tongue not-so-metaphorically. It was unfair of me. He was simply saying that his confidence is in God, not in Weight Watchers, and now that I was applying self-control to knowledge, walking in repentance, did I really need a support group or to spend 12 dollars a week to get on a scale? Wasn't Karen enough as a human accountability partner?
I seriously thought he had reduced my progress to dollars and cents and maybe he secretly didn't want a thin, attractive wife. (Yeh, like that's ever be going to be thought by any man!) I wish I didn't have to confess how furious I became, but such is the nature of the beast within.
When I finally calmed down, I realized I had unfairly accused him. He truly believed I had reached a point at which I could go it alone. And he truly thinks about money way more than I do. Honestly, he thinks about money to the degree I think about food--which he has confessed is a problem--but I will say he's made far more wise choices with money than I have with food, prior to April 29th when my journey began.
He really had no ill will toward me. Isn't that sick that I could think my beloved would not want me to continue this blessed quest for satisfaction in God, as well as health and freedom? How my thoughts had distorted his meaning and built a case against my prince!
Still, I was not ready to quit WW cold turkey. So I asked him if he'd be okay with my going every other week? He said it was up to me. Oh, joy! I had the opportunity to put my newfound
habits to the test of 2-week accountabilty as well as the chance to prove to Paul that I honored his (very deep) desire to save money. All I asked of God was to please help me lose at least 1.5 pounds a week for two weeks. All I asked of Paul was that if I couldn't do at least that much, please believe I still need weekly plunking down of money in exchange for motivation.
Well, I am thrilled to report how God honored both Paul's desires and mine.
After a two-week hiatus from WW, I weighed in today.
Loss? 3 pounds.
I almost giggled when the lady told me. The Lord seemed to whisper to me as I stepped off the scale, "He who honors Me, I will honor." (I Sam. 2:30)
Total now: 18.4.
I'm down a dress size and a pants size.
Most importantly this week, I have seen (by looking hard for) increased faith in God because of my husband's request--a request that initially sent shockwaves of fear and subsequent fury through my body. It revealed to me just how powerful my thought life is and that's what I really need accountability for.
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