29 July 2011

Hope in the Cracks

I have had a series of topics I have thought about blogging. I haven't had the energy to sit down and write them. It really has been all I can do to sit and relay stories. That has actually been helpful to me, even if I am the only one who reads them. Writing stories about my life is cathartic. Cathartic catharsis. I wonder why writing is such a pressure release valve? You would think it would have something to do with connecting to the reader and yet blogging is for the most part an impersonal action for me. I have a few people who read what I write, but most folks stumble across my page in search of something else. According to my statistics it takes them less than a minute to discover I am not what they were looking for. I envy their discernment.

I often thought I wanted to be a writer. I have had people tell me I should sit down and write a book. I don't know what I would write about if I did. There are so many things to read on the net, so many books available here that are classics. Why would anyone want to read what I write? Why would anyone want to read what 99.9% of what bloggers have to say? The remaining .1% worth reading would keep an avid reader busy for decades. I should be thrilled that out of all the reading material available there are two or three people on the planet who keep up with my drivel. If I am to be honest though, I would like to be recognized as the next Hemingway, Michener, or budding Harper Lee. Not that I compare myself in any way with those authors, but you know what I mean. It's about recognition. Achievement.

My little sister and I were raised in separate households. She was placed for adoption when she was born and we were reunited about 17 years ago. I shared with her about watching a video of a friend of mine dancing with his daughter at her wedding. It was amazingly touching for a woman like me who had an adversarial relationship with her father. My sister is currently caring for her dad. He lives in a home that specializes in aiding folks with Alzheimer's. We both teared up when I told her about the video. Whatever we missed growing up together, we share a common bond of being softies together now. It's always a matter of minutes before we hit a topic that causes our eyes to get glassy and for the saline waterfalls to begin. She and I have discussed writing a book together about the ways we had the same experiences in different households. Maybe one day we will actually do it if for no other reason than to marvel at it ourselves. Our story is unique, but then, isn't everyone's?

Right now I am trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my years. How do you prioritize what you're going to do when you haven't a clue how long the journey will be and what resources you'll have to work with? I'll either hold fast to the hope that in God's plans for me there are no mistakes. There is no lack available resources. There is meaning to living alone in a home in rural Kentucky. And finally, there is a contribution I can make to the Kingdom. Life for me is about learning to fit in hope. To let it fill in the voids and cracks when I am worried about why the check engine light is on in my car; how, with a bad back , neck and limited funds, I will get the house cleaned and painted; how will I keep the garden from go feral on me- I swear I heard "Feed me, Seymour!" the last time I ventured out there- and lastly, if it is normal for my air conditioning fan to shudder and shake my domicile like we're experiencing a 3.5 magnitude earthquake when it turns off. We wont even mention finding hope for my kids and grandson, whom I haven't seen in way too long.

Hope used to be my mortal enemy. Hope deferred makes the heart sick according to Proverbs. I have no discipline or patience. I am all about instant gratification. I am all about the second half of that verse and desire being fulfilled being a tree of life. I convince myself that there is nothing wrong with what I desire and that God is just being mean to me for not giving me what I want. Psalm 34:7 defines desire as "delighting in the Lord." When we delight in the Lord he gives us the desires of heart. When He is our delight, he gives himself to us. I understand it, but I am sinful and don't 'get' it. I don't get up on the morning and think, "Oh boy! I am going to spend some time with Jesus!" I wish I did. I wish that I wanted Him that much. I envy the "head-over-heels-in-love-with-Christ" Christians. Well, sometimes I envy them. Mostly I want to get away from them because they make me think that I am crazy and not a believer at all.

Perseverance and hope must live together in the same soul. No matter how it feels emotionally, I must ask myself what is true about Jesus. What is true about the God I so easily want to ditch. I usually start by asking myself why the mad desire to ditch what my sinful heart tries to convince me doesn't exist in the first place? Except that He does exist, there would be no reason to be repelled by submitting to Him. As for hope I am trying to see it as the mortar of God that will hold me together. It's not always easy but it beats the alternative.

Romans 8:24-25

24 For in hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees? 25But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.

26 July 2011

A Great Read

Every once in a while you happen upon something on the web that you have been searching for and didn't know it. I just read an article by Providence Crowder entitled : "Testimonial of a Black Republican"

It is a thought provoking read, please take the time to click and enjoy. Here is a teaser.

"I don’t believe for one minute that God sides with either Democrats or Republicans, but it is up to Democrats and Republicans to side with God and stand against sin, much in the way the Republicans did when they stood against slavery."

25 July 2011

Sleep Snorkel Surprise

Summer colds. Blech! Is there anything more annoying that being too hot and having your nose run like Bridalveil Fall? Probably but nothing comes to mind right now. My nose is red and raw from all the sneezing and blowing and I have been using Puff's. Imagine if I had some generic sandpaper tissue instead? I could probably die from the pain. Death by runny nose rough tissue rhinoplasty.

I went to bed very early last night because I was feeling miserable. I have sleep apnea and therefore sleep with a bipap machine that keeps from crumping in my sleep. Now, I love my little bipap machine. I got it after my near death experience a few years ago when the nurses in the ICU turned me in to the doctor because I never slept. Once I was released from the hospital they sent me for a sleep study. I had to do it twice because they wait for you to fall to sleep and monitor your breathing in order to decide if you need a machine. Generally they try different types of machines and different levels of air pressure. During my test I never fell asleep. They scheduled it again and put a machine on me first thing. I was asleep in two minutes and slept like the proverbial log. After 50 years of not sleeping you have to know that I was in heaven.

OK, here is my bit of encouragement for anyone who thinks they have sleep apnea or who is a chronic snorer. Get tested. I love my sleep snorkel. Why do I call it that? Well, click here and see the picture. That's why. I felt so much better after succumbing to the pressure of being tested for sleep apnea and getting my bipap machine. My snoring was huge loud even as a baby. I come from a long line of snorers. My 5'2" 125 pound father snored like a champ. You don't have to be obese, you just have to have the right (or wrong) combination of parts of your anatomy. Granted, no one looks sexy while wearing their bipap or cpap mask, but death is a possibility and nobody looks sexy dead either. Get tested.

So, last night with my nose raw from the sneezing and blowing, I wasn't really looking forward to wearing my sleep snorkel. I put the headgear on and gingerly positioned the part that rests on/in my nostrils. I also turned up the humidifier on the machine thinking that might help keep my sinuses happy. I had just found a comfortable position and fallen asleep when the electrical storm broke. That's when the fun started.

I have two dogs that both sleep in my room. I have a bed that is too tall for them to jump into without using a bench or stairs to assist them. Chet the Wonder Dog is 15 and he used to sleep with me but is now blind and deaf and I cannot trust him not to fall out of my bed. My bed is taller than most so a fall could be bad for the old man. Chet has no idea when thunder hits unless Thibodeaux, the younger of the two who is terrified of thunder, reacts. One good clap or roar of thunder and she is gone like a shot leaving only the vapor trail of her anal glands behind her. Any time a dog expresses their anal glands you know they are in fear for their lives. If you have ever been unfortunate enough to experience the noxious odor of canine anal glands, you know you really never want your dog to be that afraid in your presence.

Picture if you will two doggies asleep at the foot of the queen sized sleigh bed and me with my sleep snorkel on asleep in the aforementioned bed. The sort of drugged out sleep you fall into having used cold meds. Suddenly a big flash of light that is followed directly by thunder so loud and so close that the concussion makes the pictures hung on your bedroom wall wiggle like they are marionettes. I sat straight up thinking the war was on. Disoriented but in full fight mode, I am tangled in the sleep snorkel hoses and tethered to the night stand, making me want to fight to get free. At the very same time Thibodeaux, who now wants nothing to do with being alone in her bed and wants everything to do with being in my bed where I will undoubtedly protect her from the four-fanged dog eating thunder storm, is launching herself up in the hope of making into my bed. . I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed preparing for battle. She seizes the opportunity to scale my bare legs like a ladder in order to help her get into bed. I am wondering what in the name of all that is holy is going on and what or who is attacking my legs. Thibby is undaunted by my sweeping hands trying to keep her away from me and comes face to face with her beloved mom wearing a mask that blows air out its vents and looks like something from a cheap sci-fi thriller. Her little legs ran in place in mid air while she tried to ascertain which frightened her most. Mom in the mask or the thunder. The thunder won. I have the scars on my legs to prove it. We both survived the storm though. Chet, he slept through it all until Thibodeaux went and rallied him up. A quick look at the clock told me I had only been asleep for an hour. The continuing storm told me it would be a few hours before I got back to sleep.

Ah yes, these are the things that make my life interesting.

22 July 2011

Small is Good

Last night I watched the heat lightning and it reminded me of crumpled saran wrap that had somehow had been electrified and was being stretched and straightened across the sky, releasing sparks as it gained tension. Moments like last night leave me breathless, longing for something I cannot identify and feeling small. Very small. .

Tonight I did some barbecuing in the dark. I had some chicken that needed to be cooked or given up for lost and it has been way too hot to be out on the deck cooking. I don't do well in the heat. I like 70 degrees with a light breeze. I do not like 89 with relative humidity of 90+ and heat indices of 110. You can't always get what you want. But I did get to see some more lightning so it's all good.

Thursday I saw the doctor to receive what I thought would be a diagnoses of celiac sprue. According to the tests I do not have celiac sprue. I was kind of disappointed because I had reasoned it all out in my mind and with the help of Dr. Google that that was what was causing me my physical discomforts and simply eating a gluten free diet would set me right. It's odd but I was sort of disappointed to be told I was healthy and normal in all but one area. My blood shows that I have inflammation occurring in my body somewhere. Now we just have to find it.

God knows exactly what is causing my distress. He knows where the inflammation is and He knows how to heal it. He may or may not choose to heal me, but He definitely knows how. God's sovereignty is another thing that makes me feel small. Small is good.

12 July 2011

How About a Little Hitchcock in the Morning

Ever have a day where you knew you could go one way or the other? I woke up this morning actually thinking I might be coming out of the cycle of whatever this is that is ailing me. The disease which has yet to be identified is definitely cyclical. What precipitates the cycles has yet to be determined but seriously, if I knew I would feel as bad every day as I have felt for the past two months I don't know what I would do. And although good days seem to be more and more rare when they do arrive it is enough to make me what to dance for joy, something like a funky cross between Snoopy and a prohibited touch down dance, you know?

Today I got up and realized I had forgotten to give myself my weekly vitamin B12 injection. Part of my physical problem is a failing immune system. My body cannot synthesize B12 from the food I eat. It's an easy fix, but for some reason I forgot that yesterday was Manic Monday. I call it that because the lack of energy I have stems from having pernicious anemia and getting a boost with B12 reminds me of the manic phase of bipolar. No, I am not bipolar, I just have a degree in psychology. Anyway, I can leap buildings in a single bound when I have some B12 on board. I realized I was dragging and hadn't given myself the shot. So I went into the bathroom to take care of business. When I pulled the syringe out and popped off the cap that protects the needle I couldn't help but notice that it was bent. Right angle bent. How it happened I don't know but it did and it was useless. Fortunately I had others.

Next I went out with the dogs and the first thing I saw while making our walk around the property was a dead bluebird. Yuck. No gloves, no implements, no luck keeping the dog from rolling on it before I could give him or her a burial. Blue birds shouldn't die. They are supposed to be happy, right? Nothing happy about maggots and insects reclaiming a bluebird body. Fascinating maybe, but not happy. Back in the house to wash up and then take some movies back to Blockbuster before the heat indices hit their predicted target. Yes I said it, returning movies to Blockbuster. Sounds positively medieval, doesn't it? I wanted to see if upgrading Netflix to bluray was worth it or not, and for me, it's not. I digress.

On the way to Blockbuster a fledgling starling tried a kamikaze run at my little RAV4. He was unsuccessful but I had to drive away with him sitting in the middle of the road wondering what in the world had just happened to him while his parents scolded him mercilessly. Pressing on I decided to believe that the starling survived other cars and predators. I don't even like starlings but I like the thought of dead baby ones even less.

Determining to think of other things while I drove into town a red flash caught my eye. It was a cardinal and he was chasing some other bigger bird with the help of his mate. Sweeping, diving, swirling, sort of like a dogfight. Suddenly they changed direction and somebody was bouncing across my windshield. Great. First the bluebird of happiness dies and then the cardinal of vexation gives his life chasing off an intruder. This day is starting to feel like a sequel to The Birds. Wonderful. Now I am homesick. I grew up where they filmed the birds. Remember the scene at the schoolhouse? I used to take visitors there and wait for them to recognize it and say something about the movie. Hitchcock was a master at scaring the life out of you with noise. No bird as ever made the noises those birds did but there was no doubt those birds were going to kill someone when you heard the noises they made. Back here in Kentucky these guys are bent on self destruction it seems. Poor cardinal. He may have survived the crash, right? The question is, am I going to survive this day? Probably. I give it a 50/50 chance. I either will or I wont. No sense fretting about stuff I can't change. Besides, I don't look a thing like Tippy Hedren so it's all good.

10 July 2011

Word Ninjas

I went to bed at a decent hour and found myself unhappily awake at 0145hrs. That's right, 1:45 am. That doesn't even qualify for 0'dark thirty. I have been known to go to bed at that time more often than get up. I tried but couldn't return to sleep. I also could'n't think of anything productive to do in my zombie-like state so I stayed in bed and found my mind wandering. Sometimes the craziest things come to me when I am least expecting it. I found myself thinking about something I said to my pastors during a meeting we had regarding biblical counseling. I was rambling on about the importance of words and the differences between men and women in their communication styles. I called women word ninjas. "We're all sweetness and light until you don't do what we want and then we'll take you out with our tongues. I don't know why men put up with us, we're evil. We woman are word ninjas." That's the general gist. Why I was thinking about that at almost 2:00am is beyond me, but I was.

My mind went from that to some of the nastiest things that have been said to me, all of them courtesy of a woman or woman in training. When I was in high school a terrible thing happened in the youth group at my church. I was new to the group and not popular at all but I was fairly well tolerated amongst the regulars, or so I thought. We were all together at the church for a slumber party when we heard that one of the older members of the group, a young man who was out of high school and just into college, had hung himself. He was the boyfriend of one of the beautiful and popular high school girls. I knew them both well enough to say hello to, but we weren't friends. My heart sank and I couldn't breath when I heard what had happened. I honestly could not think of a sadder situation. The young lady had broken up with him and a few hours later he killed himself. Overcome with emotions, I sobbed. I cried real tears. The kind that come with a scrunched up face and snotty nose. It wasn't pretty.

I thought about his family and the loss they felt. I wondered if the young girl felt guilty or if anyone would say something hateful to her- trying to blame her for his death. I thought about the kids there at the church who knew him and who were expecting to have fun, not mourn the senseless death of a friend. I wondered who found him and it took my breath away to think of his mom or dad having to find their son's lifeless body. It was all too much for me and I sat crying. Then I heard someone call my name. It was one of the girls I went to school with. It was one of the girls I thought more than tolerated me. The tone of her voice and her choice of words let me know what she was thinking. "Rosemarie? Did you even know Randy???" Forty years later I can hear the disgust in her voice.

I was being berated for crying. I had not earned the right to mourn so completely or openly for someone who was just a casual acquaintance. Apparently there was a social mores I had violated by being moved to tears in this situation. My tears had been found offensive and I was being judged. The group of girls my interrogator was with all looked at me expectantly. Ready to pounce if I said the wrong thing. I looked at her and quietly responded, "No. It's just too sad to do anything but cry." She rolled her eyes, spun on here heel and took off with her groupies waddling behind her.

You know, anything you want to know about total depravity you can learn in a situation like this. Why was it keeping me awake?

09 July 2011

Gravity Works

So yesterday was one of my not so good days. It started out great. It was overcast, nice breeze, had recently rained and wasn't very hot. I couldn't sleep but there's not much you can do at 4:00am but wait for a decent hour. At 6:00am I went out with the dogs and decided I was fit enough to do some work in the garden. That was my first mistake. I love gardening. I haven't been able to garden because of my neck and back. Whatever mutinous plans my internal organs are carrying out haven't made it any easier for working outside. Yesterday though it was my favorite combination of conditions so I had to do it. The ground has been soaked with rain and there are some easy pulls out in the garden.

One of the many things people who don't live in Kentucky don't know about Kentucky, at least this transplant didn't know it, is that Kentucky vegetation is jungle like. Ignore your garden at your own peril. Besides the invasive kudzu, a bad idea imported from Japan, the indigenous species will overwhelm your flowerbed in the proverbial shaking of a lambs tail. Kentucky Blue Grass spreads using rhizomes, just about anything using that method is capable of overtaking you while you sleep. A few weeks of rain and my inability to be active on a regular basis, and I had a weed infestation of biblical proportions in my raised bed.

Before my neck injury prevented it, I would pull weeds each morning before work and each evening before dark. Because my efforts are hit and miss these days and I can only be out in the garden for 15-30 minutes before I want someone to amputate at the neck for me, I put down landscape cloth around most of the area that I plant. I also put mulch down on most of it, but again, I do things in a bassackward fashion now depending on my neck and back's cooperation, so I hadn't been able to get all the mulch down. That's why the weeds growing under the landscape cloth had lifted it some 6 inches off the ground. It was creepy feeling to walk on it and I was convinced there would be a nice Kentucky black snake or a copperhead that was vole hunting under there for me to step on. Even my dreaded fear of snakes couldn't keep me from going in and pulling some weeds.

It felt great while I was doing it. It felt productive and I felt good about conquering my snake fears by walking in there. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that there are weeds in there that are 5' tall. I wish I knew what they are, they resemble hemlock or a wild carrot, sort of fern like but they grow on one tall column. Anyway, whatever they are they were coming out easily because the soil is wet. One after the other I yanked out, not even having to stoop to get to them. I was a madwoman, equal parts gardener subduing the earth and Indian Jones reclaiming treasure. Then it happened. The one tall weed that wouldn't come out. I tugged and felt its full resistance. I tugged again, still nothing. I reached down low on the stem, bent my knees and put the full force of my weight and strength into dislodging that weed. I think I heard the danged thing giggle as it quickly surrendered. So quickly that there was little or no resistance. I had a bucket load of momentum going in a backward direction and nothing but gravity to hold me to the planet. In what seemed to take a full 60 seconds but probably happened in less than one, I had the "Oh" look of knowledge on my face followed shortly by my backside feeling the full force of a gravitational assault. The only thing that got me up quickly was the idea that I was now sitting on the imaginary snakes under the weed barrier.

I gingerly came inside and pretended I hadn't been in the garden at all. I made breakfast, watched the news and when the neighbor boy came over to see if I needed any work done, which he does frequently and I love him for it, I let him play in the garden and with the new weed eater I purchased to make his life easier. After that I took some of my pain meds and set myself in my recliner, grabbed the remote and turned on the idiot box. I would by lying if I tried to pretend I wasn't enjoying the floating feeling of being carried off to slumber by muscle relaxers and pain killers. Just as I was about to enter the land where snoring is sublime the phone rang. Annoyed but groggy, I answered it. "Hello?" It continued to ring. I fumbled for the 'talk' button. "Hello? HELLO?!" The blasted thing kept ringing. Odd isn't it? No matter what button you push on the remote control or how hard you press it to your head and say "HELLO?!!" the phone will keep on ringing.

So much for subduing the earth or technology.

Proverbs 17:22 A joyful heart is good medicine. But a broken spirit dries up the bones

07 July 2011

Jennifer, Nancy and Grace

Of all the horrible things I have said about the media, I take two of them back... maybe even three. I am grateful for the interview ABC did with Jennifer Ford, juror number three in the Casey Anthony trial. She answered all my questions in my previous post, found here. I was also grateful for The View having the prosecuting attorney, Jeff Ashton, on their program. And lastly, I was glad to watch Barbara Walters interview Jose Baez, Casey Anthony's attorney. Mostly though, I am grateful for Jennifer Ford.

Ms. Ford was able to give me exactly what I hoped for, the knowledge that finding Casey Anthony not guilty did not mean they believed she was completely innocent, but they could not be convinced by the evidence given to them that she had murdered her daughter, Caylee. Ms. Ford further convinced me that she had paid no attention to the unproven accusations of molestation. I was glad that she was the juror that was brave enough to discuss her opinions regarding the case. I was especially appreciative that she declined to comment about Nancy Grace calling the jurors names, though anyone with a modicum of intelligence could connect the dots by they way she declined.

The interviews reminded me that my normal position is the one I should take, no matter how emotional the case is. The jury is afforded information that the media and commentators are not. It is foolish to speculate. Though like Nancy Grace, I can have a differing opinion. And trust me, I do have my own opinion(s) on this trial. I was serious when I said the only thing this fiasco lacked was a White Bronco being televised live as it was chased down the freeway. The court of public opinion is the worst place to try someone. It will never result in justice being served. For all our advancements in technology we have not advanced in 'common sense' which we all know is uncommon. If anything I would say we have lost ground in manners and etiquette. Which brings me to my last point.

Grace. Whether we're talking the manifold grace of God or the ability to negotiate the difficult parts of life with decorum befitting a woman of God, I need more of it. Lots and lots more. There is a visceral reaction we all seem to have when a baby is lost, in jeopardy or dies what we see as an untimely death. I think it stems from a twisted sense of fairness we have, as if the soul of a child has more value than the soul of a broken down woman like me or the smelly homeless person you pass on the street. Or as if God has lost control of the universe momentarily and had no idea that Caylee was in trouble. It's so easy to let my emotions carry me where my rational thought refuses to tread.

05 July 2011

White O.J.

Proving once again that juries are not as smart as we who only get to see the part of the trial that makes the news, Casey Anthony has been found not guilty of murdering her daughter, Caylee. I don't know what to make of this. Normally I would say that the jury was privy to information I was not and while I might not agree with their findings, I don't have enough information to form a cogent opinion. Especially if that opinion is based on information the media has provided. I think most journalists are despicable. This time, however, every fiber in my being wants to scream, "Are you, nuts? Of course she is guilty!"

I want to ask the jurors if they are certain enough of their verdict that they are prepared to let this woman watch their children or grandchildren for say 31 days? I want to ask the prosecutors if they are as proud of their work now as they were before the verdict came down. I want to believe that people are not so terribly stupid as they seem and that I would have come to the same conclusion. I want to believe the jurors agonized because deep in their gut they knew she was at least complicit in her child's death, but they had not been given enough evidence to convict her. I wonder how the jury believes that Casey Anthony hasn't proven that she would stoop to anything to be free? She ignored the death of her own child, threw her parents under the bus and lied to everyone, including law enforcement. Assuming the jury really believed that she had not murdered her child, certainly they can't believe that letting your child go missing for 31 days constitutes good parenting? Finding her daughter dead in a swimming pool wasn't worthy of a phone call to 911? Did anyone ask how a little girl like Caylee managed to get into the pool all by herself? Alas none of my questions will likely be answered.

The only thing missing in this fiasco was a white Bronco and a pair of gloves.

Proverbs 17:15

15 He who justifies the wicked and he who condemns the righteous,
Both of them alike are an abomination to the LORD.

Romans 12:19

19 Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, “VENGEANCE IS MINE, I WILL REPAY,” says the Lord.

Confessions of an Unsubversive Blogger

Imagine my surprise to yesterday to find out that my blog had been removed. It was gone as in ceased to be. Like the proverbial parrot in the Monty Python skit, it was no longer with us. At first I was certain that I had been the victim of a prank, next that the senility I fear had, in fact, descended upon me before I hit the double nickles, which is way too soon even with my bad genetic history. I tried to follow all the directions that were on my dashboard, and ended up frustrated. There was some nonsense about not having signed into my account since 2007. Uh... I posted something the day before they deleted me. Next I was given some spammer and or purveyor of porn excuse. Uh, not unless I was hacked. Was I a hate monger? Did I wantonly violate copyright law? Not in this lifetime. At the urging of a friend and real blogger, I appealed to the blogspot gods , asking them nicely to return my blog and they did. All hail the blogspot gods! While I worship only the One True and Living God, I do appreciate the return of my "baby."

During my unplanned hiatus, I had to reconciled myself to let the people with real voices have the speck of cyberspace that my blog occupies. If a blogger blogs and there are only a handful of people who read it, can't the same bit of communication be accomplished in an email to them? I pondered why I write and have come to the conclusion that I write to 'hear' myself think. I write because I am a storyteller. Though please don't be confused with the euphemistic use for the word instead of saying liar. Though I have been known to embellish a little, I am generally bound to tell the truth here albeit with my tongue often glued to my cheek.

I am happy to be back. Next time they take me out, I hope it is for something I write that generates so many readers that they consider me a subversive of some sort. Perhaps I should be more forthcoming with my opinions. I have them, you know, lots of them! They are about as popular as a parent at a high schooler's after prom party. I promise to share them with you more frequently.... even if it ires the blogspot gods.

02 July 2011

My New Favorite Word: Procedure

The day before yesterday I had my EDG (Esophagogastroduodenoscopy) it wasn't really a bad test as far as tests go. The worst part is getting to the point where you actually go in and take the test. They give you what they call twilight anesthesia, you're out enough that you don't give a rip that they are putting a tube down your throat and not under long enough that they have to keep you for any length of time. I got watched for an hour afterward. You do have to have someone who will drive you to and from. I was fortunate enough to have my sister. We traded favors. She was my driver for my 'procedure' (Lord, forgive me but I crack up using that term as I sound just like my grandmother. I have to have some fun with this getting old and falling apart nonsense) and I drove her to the Lexington airport yesterday. It was a fair trade.

She and I got the giggles in the hospital. I wore a coral colored shirt and it turns out so do the volunteers who walk you to and from waiting rooms and pre-op rooms. My little sister thought that was funny for some reason. I thought if I were a volunteer I would be running the place a whole lot better. For one thing the surgery waiting room would have a bathroom in it, it wouldn't be across the hall where if you step out to use it, you upset the volunteers who think you ran out on your procedure. I guess volunteers didn't have any part of that. Anyway, they took me in and made me answer all the same questions they had asked me at the 7 previous check stops. Name, date of birth, chief complaint, allergies etc. The nurse said I was a fun patient, I told her I wasn't stupid. I wanted her to like me. She told me I would be surprised at how some people treat nurses and then the anesthesiologist came to get me to sign papers. He asked me if I had any questions, I said, "Are you available for parties?" The nurse laughed and said, "I told you she was fun."

Then they went to wheel me away to the next holding place and this time another anesthesiologist came to chat. He went through everything again. He was more fun the first guy. As he and the nurse wheeled me down the hall to the OR I said in a low voice, "What if I start yelling, 'No! I change my mind! Take me back! I will be good!'" as we passed all the other patients-in-waiting on their gurneys in their open stalls. Instead of begging me not to this young man chimed in, "It didn't happen like this last time! Help me!" The nurse chastised us and said, " You're not nervous at all, are you?" I wasn't. I never have been. God ordains how many breaths I take and no matter the competence level of the doctors, they don't get to change that.

It only took 10-20 minutes for the doctor to have a look and take some biopsies. He told me once he thought I was coherent that he did find some polyps, which he removed. He found some inflammation in my stomach and what looks like it could be Barrett's Esophagus. He didn't find cancer or Crohn's disease, which were the two biggies I was hoping to avoid. So in three weeks I go and find out the results of the biopsies and see what to do to get rid of this pain in my guts. Meanwhile, my regular doctor has told me my blood tests came back abnormal for connective tissue diseases and she's referring me to a rheumatologist. So the hunt is still on to find out why I am so miserable physically.

I want my three readers to know I am not miserable spiritually. I am tired of being exhausted, I went to bed at 9:30 last night and got up at 5:00 am. I normally go to bed at 11-12:00 and get up the same time. I fed the dogs, sat in my chair for a moment and the next thing I knew it was 9:00 am. I am thinking of napping again and it's only 11:00am. I am tired of not getting things accomplished, but I am hopeful and know that God is in control. Apparently He thinks I need some down time.

I have managed to watch some decent movies, though I tend to have a nap attack part way through the best of them. I watched Unstoppable. I am such a sucker for true stories as long as Oliver Stone doesn't get ahold of them. I have listened to some good sermons. I just don't get to do much else. While I am anxious to find out what is going on so we can manage it, I am not frightened of whatever it is....unless it means giving up coffee and chocolate.