tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57521888225031908162024-03-13T21:16:01.018-07:00Not THAT Elizabeth GeorgeA conversation between me and every person out there. From conception to motherhood, wifehood to MS diagnosis. A blog about everything but nothing at all. Read it- you may like it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.comBlogger194125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-63853801565471425402016-08-17T08:46:00.000-07:002016-08-17T08:46:47.042-07:00I want to be Fun again.Today, I have an MS hangover.<br />
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This is the term I have coined for the day AFTER you have exhausted all your spoons and borrowed from the following day, meaning you start with negative spoons. Picture blowing up a balloon, but instead of blowing to start, you suck it more flat. That's an MS Hangover.<br />
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We were given tickets to the Red Sox/ Orioles game last night in Baltimore, and Andy was over the moon excited to attend. Financially speaking, we just don't have the means to attend a MLB game. A friend of ours enjoys baseball, but has nobody to go with so, generously, she bought THREE tickets for our family (read: Liam didn't have to sit on a lap) and one for herself.<br />
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Bad news was- it's the hottest week of the year so far on the Eastern Seaboard, and we were in Baltimore, MD. Where we were sitting, there was no air. No fans. No warm breeze. No breeze period. We were all dying. But Andy- MAN- Andy was still SO PSYCHED to be there. I love watching him enjoy what he's doing. Watching baseball is one of those things he just does because he loves it. It's literally pure joy watching him.<br />
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So when I hadn't moved a muscle in my seat and my heart rate was 113...I took Liam and we sought out some air conditioning. We made our way to the First Aid station, where they gave us each something cold to drink and they gave Liam a wet cloth for his face. At that point I hadn't even realized how hot he was. I was so worried about Andy having his good time and not worrying about me, and me being so freaking hot I could vomit, and trying to remain calm and breathe and... oh my word, my son was hotter than me. The First Aid station figured I was here for him and were asking about his rosy cheeks and...oh my word, my son. I have a son.<br />
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They escorted us kindly up the elevator to the employee lounge where I was able to lay down and cool off. They gave me more gatorade, bless them, and allowed us to use a clean, cool, line-free bathroom, bless them double. Liam laid in the crook of my legs and put his head on my butt and watched Netflix on my phone. We were at peace in the lounge and it was a little moment for us. Instead of thinking of my misery, I was listening to him giggle at the video on the phone. I was focused on getting back into the game.<br />
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After a few innings, I was better. The dizziness and nausea were suppressed for now. Liam was antsy for pizza. I bought him a $6 slice (which he dropped 3 times, but that's okay. He assured me he brushed it off.) We went back up again. Andy looked like a wet noodle, as did our friend. He took Liam to get cotton candy and lemonade. At this point the game started to get rowdy because the score was tight, the bases were loaded, and everyone around us was DRUNK. Liam asked to go back to "our couch." So I took him out and we went Pokemon hunting and played on the playground. <br />
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I saw no baseball game last night. I know we were there, but basically our friend paid $39 so I could walk my child around, nap on an employee lounge couch, browse the gift shops, and look for little electronic men on my phone. But man we had a great night. Liam was so well behaved. He listened and he obeyed. He was polite and kind. Andy was so good about just letting me do my own thing and enjoying the game on his own. Our friend was SO sweet to take us.<br />
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I'm struggling with being "fun." I want to be a fun person, but dang it I'm pregnant and it's hot out. It's like running a marathon every day. It really really is. I know my husband makes comments about never going anywhere, and I know it bothers him. But what am I supposed to do? This is the choice we have made together. Don't complain. I'm trying not to. I'm trying to start something new: not apologizing for myself.<br />
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A few days ago I was speaking about Liam, and I said, "I'll never apologize for him being three. I get that sometimes he will act out, but I'm not going to apologize for that. I'm teaching him and he's going to make mistakes. Plus I know there are people out there with children who have needs that are different than Liam's, and they only WISH their child could act out or get in trouble. I won't apologize for him." It got me thinking, why do I always feel so sorry for MYSELF? Why do I apologize for the way I am? What kind of guilt trip is that? Hey, it's hot, I'm pregnant, I'm going to find some AC. The end. Done. No apologies. You don't need to worry about me, because I'm not worried about me.<br />
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We teach people how to treat us. If people see us as sickly, they're going to treat us as such. What if we just acted like normal people with normal needs? Hey, I'm tired. I need to sit. Because I'm human and when humans use their legs a lot, they need to rest. Let's rest. Let's not make this about me, let's make it about the issue. I hope to start turning the tables in my marriage and in my other relationships. I want people to worry about me less and live with me more. I want to be Fun again. I want to be the person people invited places because they enjoyed my company. Where did THAT girl go? Oh yeah, I'm still her. No apologies.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-35525944596112975372016-08-09T12:56:00.002-07:002016-08-09T12:56:25.230-07:00Dear Second Baby-First of all, welcome to my womb! Second of all- I'm sorry.<br />
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We are so excited to meet you and name you and love you. I'm looking forward to watch you grow big in my belly and kick me. I'm ESPECIALLY looking forward to your brother meeting you for the first time, and you knowing his tiny voice, because he's already talking to you non stop. You're most likely the first thing you hear when you are jolted awake by his screams: HELLO BABY! HELLO IN THERE! I LOVE YOU BABY! (He's not always this wound up. Sometimes he sleeps too.)<br />
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Your daddy and I planned and prepared and prayed for you. Your father is an amazing man. He has this quality of being able to completely reinvent himself, literally pulling himself up from hit bootstraps every time. He's afraid of very little, except losing those he loves. He's a good man with a sound mind. He sees what he likes in others and emulates it. He sees what he detests in others and changes it in himself. If you are a boy, find things you love about your daddy and make them your own. If you're a girl, idolize your daddy and look for a man who loves you as much as your daddy loves you. He only wants what's best for you, as do I. <br />
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But I'm sorry for so many things, and you're not even here yet. I'm sorry you're being born into an imperfect world. And as safe as we're going to try to keep you, there are mean people and dark corners to this world. You will no doubt encounter them. Things are actually retrogressing in the name of progress. The system is faulty. The world is in pain. Remember God is in control. He knows the beginning and the end. Be afraid of nothing.<br />
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Baby, I'm sorry that you're being born to a mother with MS. It's nobodies fault. You'll find this out. But it will be something you'll grow to know, maybe resent (I know I do.) I promise you I'll do my best to be brave for you and your brother and your daddy. Remember how much I want to be better than I am, but sometimes I just can't. You learn what, "Mommy has nothing left to give today" means. And you learn why daddy can play outside in the summer but mommy can't. It's going to be okay, I promise. I pray I teach you what hope and dignity means, and when you look at me you see someone beautiful and strong.<br />
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My tiny child, I apologize for even at 11 weeks pregnant, not knowing how I'm going to love you. People tell me it's going to happen and that my love will be overflowing. But right now I'm very sick. The summer is very long and hot. I'm very dizzy and nauseous. You keep pounding in my belly, letting me know you're here!! I felt you before they said I should, but I know it's you. I know you're going to be feisty, and that's GREAT. I promise to do my best to love you the best I can, just as I love you brother and your daddy.<br />
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Sweet little one, I realize that without any hurt or turmoil, you would become a stagnant human. I realize that distress and trials are an integral part of the human experience. It will shape your world view. It will either make or break your faith. Don't live for me. Don't live for your daddy. It is my prayer for you and your big brother that you will join hands and move forward in life and do amazing things. Things I could never imagine doing. I want you to find an amazing spouse and make amazing children and come home and make me proud. Life is going to take you places- go. Life is going to throw you curve balls- know when to catch and when to let them pass. Choose joy. Choose peace. Choose kindness.<br />
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Welcome, my sweet baby.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-22699916724057834512016-07-29T05:23:00.001-07:002016-07-29T05:23:41.591-07:00Yes but were you TRYING?We started months ago...it wasn't a simple process. I mean, the actual ACT of making a baby is a rather simple process, but in my case it started a lot sooner than that.<br />
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Our son Liam is the joy of our lives. This boy...I mean, he does weird stuff and he's always dirty and stuff, but he's just so full of love that he's impossible to forget about. I've said it before, but even people who dislike kids as a general rule REALLY like Liam. He's that kind of kid. So when he started asking for a brother or a sister, we stopped and took notice.<br />
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Rewind a bit before that as well. When I went on my Gilenya in March of 2015 I was told beyond a doubt I was not allowed to get pregnant while taking this medication. There are no MS meds currently on the market that are safe during pregnancy, so I was to play it safe. Friends of ours had been actively trying to conceive since we had Liam, and this was another reason why we were playing it safe. We knew the relationship would break down if we had another, so we waited.<br />
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But when Liam started asking for a sibling, a small fire was lit in our hearts. Very small. We'd been through the ringer with Liam. The seizures. The fevers. The falls and trips to the ER. So why on earth would we want that again? Did I mention he didn't sleep through the night until he was 3? Come on. That's GOT to count for something. But he kept asking, and we kept questioning him- Do you realize this means you're going to have to share mommy and daddy? You're going to have to share your room. Babies cry!! And still, he asked.<br />
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At the change of the year, the church we've been attending host a prayer room. I blogged about it if you'd like to read about it. But I just poured out to God about the possible need for another child. It was off my radar. I had too much on my plate emotionally and physically. I needed peace. So I just poured out to God and then waited for a response.<br />
<br />
In January I can remember the exact place in the road when I stuttered, "Um. If we want to have a baby, I don't see any reason why we shouldn't. I'm willing if you are." And then came the bargaining. For like, a solid two weeks we played every "what-if" card we had in our possession. If you care to read back in my life, you'll see that Andy and I went through a rocky moment after my first pregnancy. The MS diagnosis was like a glass of cold water to our face and we realized we had to pull together. It was the elephant in the car at that moment. "I don't want another child if it's going to risk our marriage." And then we decided it wouldn't. Just like that.<br />
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One thing that is so wonderful about my husband is that he GETS me. Like on a deep, emotional level, he understands me and allows me to be who I am. This has happened because in the past three years I've learned to communicate with him and accept him for who HE is. He's also gone through an amazing transformation after seeing a scenario played out in front of him by other people. It brought him to a screeching halt and he decided right then he was changing. NO more short fuse. No more brash anger. I decided in and of myself no more tears. Speak. Be strong. Be brave. Do not be afraid of anything. This has greatly impacted the two of our lives on a personal level and then trickled into our relationship. God has been GOOD to us. We've found a fantastic church we love and we are being fed there emotionally and spiritually. We are no longer slaves to those people we once were.<br />
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Our journey began at the neurologist. I had to be off my med for 3 months after being on it for one year. So March. April. May. You can try.<br />
Next came the OB-GYN and then the specialist. Sure. You can try. The proverbial timer was set. This was happening.<br />
<br />
I stopped taking my Gilenya, half expecting to be in a wheel chair the next day. But remarkably, I had never felt better. I stopped getting sick. I had more energy. It was going to be okay. Next I went off all my PCOS medication, one by one so as not to jolt my system. Fine. Put on a little weight, but it's okay. It's all for the cause. Last but not least- my pill. The Goalie. The big one.<br />
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May 23rd was my last period, June 7th was the positive pregnancy test.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-71276235201732979752016-07-28T12:46:00.003-07:002016-07-28T12:46:20.877-07:00That's when you know, it's not going to be the same.I wrote this for a newly dx friend, Stacey. I hope it will bring her peace and hope. <br />
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Some extremely wise advice was given to me once, after I was diagnosed with MS:<br />
<br />
Know your body. Know what every test is. Know what all the numbers mean. Know what every code stands for. Know it all. You're going to have this for your entire life, so it's your job to know what it is.<br />
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So for the past three years, I've been learning everything. And not just my things, my friend's things as well. What's normal, what's not. What's me, what's them. What's progression and what's a bad day. What's a flair and well, what's a full on relapse. It's true what they say- knowledge is power. When you know enough about something, the scare is taken right out of it. It's like...turning the light on.<br />
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When I was a kid, I was terrified of fire. My aunt and uncle watched this terrifying movie in front of me, and the one lady hated the other for whatever reason, so she burnt down her house. My uncle has been known for the gore he enjoys watching. I was too young. Maybe 4? But until that point, fire was completely off the radar. Now I was consumed with it. My parents did what they could- we made a "if it happened to us, here's what we'd do," plan. Complete with the trial run. I was terrified.<br />
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At night, I would dream of giant fire balls engulfing my home. My mom would wake up with a sleeping child by her bed- another nightmare. For years and years, this was my only fear...until it happened. My house burnt in 1993- it was spontaneous combustion. I was in the basement and my mom heard someone screaming upstairs. I remember the TV flickering and the lights flickering, but none of our smoke detectors went off. Mom called down the stairs for me to come up, and she was trying to call 911 (from within the house, yeah.) I remember lots and lots of smoke, and it was in that millisecond I realized; THIS was my worst fear coming true.<br />
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I screamed for my mom to come out with me. GET OUT! GET OUT! But she wouldn't. I ran out of the house and down to the neighbors. I had no shoes. I had the outfit on my back. People from all over the community came- farmers mostly- with their tractors and flat bed trailers. As the fire fighters saved what they could, the farmers loaded up our possessions on their hay beds and took everything to a local empty chicken house.<br />
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My mother, of course, was treated for smoke inhalation. My dad came home from work (no cell phones in 1993) and they wouldn't let him down our road. He ended up driving through fields and running past fire police until he found us. A local woman I hadn't met until that day held me through most of the fire. The neighbors gave me (too small) shoes. We spent time running boxes up from my neighbor's garage to the people awaiting our filthy stuff to haul it away. By the time all the action was over and the last cinders were out, it was late, it was dark, and we were exhausted.<br />
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When I was diagnosed with MS, it was like experiencing the exact same thing. MS was off my radar. Old people get that, right? Oh gosh, I didn't even know how to SAY it right. Scerosis? Huh? But immediately you're taken with it. It's all you can think about. Your ear twitches- is that MS? You cough TWICE in a row- oh MS for sure. You start twitching...could it be? And you start living life as a person with a special need. With a disease. Once it has happened, there's NO pretending it didn't. You can no longer live life as a healthy member of society. You've been handed the flag, and now you must march under it.<br />
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I remember after the fire, wondering who I was allowed to tell. I went back to my elementary school in the fall and people whispered about me. My teachers all looked at me with sad eyes. I had to go to counseling. When we did fire drills, I was sent to the Principal's office so I wouldn't freak out. (Had I ever freaked out? Precaution, I guess.)<br />
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When I was diagnosed with MS, I didn't want anyone to know. I called my grandma to tell her, because I didn't want her to tell anyone, and she cried. Great. I made my grandma cry. My mom called everyone she knew I SWEAR. My uncle came to me at a family gathering, "Elizabeth. I've heard about your situation and want to offer my condolences." Really? Condolences? My inlaws called me crying and sobbing. Everyone says, "I'm sorry." For what? Stop saying that. You're not "Sorry." You'd be sorry if it was you. It's not you. It's me. Don't try to make yourself a part of my story, because you're not. This is about me. This is about my body and my health. Don't try to use your sympathy to butt your way into my issues.<br />
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And you also feel like you're the mourner and the caretaker. Because NOBODY knows what to do with you. You try to keep a happy upper lip for your spouse and your parents and, like, your kid. "Yeah, the steroids don't really hurt all that much!" Then you get all those, "I don't know HOW you can be so strong..." well meaning folk. "You are such an inspiration to me, with being a mother AND having MS." Like you can't do one OR the other, you're obligated to do both. All these people mean well but. Eh. You don't need a medal. You need a nap.<br />
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That's when you know it's not going to be the same. Life as you know it will never EVER be the same, and somehow, someway, you're going to have to find normal again. You're going to have to find Home Base again, and just plant your flag and stand in solidarity. You have to quietly make it through day to day until THIS becomes the new you. It's a matter of sitting still and doing some soul searching. It's a matter of FORCING yourself not to speak, but rather just listen and behold what others have to say.<br />
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So you get to a point in life where your diagnosis is three years in waiting, and you're expecting your second child and your marriage is really really good and you can't imagine life any other way. And you find yourself saying of other, "Oh, you have MS? It's not that bad, really. Here's how I deal." And then, you do.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-18673679928609901052016-07-07T07:46:00.002-07:002016-07-07T07:46:43.627-07:00MuckFest MSSometimes things turn out the way you want them to, and it's like, "WAHOOO!"<br />
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And then other times, things just don't.<br />
<br />
Like how for MuckFest this year I had a team of 16 including two volunteers. AWESOME! Biggest Legion EVER!<br />
<br />
Then one by one they started dropping like flies- five days before the run.<br />
<br />
First member left because it was makeup SAT day. Oh okay. Sounds good, sorry you can't run.<br />
<br />
So my DAD joined the team in her place! How awesome!!!<br />
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Second member left- was having a possible MS relapse. Oh, sorry to hear! When he left he took Member Three and Member Four with him so...down three more.<br />
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When the fifth member left, I was not at all surprised. Ankle issues. Why not try to ice it an put it up for a while? No? That's not going to work? Oh. Well, you know, don't push it. Don't hurt yourself worse. Sorry, we'll miss you. Member Five also took Member Six. She was under the weather and couldn't make it. Why not come to cheer us on? Oh, no child care? Didn't you have child care when the two of you were originally coming? Oh...um. No that's cool, no hard feelings. (Also, try not to post on Facebook your hiking outing you took instead of joining your team. No hard feelings though.)<br />
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It's 10PM the night that Muck Fest sign ups were ending. I'm down 6 members and only have one alternate. I throw up the Hail Mary and phone a friend.<br />
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"Hey. You two want to run? You're out of shape? Hey so am I! It's fully paid. Please say yes."<br />
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And they did. And it was fabulous.<br />
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I'll let the pictures speak for themselves, mostly because it was cloudy in the morning, and then just like that it wasn't. And I was fine and then just like that I wasn't. I had asked for a tent for the shade. When we got back from running, it wasn't set up. Instead of figuring it out, some kids had gotten to it to try to figure it out and instead really REALLY messed it up. Instead of continuing to figure it out, every one of our spectators just sat and chatted. Myself and two team mates set up the tent, but by that moment it was too late. My vision was foggy. My belly was upset. It was too much sun. Too fast. I was trying to sip water, TRYING to keep nutrition in my stomach, but the entire place was spinning. I laid down where I was. They poured water on me. Everything made it worse. I was at the point of no return. They helped me to the medic tent where I was given more ice, but it was all just a little too late. They drove me to my car and then the 2 hour long trek home with frequent bathroom breaks for me. Just water type diarrhea. The whole way home. Everything spun.<br />
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At home I tried to sleep, but the room wouldn't stop spinning. I kept waking up in a panic. It was like what you hear detox being like. Nausea. Panic. Your brain won't stop spinning. Nothing is right. Everything is wrong. I contemplated the ER but then decided not to. I didn't need that kind of attention from my family, friends, etc. I'd lay low. I'd work through it.<br />
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Two solid days later, I could stand up without spinning. It took me five days to go to the gym again. A solid seven days before I could say with confidence that I felt like myself again. I cried. A lot. Somewhere inside me, I knew this was my last MuckFest, but I'll wait until next year to decide for sure. My team mates surrounded me fully. Texts and calls and Facebook messages just singing my praises- telling the world how strong I was- while I had my head buried in my pillow trying to get the world to be right-side-up again. Strong. Right. Inspirational. Exactly! That's my middle name.<br />
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I post a picture to the MuckFest Facebook site. A friend had snapped it as my team was rushing to get me cooled off. Crystal, bless her heart, probably knocked down five or six people to get me a hose, and then Cherith just started hosing me off from the top down. Enough people saw the picture on Facebook that it got recognition from the corporate realm. They asked me to record a robo call to try to get some more monetary support. Then they contacted me about using the picture in the Momentum Magazine which goes out to all those with MS who subscribe and take part in the National MS Society. Amazing in my time of absolutely failure, enough people connected with that.<br />
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Maybe I'll do it next year. Maybe I'll just watch. Yeah right.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-20921077846515154512016-05-11T13:37:00.000-07:002016-07-06T13:34:38.368-07:00West, By God, Virginia.So we went away this past weekend for my husband's birthday. We went to Pleasant Valley, West Virginia. We had a BLAST. The little cottage we stayed at on the Monongahela River sloped towards the water, had about 4 million stairs to get down to it, and a huge deck surrounding it. At the bottom of the 4 million stairs was a little dock, and after about 5 minutes, Liam decided he needed a fishing rod.<br />
<br />
NEEDED.<br />
<br />
You do not even KNOW.<br />
<br />
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So while the boys tried their best to land "the big one," I was busy washing dishes and cooking food and picking up socks and underwear...so pretty much all the things I do at home... We ate cake on the deck, and enjoyed hearing the train as it passed through the valley. One night, it rained. It was this heavy, loud, relaxing rain. The kind that made you wonder if God WAS really up there bowling. I thought Liam would wake up, but of course he didn't. For all the times in this life he has awoken us, a storm has never been one. The boy sleeps like the dead when he's truly asleep.<br />
<br />
We made some big changes in WV. Things I will share with you later. Things I have a million blog entries STARTED and none finished. I just know that being there in West Virginia gave me such a peace I cannot describe it. Like God was really really there, looking down on us. Walking among us. Showing up in places like my son's laugh at catching dumb trash in his fishing rod. We went to this fort-type thing, and he was picking up rocks. The actor portraying the blacksmith gave Liam a portion of a brick from the original homestead on the grounds. Pre Revolutionary War!<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
On Sunday morning Andy looked at me and I at him. <br />
<br />
"So."<br />
"So."<br />
"So......?"<br />
"So.....!"<br />
"That's it then. No more."<br />
"Nope. No more."<br />
"Goalie is officially..." makes motion with hand, "Pullllllled."<br />
"Yup."<br />
"Yup."<br />
<br />
Two. Huge. Sighs.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-15997183223399779332016-03-14T10:32:00.002-07:002016-06-07T11:24:12.157-07:00Well, THAT'S a bummer.I don't need surgery! Whoop whoop!<br />
<br />
I've got this nagging problem they now know is "gastroparesis," which is a doctor's code word for "Your stomach doesn't empty out fast enough, if it empties out at all." So here's the plan:<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
Ha! Nothing. I need to keep working out, so that's easy to keep up with. I take Miralax if I haven't gone, and nothing if I do! I eat smaller, more frequent meals, and I know to stop eating when I'm full. So here I had myself worked up for NOTHING. It was like Grover, at the end of "Monster at the End of This Book." (PLEASE tell me you get that reference. Please.)<br />
<br />
When I had to have the endoscopy, something in my brain flipped off. I had to fast- eh, okay. Until 2pm. Um. Okay. And I had to be put under for it, which is what it is. Maybe that's what had me upset? But at any rate, my brain started misfiring RAPIDLY. I was trying to get Liam ready to go to my mom's, and I couldn't speak. It sounded something like:<br />
<br />
Liam, put on your ch-ch-ch-shirt.<br />
I need you to f-f-f-f-comb your hair.<br />
Come on now, it's time to get your sh-sh-sh-sh-shhh coat on.<br />
<br />
I looked at Andy, completely terrified. Because one can exist without feeling in one's leg. When your brain goes...well. What else do you have?<br />
<br />
The attack went away in about 30-45 minutes. I regained my speech, and felt foolish of the last hour of panic. I had my test. They said I was "unremarkable." Fabulous! I strive for mediocrity! In my head though, I couldn't stop recalling that terrible episode earlier that morning. "This is how it ends," I thought. "This is how people like me end up in wheelchairs." MS is sneaky like that. You go into remission, meaning there's no attacks, life is good, you're maintaining your level of normalcy like a champ. You ALMOST forget it's happening to your body! Then it creeps up on you in small ways- fatigue even after you've taken your awake medicine. An episode of drop foot when you least expect it. A sensation that rivals ants running up and down your spine when you get out of the shower, and doesn't subside until your body temperature stabilizes. Your stomach stops emptying properly, causing you fits of pain that are unending.<br />
<br />
We're not victims, mind you. MS patients. We're a proud, proud people. Nobody I have encountered in my short while in this diagnosis has EVER used their disease as an excuse unless they really needed to. (There have been moments of teary confession to the supermarket clerks as I'm fumbling to sign my receipt, "I'm sorry, I have MS and this is very hard for me.") Once in the recent past, we had someone on our street- a visitor- continually parking his little nasty car in front of my next door neighbors house. She's got two little ones! She needs to park there! So I granted her a very rare 'get out of jail free' card. "Tell them I have MS and you need to make sure you've got a place for me to park," I told her. "I give you permission." Hey, it's got to come in handy at some point, right?? As long as you use your powers for good and not evil, I'm down with it.<br />
<br />
I feel like there's no comparison between diseases. Cancer, ALS, MS, CP, MD...they're all equally crappy to have. However, you never see as much pride with cancer patients in the "during" moments. There are no "I'm currently fighting cancer" tshirts. When the cancer goes into remission, of course we celebrate. But the fight is long and arduous and private. We respect those who are fighting that battle currently. With MS, man do we sport our apparel. We love flaunting it, because we love our good days. We love those moments where we feel like every other Joe out there NOT fighting a disease. I will wear my "I muck it with MS" bandana to the gym whenever I can, because it symbolizes strength and determination. It symbolizes power over adversity.<br />
<br />
I was sharing with Andy the latest ad campaign from the National MS Society. They have folks wear 360 cameras to record their hobby such as skiing, surfing, dancing...and then they put the virtual reality goggles on someone with MS who used to do those things. For a moment, that person is transported out of their chair and into the waves, onto the slopes, onto the stage...I was getting emotional watching the clips when Liam pops in.<br />
<br />
"Mommy! You have that! MS! You have that!!!!"<br />
<br />
He proclaimed it like it was positively the best news he had ever heard. They're saying it on TV and that must mean it's awesome. I realized now that I'm thinking about it, he probably didn't associate the people in the chairs with the MS. He was probably thinking about the dude surfing and the lady dancing. He probably saw the skier and thought, oh COOL! MS!<br />
<br />
I locked eyes with Andy and he looked sympathetic. It occurred to me for the millionth time that Liam would not know life without a mommy fighting MS. If God blesses us with another child, that child will be born to a woman diagnosed with MS. It's going to be a common household word and condition for both of my children. Is that bad? Liam can't wait to run MuckFest with me. And as much as I'm like, YEAH BUDDY! I'll run with you FOREVER! A deeper part of me remembers waking up a few weeks back and not being able to speak. It can all change in an instant.<br />
<br />
We're so concerned about relapsing after we give birth to this child who isn't even conceived yet. I was becoming obsessed with it until I realized I could relapse TODAY. Baby or no baby, there are no guarantees in MS. Or in life, really. Then I'd get through this hopeful pregnancy, and I'd realize I spent all that time worrying over nothing. Then I'd be left to think- well THAT'S a bummer. I don't have that much energy- why spend it on worrying?<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-12313795669094128642016-03-04T07:59:00.002-08:002016-03-04T07:59:22.859-08:00Sometimes I'm glad he's three.I have a huge amount of empathy now.<br />
<br />
I didn't before.<br />
<br />
I just got it within the last...5 years? It's like, one day I was self absorbed and spent more time on my makeup than contributing to society, and now I'm suddenly so concerned about everyone else that I often miss the chance to put on makeup. Or shower. Or like...eat.<br />
<br />
Empathy is a super power. But sometimes I wish I could turn it off. I'm no bleeding heart, but I've found in my lifetime that there are people out there who need help, and I can provide them with that help.<br />
<br />
Except for when I can't.<br />
<br />
One of the things MS has stolen from me is my control over my body/emotions/mind. I find my reaction time to be slower on my bad days. I find my reactions to events to be just that- reactions. Anger, sadness, doubt. All there bigger than before. We have a three year old. Sometimes, there's just no time for such things. There's no time for down time to collect myself. Just keep parenting. There are times where I swear the thoughts in my brain are going to eat me alive.<br />
<br />
There are sometimes I'm so glad he's three. Because being three, you don't need to know many things. You know what people tell you and what you perceive from the events you are allowed to experience. While you are incredibly fragile, you are also incredibly resilient and your biggest display of emotion is over like, eating your potatoes rather than like, world hunger. Your world is very very small, but your imagination is very very big. It's in these moments as a parent, you are never sure what's going to come out of their mouths. Liam apologized to me after a tantrum the other week, "Sorry mommy. I went to the Dark Side."<br />
<br />
We were in the bathroom at Home Depot- CLEARLY every child's most fave place to hang out in the whole entire world. Especially when your parents are feuding over what exactly they should do with that closet space, and why all the things they sell are crap and there are tears and anger and nobody goes home with ANYTHING... (Update: closet is finished- marriage is mended- all it well, and it looks pretty darn good.)<br />
<br />
But a woman, who was portraying herself more like a man, came into the restroom. No biggie. You do you, girl. I believe the PC term would be "presenting" like a male. Again. I'm holding the door shot for my son who is swinging his legs and singing and enjoying the echo of the bathroom stall. She goes into the big stall and Liam finishes his bathroom concert, and we go to wash hands. The gal emerges from her stall- short cropped, bleached hair. Gauges in her ears, workman boots with carpenter jeans and a well pressed plaid flannel shirt.<br />
<br />
"Mommy, is that a boy or a girl?"<br />
<br />
Here's were I panicked. I laugh when I'm nervous or panicking so I'm doing this odd mental-ward chuckle and "shhhhh"ing my son like never before. I kept hoping she couldn't hear. Like maybe she was also deaf. Hey, no such luck. In a moment of sheer desperation, I think I even clapped a soapy hand over his mouth, "shhhh"ing like a fire extinguisher. I'd like to say now; this was not my finest moment.<br />
<br />
She was thankfully EXTREMELY GRACIOUS. God bless her, she handled the situation with grace and poise, and it took a large part of me holding me back so I didn't ugly hug her. But by this time, I had activated the obnoxiously loud hand dryer, which I knew would make Liam go into fits of panic- but would possibly shut him up.<br />
<br />
<i>-How old is he?</i><br />
3.<i> </i><br />
-<i>He's cute. My nephew asks me the same question all the time.</i><br />
I'm really, really sorry. Kids say whatever they want.<br />
<i>-Naw, it's fine.</i><br />
<i> </i>He's scared of the hand dryer.<br />
<i>-Oh man, I am too, buddy! There are towels over on this side.</i><br />
That's a dumb place for them. Thanks.<i> </i><br />
<i>-Hope you guys have a great night.</i><br />
You too! Thanks!<i> </i><br />(<i>End scene. Begin total brain meltdown.</i>)<br />
<br />
I handled that COMPLETELY wrong. In fact, I was possibly THE poster mom for how to not handle an awkward situation. What I should have done was say to my son, "It doesn't matter, Liam. Just wash your hands." And then I should have introduced myself and my kid, "Hey, I'm Libbie, this is Liam. He's a curious 3 year old who speaks his mind! I'm sorry if he offended you." Instead I cackled like a fool, and probably looked as dumb as I felt.<br />
<br />
In the car I approached the situation with a sound mind. I told Liam it was impolite to ask questions about people in front of them. I told him we needed to love people just as they were. I told him a good place to ask questions was in private. Kids just have no filters, and in a way that's refreshing. Until they become 30 year olds with no filters...and then it's not so refreshing. So we instill these filters on our kids, and teach them when to speak and when to remain silent. But then we hope sometimes they forget those filters and stand up for what they feel is right, no matter who is listening...<br />
<br />
Parenting is hard. Be gracious to others.<br />
the end.<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-49412670947848098752016-02-26T06:27:00.000-08:002016-02-26T06:27:14.244-08:00PLEASE. Don't Send Me to Africa.Liam puked last night in his sleep. It was in his ears, in his eyes. It was actually up the wall and onto a canvas picture he has above his bed. And the smell. Oh heavens the smell. I actually checked twice to make sure he didn't poop himself. Andy held his hand over his nose while stripping the bed. I simply mouth-breathed and hoped for the best.<br />
<br />
When your kids are sick, it's so easy to get upset. I was in a dead sleep. And I do mean dead. Since Liam's been sleeping through the night, I go into this catatonic state where not even a nuclear bomb could rouse me. I'm making up for lost time, I suppose. 2+ years of a non-sleeper? I'll take what I can get. But I heard this abnormal coughing and my mommy senses roused me in an instant. My mom always said she knew when her kids were sick, even if they were miles away. I now understand this to be true.<br />
<br />
Andy was a champ, I must say. I went into Kamikaze Mommy Mode and started hurling out orders. Liam- to the bathroom. Daddy- strip the bed and throw it in the washer. No, I don't care that it's chunky. Liam- let's get this yucky clothing off and get you cleaned up. Daddy- put a fresh sheet over Liam's bed. Doesn't matter if it fits. Liam- let's brush your teeth. Yes you must use the minty paste. Yes I know you hate it.<br />
<br />
Wash in washer via Andy. Clean PJs on. Liam cuddled up in the clean bed, ready to try again. Daddy in bed. Mommy rocking Liam to sleep. 20 minutes tops. I text my husband a high five from the next room. We totally nailed this vomit.<br />
<br />
Episodes like this totally give me hope. Episodes where Andy and I handle a really tough situation with grace and ease. Like, the car, for instance. He knows he freaks. I know I cower. We are both grown up enough to know this needs to change for the good of the lodge. We can't live life like this. Baby Number Two is fast approaching conception. We need to grow up before then.<br />
<br />
Today was my last Gilenya. No MS meds until the baby is born. That could be a year. Two months off Gilenya, and then off the pill in May. Then trying in June. I feel like God has "okayed" this timeline and set it in motion. But something hit me yesterday as I realized this is it:<br />
<br />
<i>This is it.</i><br />
<br />
The ball is rolling. Getting back on that med is ridiculous. My chances of relapse are higher now that I'm off it. I trust God will bring me through this...but I don't really trust him. Lip service. God, I love you and I trust you with my life, but. Please don't take my legs. Or, like, my vision. You can go ahead and allow me to be morning sick...okay I'll take um...fatigue... but like, no drop foot or like, permanent loss of use in my right arm. So God, I trust you 100% and everything you say is correct and true. Okay so, okay, take my vision. Okay fine. But like, don't like take it before my baby is born, because I want to see him or her for the first time. And if you HAVE to take something of mine, I guess you can take my right leg again, but PROBABLY not my left, because my right is still gimpy from the last time you...<br />
<br />
And on and on. We all do this. YES LORD, YES! In church on Sunday. When the worship team has your hands in the air and God is present and your heart is FULL. But those scary nights when you're on the john for an hour, because the radiation from the last test you had is trying to eek out of your system...um, God, this isn't going to last MUCH longer. Right? This isn't going to hurt too badly...right?<br />
<br />
It's like going to God- I'll follow you ANYWHERE. Just please, don't send me to Africa.<br />
Jesus, you are my all in all. I give my life to you. Please, just no diseases.<br />
Father in Heaven, everything I am is yours. I am clay in your hands. Just please don't let anything painful happen to me.<br />
<br />
I'm laying in bed next to my son, who still smells like vomit, and I'm thinking about my mom. I text my husband in the next room: <i>So, did your mom ever seem like she was scared when you guys got sick?</i> He answers: Nope. I write back: <i>Did it ever seem like she was out of control of the situation.</i> He responds: Nope. <i>Mine either</i>, I conclude. <br />
<br />
I think this is why boys get married to girls, and then they panic
because she's not like mom. Wait. She gets tired? She comes home from
work and doesn't have supper really INSTANTLY?? She doesn't know how
to cook that ONE THING I need to have RIGHT NOW? If I had a dollar for
every time I heard my husband say, "Oh, it's fine. Just not like my-"
Shut up. I'm not your mom. Some day Liam will meet a very lovely girl
who is also not his mom, and I'm going to give him a talk: honey, she's
not going to be like me. Not everyone can be a perfect female
specimen. Just ask your father.<br />
<br />
When my house burnt down, I was 8. I remember every second of that day as if it were yesterday. No part of it is hidden in my mind. One thing that sticks out is my mom- she had to be taken to the ambulance and given oxygen. I was checked, and then released into the arms of a woman I had never met, who held me and rocked me and told me about insurance and how everyone was safe and that was the important part. But my mom...she wasn't there. She was having a panic attack (which as an adult looking back, I don't blame her- my goodness, she's watching everything they've ever worked for go up in flames) but she wasn't there. I remember it was the first time I had ever seen her vulnerable, and it terrified me. What? Mom has feelings? A year later, she gave birth to my sister at age 40. Again, looking back as an adult, I can't imagine the panic she must've felt. Pregnant at 40? In 1994 it was just about unheard of- and this pregnancy was completely unplanned. But she got through it. Looking back, I can't remember a time until maybe my teenage years, where my mom didn't have it all together except that one day that changed my life forever. Mom is human.<br />
<br />
So it won't be easy, but what pregnancy and labor is? Will I relapse? Probably. Will I continue to trust God? As long as I have breath.<br />
<br />
Man. That "dying to self" stuff... it's for real. In the meantime, I'm going to apply for my passport, you know, just in case God decides to send me somewhere.<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-3524536387213896882016-02-03T05:34:00.001-08:002016-02-03T05:34:29.356-08:00All roads lead to...I had bronchitis. Well, I guess by rights, I still do. Andy had encouraged me to see the doctor, which I did. She gave me some weird antibiotic- doxy roxy moxy something. I don't know. All I know is that I was allergic to it and I spent the next 24 hours trying to get it out of my system.<br />
<br />
Large puffy spots all over my face and chest and shoulders... oh yeah. It was exciting. I thought I was going to go into shock and die, of course. Because all roads lead to death in my book. I'm ridiculous. I know.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile Andy was also sick, and poor Liam was feverish all weekend. I gave him some ibuprofen here and there just to keep it under wraps. After all, three sick people in the house does not a happy family make. I don't think Andy and I had a civil word all weekend. When he's sick he gets mean, and when I'm sick I get vulnerable, and it makes for TERRIBLE bedfellows. Like, terrible.<br />
<br />
So I find out, unrelated to the bronchitis, I need my gallbladder out. It's sludgy. It's not working. It's hurting me. Therefore the logical thing to do would be to remove it. It's an outpatient surgery, from what I understand. But of course, I'm going to suffer complications and die, because as we discussed- all roads lead to death. This surgery makes me edgy. I don't like the thought of a knife slicing into my skin. I don't like the thought of anything piercing the skin, actually. (I was 18 when I got my ears pierced. I actually signed the consent form for myself.)<br />
<br />
Andy, God love him, does not do well when I'm sick or when Liam is sick...or when he is sick. He panics. He freaks out. He passes upset, concerned, compassion, and just runs directly at "angry and mean." (Sorry honey. But you do.) NORMALLY, I can thwart this, because I know it's coming and I know he loves us. I know his heart, so I try to understand it the best I can. But I was terrified to tell him I needed surgery. He was out with a friend the night before so, I just told him first thing in the morning before he went to work.<br />
<br />
"Bye honey! Oh, PS- they're gonna take an organ from my body! Love you!!!" He went to anger pretty much directly. Not at me. But at the ER doctor who noted my "sludge" but did not act upon it. And then proceeded to "we'll get through it, we always do."<br />
<br />
It occurred to me at that very moment that marriage is very very hard. It is. No two marriages are alike. No two people are alike. This isn't bad, mind you, it's just an immutable law of nature. Any time you take two people and make them interact for the rest of their lives, you're going to have conflict.<br />
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My sister is getting married. She's 21. She says she's ready, and maybe she is. She's been planning this wedding for...legit 4 years. They were engaged in January, but the venues had even been booked before that. It's ridiculous, but it's not my life. So I should maybe delete my prior comment and say she IS ready- for the big party that is a wedding. She's ready to look like a princess. She's ready to have her picture taken and give hugs and kisses and eat cake. THAT. She is ready for. She's ready for the Hollywood.<br />
<br />
The truth is that marriage- as we previously noted- is very very hard. And after that Hollywood is over, well. <i> Hee hee.</i> It's hard. When you get married, and you're staring dreamily at each other, you make a laundry list of all the things that could go wrong in your lives:<br />
<br />
<i>Sickness and in health? That's the common cold, right? Or surely it'll be HIM getting sick, or our future BEAUTIFUL, blameless, spotless children. I'll be just caring for them, wearing pearls and a matching jumpsuit... </i> Bam. Four years into it. MS. In sickness and in health now looks like you laying back down in an MRI machine and clenching your husband's hand for dear life as they speak your possible future. It looks like chronic fatigue where you're once again, back down on the summer lawn because you've passed out from the heat. It looks like screaming into your pillow because you're fairly sure your life is over, so how could you share that life with anyone else?<br />
<br />
<i>Richer or poorer? Well everyone is poor when they get married, right? He's got a good job which I know he's going to advance at. He's of course smart and intelligent. And my job is iron clad! We drive two well running cars and going for groceries is such fun! Oh groceries. How I love to shop for you and pull everything off the shelves I could ever imagine. Stuff mom would never let me get... sigh</i>. Nope. Job loss. Bankruptcy. It costs money to be sick- go to the doctor- get medicine. You realize you're sick of cooking after 3 weeks. There's no money to go out to eat- and when there IS money, you can never agree on what to eat anyway! (Can I get an Amen?)<br />
<br />
I think we ALL go into marriage with rose colored glasses on. Because we like living there. It's easy there. We can shove more things under the rug and pretend they're normal. We can just ignore those hurtful things we said to each other because we're IN LOVE and I know we didn't mean them! *eye flutter harp strum* Some people, I think, just go into marriage with more of that veil over their eyes.<br />
<br />
My husband is a wonderful man. We argue, but we make up. It's the natural flow of a relationship. And since I've vowed to him that I will love him until the day we die, and we all know all roads lead to...well. You know. I intend to keep that promise. I'm too stubborn to let him forget he promised to take care of me forever :)<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-7076619214615503192016-01-29T08:29:00.002-08:002016-01-29T09:46:09.713-08:00AbideEver have one of those weeks where nothing you do is right? Simply based on your self image? So essentially, I'm having a bad week because I don't feel like I'm good enough/strong enough/wise enough/thin enough/happy enough to be a functioning member of society.<br />
<br />
I'm never satisfied. By nature. I'm never good enough. I've lost weight- huge amounts of weight- and I managed to creep back up a little this week. And I could just go in a corner somewhere and bawl my eyes out. I've been holding it in and suppressing it so much this week, my physical heart ACTUALLY HURTS.<br />
<br />
And I'm doing it to myself.<br />
<br />
Maybe blame it on the Winter Blahs. Blame it on the fact that we had 32 inches of snow. Blame it on how my husband is so dissatisfied with his job that it is consuming his every molecule in his body. Blame it on that darned scale. That stupid scale that just peers at me from the corner of the gym, telling me I'm not good enough. Telling me I'm putting weight on.<br />
<br />
So because I refuse to be the victim of my own demise, I started to do things this week to make myself feel better. I've been taking walks during the day, during my breaks. Fresh oxygen is good for you, I think? That's a thing, right? But last night I broke down and went to the Prayer Room.<br />
<br />
We've been attending this church- Dove E- and I'm so inspired there. The church we just left was...dead. Just spiritually dead. There was no joy in worship anymore. Everything was a chore. They were bound by the church council. It was shrinking in size weekly. They couldn't stick with a pastor. They made things so hard for the pastors who WERE there, they all left. People were saying mean things about my husband and I. People I confided in were suddenly brash and miserable. My father was being used and abused in his music position- he was miserable. We were miserable. And when we left, we were harassed. Terrible emails being sent to me, "How would that look to the rest of the congregation if you left when the pastor left?" My grandmother was dying at the time, and we received no support. The church <i>across the street</i> from ours brought us food. The pastor who was actually leaving at the time bought us all supper- came and laid hands on my grandma. The pastor who was filling in temporarily incidentally saw my family as they were hauling my Nanny's dead body out of the house, and had the AUDACITY to ask my dad if he was playing piano on Sunday. So we left. And people are still harassing us. I was at home recently on a Saturday morning, just out of the shower, music blasting, Liam and I were having a dance party while cleaning. Knock came to the door. I saw it was someone from the congregation, but couldn't pretend I wasn't home. Do people still just pop in on people unannounced? Who knows. They did. I invited them in- I'm not a beast- but did not invite them to sit down. My heart is sore- I don't want small talk.<br />
<br />
I'm spiritually starved.<br />
<br />
When we started attending Dove E, looking for a place to fade away, I was swept away instead. The music and the flags and the people raising their hands, professing their faith publicly...telling how God worked in their life during the week. We keep saying we'll try other churches, but we never do. It keeps sucking us back in.<br />
<br />
The Prayer Room last for a week and was from 6am to 10pm every day. There were stations set up- a wailing wall to post requests. Places to kneel. Places to sit. Places to stand. Places to ask for healing. Places to ask for guidance. Places to rejoice! Oh my word my soul NEEDED that. I walked into the space and just immediately welled up with tears. When I went to leave, my son cried to come along. And I was more than willing to bring him! But my husband is wise and said, "Your mommy needs this. You stay home with me." He was right. I did need it.<br />
<br />
I prayed for my soul sister, Alyssa. Her doctors told her she was having a boy, and then a few weeks later- no, it's a girl. Alyssa has lupus. Her joints fill up with water and need to be drained on a regular basis. It's a painful, painful process. She wakes up in pain literally every day. She has a two year old daughter who needs cared for and nurtured, and Alyssa can't brush her OWN hair without help some mornings. Her soul was sore from the disappointment of the gender reveal. Her body was sore from the lupus. "I'm going in to pray for you tonight." I told her. "We're going to find peace tonight."<br />
<br />
When I left the room, after an hour of prayer and meditation- again. Wow. She sent me a video of her belly. The baby was going CRAZY. Alyssa said to me, "I was just asking the doctor, why am I not feeling her move- and now this!" The scenario was reminiscent of John in Elizabeth's stomach- leaping for joy! I'm HERE, mommy! I'm here and I'm beautiful. Love ME. Alyssa said she felt enveloped in love at that moment. The video panned to her husband, kneeling beside her, grinning from ear to ear.<br />
<br />
God is GOOD. He is HERE. He is SPEAKING.<br />
<br />
The word echoing in my head over and over: Abide. Abide in me. Perfect love? It drives out fear. Fear is associated with punishment. You're not being punished. Life is GOOD! I had been praying very hard about having a second baby. The fear of bringing another life into this world was overcoming my desire to give Liam a sibling. Perfect love drives out fear. Abide in me. I will give you rest. Abide. A baby is not a punishment. A baby is my sign that the world will go on. Perfectly love Me, and I will grant you Perfect Love for this baby. Just...abide.<br />
<br />
After the door closed behind me on the room, I took a walk. Yeah, it was cold. Yeah, it was dark. But I needed the air, and I needed to say all the things I forgot to say inside those sacred walls. I came home ready to be a wife, and ready to be a mommy. I cannot wait to see what happens next year.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-26206992115298007382016-01-14T07:27:00.000-08:002016-01-14T07:27:05.764-08:00I just want to be sick.Here's something for you-<br />
<br />
I'm not as strong as I appear on Facebook.<br />
<br />
Most days I push, and push, and push. I never allow myself to be sick, or tired and I never blame anything on my MS. I wear the MS t-shirts. Ra ra ra, let's cure it, push harder, we're MS champions, Facebook memes and run the races, MS Fitness Challenge and...oh my word just announcing you have a disease is exhausting.<br />
<br />
I want to go to bed. I want to be selfish.<br />
<br />
Every morning I take a drug called Nuvigil. It's for people who have chronic fatigue. That's me. I fall asleep working, driving, talking, going to the bathroom... It's embarrassing. I'm embarrassed by it. I bring my coloring books over to friend's houses so I'm stimulated enough to carry on conversation. <br />
<br />
But I'll be honest with you. Some days? I just don't want to take it. Some days, I just want to lay down and take the nap that my body is asking me for. I ask my husband, "I wonder how long I'd actually sleep if I'd sleep as long as my body wants me to sleep." (How much wood would a woodchuck chuck...)<br />
<br />
Some days, I just want to be sick. Some days, I want to call in and say "I can't today. I have MS. I'm also having my period now, so it's about double in intensity. I'm slurring sentences and forgetting words. I'm not wearing my sneakers because I took them off and forgot where I put them. 10 minutes after taking them off. I drop footed twice today, and it makes me feel unsteady, so I'd rather lay in bed. Is that okay?"<br />
<br />
When you are first diagnosed with a disease, everyone jumps on your disease bus. I may have said this before, but it's true. There are meals delivered. People offer to take you to appointments and babysit your kid and clean your house and... and then it stops. Just like a new baby. Three years into it, and people have already forgotten. It becomes part of the scenery of your life.<br />
<br />
I've been asked to participate in wedding planning for a relative who is getting married in the Spring. She has a long laundry list of things I'm supposed to do. I told her honestly, I cannot do all that. She informed me it wasn't that much. I wanted to remind her- I have MS. Getting up and coming to your wedding and arriving with my family looking presentable is "that much." But I don't say it.<br />
<br />
I went to the grocery store with our son. He was being three. He was excited to be at the grocery store. He was upsetting me. I broke down. "Liam, the grocery store makes mommy's MS get VERY BAD. So I NEED YOU TO LISTEN TO ME NOW." People turned and looked and then walked on. (She doesn't LOOK sick...)<br />
<br />
We are plugged with all the hoopla of "Own the disease! Don't let it own you!" Yeah, shut up. Today I don't mind the title.<br />
<br />
If you need me, I'll be asleep on the potty.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-33709135662916791292015-11-30T12:44:00.002-08:002015-11-30T12:44:19.809-08:00Ice SkatingI've never NOT known how to ice skate. Does that make sense?<br />
<br />
When I was a young one, living out in the country, there were ALWAYS, and I do mean always, a pair of roller blades strapped to my feet. I heard it a thousand times- "Libbie, take your roller blades OFF before entering the house!" Yes, mother.<br />
<br />
Our house had a fairly steep driveway in an "L" shape. It took me all summer, but one year I decided, I was going to skate the driveway. I'd start at the top, and little by little I'd go down the driveway on my 'blades until I was confident enough to ride the entire thing. When I was confident enough with the incline and the sharp bend in the driveway that I could execute it without falling, I went faster and faster. No fear.<br />
<br />
Last night Andy was feeling sick and so I took Liam ice skating. Liam was beyond excited. When we got there, the older boys were playing hockey and he just stared at them. And then was scared when the buzzer went off. And then stared at them. He was enthralled. He had never seen anything like that before in his tiny life. So of course, he decided he was going to be awesome at it.<br />
<br />
We got his skates. Size 11- too small. Size 12- perfect. I laced them as tight as I could. Popped a helmet on his head. Slipped some hockey gloves on his hands. He was ready.<br />
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<br />
Then he got on the ice and he wasn't so ready. "I'm falling! I'm not good at this! I want to go home!" I bent my body over his and held on to him under his arms from behind. "You've never done this before," I whispered. "You'll be good at it in a bit." After a few laps, I was sweaty and he was more confident. Not great, but more confident.<br />
<br />
We rest at his request. "Let's do it again, mommy."<br />
<br />
This time my sister grabbed him under the arms and together we held him up. Another lap. Another rest. "Come on mommy, let's do it again."<br />
<br />
This time I held one of his hands and he held the wall. "Hold me up, mommy. I'm going to fall." You won't fall if you listen to my instructions, Liam. Keep going. Keep skating. Left foot. Right foot. Glide, baby, glide. There you go! You're doing it!<br />
<br />
Rest. "Okay mommy, I'm ready. Let's do it!"<br />
<br />
My friend took one of his hands, I took the other. Clip clop clip, glide, clip, clop, glide, stumble, glide. But we made it the full way around the rink. "Again, mommy, again."<br />
<br />
Again we went around. "I can't" became "Look at me mommy!" He wasn't ready to let go of my hand, but he was ready to go around again and again. We got off the ice and took our skates off. He cried. We loaded into the car. He cried. "Mommy, I am sad you are taking me home. Can we come tomorrow?"<br />
<br />
I got home exhausted. I foam rolled like mad so I wasn't sore the next day. (I was fine, actually. Hooray for the MS Fitness Challenge!) And I just sat back and enjoyed the memory I had just made with my little boy. It wasn't natural for him, but he wanted to learn. He was inspired and he felt safe enough with me to fail...and then try again. Like, isn't that what we're supposed to teach our kids? You can fall, but I'm here to catch you. You're not great at this yet, but let's learn together. I'll teach you.<br />
<br />
I was looking at all the guys at the rink. Big buff dudes, skating fast and spraying ice. Ugh, thugs. Boy in the very center of the rink- ear buds in- spotted him wheeling in his own suitcase for his skates- spinning circles with his eyes closed- amazing. Eh, too complicated. Too much money invested. Spied some jocks along the wall. Too good for everyone. Girls swooning. Gag. No. Then along skated the most understated boy on the ice. Short and small in stature. Skating well enough to hold his own. Hand in the hand of the most adorable teenage girl- long braids, slouchy hat, smiles from ear to ear. Immediately I loved them. <br />
<br />
"See that little girl and boy? That's why you need to learn to ice skate, dude."<br />
<br />
Liam teaches me on a regular basis. He schools me on not giving up and pressing on and determination in all things. And then I'm like- wait. He's learning that from...me. I'm teaching him you're good enough and you're strong enough. And you need to not give up, no matter the adversity. He sees me getting up for the gym every day. He sees me slopping through the mud to get to the finish line. He's channeling that little girl who taught herself to roller blade down the driveway.<br />
<br />
I worry that I won't be there for him when he's older. I worry that I'll be in a wheelchair before then. That I'll be sitting on the sidelines instead of running sprints with him. I worry that I'll be too tired to get up to take him to practice. I worry about all that stuff. But I shouldn't. Because he's learning all this stuff today- right now- at 3 years old. Do I care if he never learns to skate? Nah. But I'll take that determination in his little eyes all day long.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-41463992388126510832015-11-10T08:35:00.001-08:002015-11-10T08:35:33.732-08:00IntrovertThere are many, many words people may use to describe me. I'm not going to list them. But ask someone who knows me to describe me and make your own list.<br />
<br />
Introvert? Not even close to being on that list. Not even the long list. I enjoy going out with people. I get excited about visiting places. I enjoy meeting new friends. I'm not "shy" and I'm definitely not "quiet." Except for those times my MS is owning me. Which it has been.<br />
<br />
The scene is my BIL's apartment in Providence. He shares it with his room mate, a gay man who is in love with a woman. The apartment is perfectly decorated in a kitschy Art Deco- everything is there for a purpose. Everything in the home has meaning. The fire is roaring. The bar area is lit in a romantic glow. No actual overhead lights in the home except the kitchen, which is a flurry of activity as my BIL cooks his little heart out. The music is about two decibels too loud, but over the laughing and the merriment, it's...still two decibels too loud. The windows are open, because the fire is so intense for the tiny space that it becomes a distraction. My son is taking this all in. He's starving. It's almost 8 and we haven't eaten. I'm busy feeding him cashews from the bar because there's no kid food in sight. He sits there like a little man, drinking juice from a tiny glass out of a tiny straw. He doesn't mind any of this, of course. It's all new and fun and loud. To him, it's an adventure.<br />
<br />
Room mate's love interest comes. She doesn't just enter the room, she comes in and takes it over with her mere presence. Everyone cheers her name. I see her fancy shoes and immediately know she's out of my league. She says things like "oh honey" and "be a doll and" and "aren't you scrumptious." She's a Gusher. My head is on fire. She sits next to me. Liam is done with supper. He hasn't eaten anything. He doesn't like it. I'm starving and there's salad. I ate four helpings of salad.<br />
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What people don't know is that my day up until that point was a living nightmare. My MS is flaring in ways it never has before. I'm recovering from my grandmother's passing and crying. Every. Day. The night before, Liam was up coughing all night so I slept sitting up with him in my arms. The next morning my husband and his brother head off for the Comic Con and manage to wake Liam up at 8am with them. He wakes up running and never stops. It's 1:30 and we haven't eaten yet. He's starving. He throws FOUR TANTRUMS in public. I spank him three separate times after MANY failed attempts at quieting him. I buckle him in. He unbuckles himself. People most likely think I'm abducting him. He stiffens himself out like a board. Screaming. My MIL intercedes by grabbing his arm. I shoot her a look that she seems to understand. Let. Me. Parent. He doesn't want food. He doesn't want anything. He's exhausted. I take him home for a nap. He's not sleepy. He jumps up and runs away. I catch him. He turns the light on. I turn it off. He turns it on. I say no. He says "I'm the boss." I say no. I grab him and hold him against his will while he's screaming and kicking me. "You're MEAN! MEAN MOMMY! LET ME GO!" No. You will sleep. You need to take a deep breath. He doesn't want to breathe. HE wants to be angry. I cuddle him up and rock him to sleep. The car he's been clenching in his tight little fist all afternoon falls from his hands and he's out. I sit there and watch him sleep. He's beautiful. He sleeps for 1.5 hours and I watch him. He wakes up screaming. Nightmare. He doesn't know where he is. Screaming. No consolation. Screaming. Here! Have the Kindle! Anything. Please, calm down. Time for a shower. He doesn't want to take a bath. He runs to the bathroom. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. I know my inlaws can hear it all through the floor. No bath. Yes bath. I take his clothing off of him. Screaming. He throws himself around. Fourth spanking of the day. We do not act like that. You will get in the shower. You need to breathe. "I not want to breathe." And so we're in the shower together, because I have no other way at this point, and he asks to be held. He breathes deep with his hands on his belly. "I love you mommy." I love you Liam.<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------<br />
When you have MS, social situations can seem like you're tripping on LSD or something. Like you're listening to Pink Floyd while watching Wizard of Oz. So I've got about 20 things going on in the room. Candles everywhere. Fire roaring. Son not wanting to eat. Music. Food. Eccentric guests. Loud voices...Music. 10 people at a table for 4...Son wanting to play. Where are the toys I brought...so hungry...darling where'd you get that dress...music...mommy I'm hungry I don't like this........can you pass me the........if it's not too much trouble............shrieking laughter..........clapping.......music music music....honey don't touch that.......bite of food......breeze from the window........take a bite of the music.......candles....don't touch that.....tell me a little about yourself.................................................how are you.......what do you like to candles......music.......breeze.......don't touch that...........so you work in.............oh Libbie can do that................Liam you need to eat......................at last my life is like a song......................please don't touch that................................................................everyone talking at once...................andy he had a terrible day I couldn't eve............oh your grandmother just died........................I'm sorry.............hug me........................mommy....................................................music.............................................fire..................................................................this...............is................not...................fun.....................<br />
and then they wonder why we don't like going out in social situations.<br />
<br />
The Gusher asks me where I got my dress. "Ann Taylor. Clearance. Gift card."<br />
The Gusher asks me where I get my son's clothing. "Consignment."<br />
The Gusher asks me how I like my short hair. I touch my hair. I hadn't styled it. "I like it."<br />
The Gusher asks me if we're having more children. "Maybe? Not now."<br />
The Gusher asks if it was a medical concern. "I have MS."<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
And here it is. The huge elephant in the room. Gusher of course gushes. Tells me I'm beautiful. Asks if it's terminal... terminal...really? Grabs Andy's hands and tells him she's SO SORRY. This must be SO SAD for him. Then she calls her Uber car. She drinks another glass of wine. Someone spills her glass of wine. The party stops so they can clean it up. The moment is over. I take my glasses off, hoping they're adding to the insanity and lack of clarity of it all. It doesn't help. Gusher's arm movements are too big for the tiny apartment. She leaves. I think I like her...I think she'd like me if I wasn't flaring so badly. If I hadn't spanked my child 4 times that day. If I had not spoken of myself and turned the conversation back to her. If I was on my A game.<br />
<br />
"I know all about MS." Room mate exclaimed in a wine-drunk kind of way. "The mylar is being eaten by your immune system and you have to take shots and shit. Interceron and all that." Yes. Mylar. Like a balloon. Shots and shit. Exactly. Interceron. You're an expert. Clearly. "My MS has made me what I am," I said clearly, "I own it. It's mine. It changed my life. It changed our marriage. Andy and I fight it together." "WHY would you celebrate that?" He slurred. "You have faith in GOD, so why not just celebrate that by His stripes you are healed?" I stared at Andy. Gusher threatened to call for an Uber again. Room mate assured her he was fine to drive. Liam asked to pee. Pee. Uber. MS. mylar. interceron. faith. the music is so loud. We need to go.<br />
<br />
I didn't say goodbye to anyone. The stairs in the place are ridiculously treacherous. I told Liam to go down on his butt and not stand up no matter what until he got to the bottom. I held on to the walls as I inched my way down, mentally calculating how to fall the most agile way, so as not to create ruckus, should I fall. I didn't fall. I breathed in the fresh air. Over.<br />
<br />
"I wish I was the woman you married." I whispered to Andy in the car. "I wish this wasn't me." He held my hand. "I know." He said. "I know."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-22697023829356520332015-11-04T11:33:00.000-08:002015-11-04T11:33:01.346-08:00And in the end...My grandmother passed away on October 29th at around 7:45 in the morning.<br />
<br />
She went peacefully. With my grandfather's name on her lips. She knew where she was going. She knew what she was going to do when she got there. She wasn't afraid.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow it will be a week. My dad and aunt went to get the ashes from the funeral home, and brought them back and promptly sat them on her mantle. The urn is cold and gray and decorated with what looks like a Greek pattern.<br />
<br />
We all came to her house last night and took things that were meaningful to us. I felt like the Thenardiers from Les Miserables. Who wants this? Anyone interested in that? You want back this thing you gave her? <br />
<br />
Clothing was taken from the closets and put in large black trash bags.<br />
Jewelry boxes were opened and displayed. Nothing of real value, except sentiment.<br />
China cupboards were emptied and the contents arranged haphazardly on folding tables.<br />
We all walked around with our hands behind our backs, surveying the loot like museum artifacts.<br />
<br />
Everything came with a memory. Things that did not hold sentimental value were put in a pile to be donated along with the toaster and the like. As we would touch objects, we would recall the moments we remembered with them. The coffee mugs. The items she would ALWAYS have on the coffee table. The things she had hanging on the walls for as long as any of us could remember.<br />
<br />
I remembered this key chain she had- pappy gave it to her. It had a $20 bill in it ever since I could remember. She said it was there for an emergency. An emergency she never had, apparently, because when we went through her purse it was still there. Her purse was actually stolen once in a store. The robbers took her wallet and chucked the rest of the purse out of the car window. They should've kept the keys. There was probably more money in the key chain than in her purse.<br />
<br />
We also came across all this stuff she never used. Like. Ever. Like, hadn't seen the light of day since their wedding day. She had everything labeled- that was her thing. Little tiny bits of paper with her polite handwriting on them.<br />
<br />
<i>"Bought this from a little old peddler man. My first real ring."</i><br />
<br />
<i>"The scratches on this chest are from Newton jumping up on it to look at the window."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Candles given by maybe Francie Frank I'm not sure."</i><br />
<br />
And on and on. Everything was a treasure.<br />
<br />
Liam wanted in on the action, of course, and so I told him he may only pick the things that made his heart sing. "If you pick something up and you can feel your heart sing, you may ask permission to have it. Everyone needs to be mindful of everyone else."<br />
<br />
He came home with a coffee mug, a small blue vase, a baby food maker, some wind chimes and other outdoor items, kaleidoscopes, some small cars, and a pocket knife in the shape of a train. Some absolutely amazing treasures for a 3 year old boy. He held the pocket knife in his pocket like it was going to jump out and fly away if it wasn't grasped tightly. He was so proud.<br />
<br />
I took silly things. A cup I remembered drinking from. Door stops I had always admired. A locket I found. Some wooden boxes I thought were cool. The glass bottle of water she always kept next to the fridge because she didn't like cold water. A few boxes of table linens she never ever opened. Everything odd and old and precious to me. <br />
<br />
Andy was given his choice of pocket knives and also requested a signed head shot of a band leader from the 40's. She had apparently sent away for it when she was young because the envelope only said her name, the street she lived on and the town. Who needs a house number? He quietly followed me around the house, taking objects from me and carefully arranging them in boxes to be taken home.<br />
<br />
By the end of the night I had six boxes, a small side table, and a bench my grandfather made. It was sobering at best. I had never wanted anything at my Nanny's house but Nanny. Her giggle. Her laugh. The way she would get down on her knees and play with her GREAT grandchildren. The way she loved Pappy. And us. And Liam. How she'd never smile for pictures because she always hated her smile. How she always dreamed of red hair and freckles...<br />
<br />
Those things can only live in my heart, not in my home. So I will take this moment to re-evaluate. Why am I keeping clothing "just for nice"? Why do we have dishes we never use? Use them! Because it's not the boxed items that people went for first last night- it was the worn stuff. The table with the scratches. The dumb plastic cup you always reached for. Those are the things that create memories- not the linens that haven't been out of the box since the 40's.<br />
<br />
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-22258489912753233052015-10-22T09:11:00.002-07:002015-10-22T09:11:29.617-07:00Because I could not stop for death...It kindly stopped for me.<br />
The Carriage held but just Ourselves – <br />
And Immortality.<br />
<br />
We slowly drove – He knew no haste<br />
And I had put away<br />
My labor and my leisure too,<br />
For His Civility – <br />
<br />
We passed the School, where Children strove<br />
At Recess – in the Ring – <br />
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – <br />
We passed the Setting Sun – <br />
<br />
Or rather – He passed us –<br />
The Dews drew quivering and chill – <br />
For only Gossamer, my Gown – <br />
My Tippet – only Tulle – <br />
<br />
We paused before a House that seemed<br />
A Swelling of the Ground – <br />
The Roof was scarcely visible – <br />
The Cornice – in the Ground – <br />
<br />
Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet<br />
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the<br />
Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –<br />
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
My grandmother is dying.<br />
<br />
She's got cancer. Does anyone die of anything other than cancer anymore? Ugh. My Pappy (her husband) died of pancreatic cancer. My mom's parents died of bladder and lung. Now my last Nanny, my favorite one out of any of them, lung as well. Not smokers lung, just...that's where it lives.<br />
<br />
She's hallucinating now. It won't be long for her. We thought it was going to be yesterday, so we all dropped everything we were doing and ran to her. In the car I prepared this whole heartfelt speech to give to her. I came in holding Liam and went to her bedside and I delivered it with gusto. Sobbing and crying the whole time. But I said what I needed to. <br />
<br />
I told her, "Nanny, YOU DID AWESOME. You have raised us to be good people who love God. You've taught us to pray. You've been our prayer warrior. Make sure you check in with Jesus before you go running to Pappy. And when you find him, tell him we miss him every day. Tell him we all found wonderful spouses and he'd love them. But Nanny, you've done AWESOME. And it's okay to go now. We love you so. Very. Much." And through the morphine and the blank expression on her face...she started to cry. Her eyes were closed but her mouth crinkled up and she whimpered. I repeated over and over- "I. Love. You." She held my hand and wouldn't let it go.<br />
<br />
Pastor Trevor came. He prayed over her. Read her scripture. Assured her of her Salvation in Christ. Prayed over her. Prayed with us. He took Liam over to play with his children, which worked out so well. He brought us supper. MAN, we're going to miss this guy. He isn't even my Nanny's pastor.<br />
<br />
So we sat. And we waited. Hospice nurse came. "Could be hours...could be days."<br />
<br />
So we sat. And we waited.<br />
<br />
breath...1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...breath...1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...breath...<br />
<br />
Her heart is strong, but her body is failing. I was reading their systems shut down one at a time- digestion first. Heart and lungs last. When you're sitting there watching someone die, your mind does weird things and goes weird places. You start contemplating the meaning of life. You start wondering how you will go. Just because I have MS doesn't mean it will kill me. It's not going to help my case though. <br />
<br />
I was sitting there on the sofa with my cousins, watching the breathing and knitting a blanket for a long awaited baby, contemplating how the end of life is SO MUCH like the beginning of it. You're pregnant for SO LONG, and then you finally can't stand it and you must deliver. Your brain stops loving the kicks and the caress of the belly, and you sorta get angry about it, which is the fuel to help you push that little sucker OUT. When death is immanent, you make your peace with it. You don't WANT it to happen, but you allow yourself to explore it mentally and you become "okay" with it. If that's possible. And then you start to see the suffering of the patient and the care givers and you think- okay, this NEEDS to happen. And in that is the strength to get you through the actual breathing of the last breath.<br />
<br />
breath...1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...breath...1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...breath...<br />
<br />
Nobody knows our last breath. Not even us. I wouldn't want to know.<br />
<br />
So we will continue to sit. And wait.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-45587284318591011062015-10-15T10:32:00.000-07:002015-10-15T10:32:33.632-07:00Peace be with you.Liam's birthday was last week! Hip hip!<br />
<br />
I kept it EXTREMELY low key this year, and that's not a lie. My anxiety level was so high, I was about ready to call the whole thing off. The "theme" was Toy Story Drive In. So I borrowed a projector and my parents set up the garage as a movie theater. I rented a popcorn machine, which I think the adults liked as much as the kids. We made tacos to eat. There were under 30 people there- 10 of which were little ones. It was fun!<br />
<br />
I planned to invite my good friend from up north- one of those people who upon the first meeting, there was some instant clicking going on. Lots of laughter. Talking. Smiling. Hugs when departing. You know the kind- natural friendships. So I invited her to Liam's party. She bought train tickets. She and I began to plan our visit.<br />
<br />
My mother in law had other plans.<br />
<br />
"She's not welcome. And I couldn't possibly have a good time if I knew she was going to be there."<br />
<br />
Really?<br />
<br />
"I think she's loud and opinionated. She makes me feel awkward."<br />
<br />
Pot calling the kettle black much?<br />
<br />
"I don't want her there."<br />
<br />
--So what, pray tell, would you have me do?<br />
<br />
"I don't know. I could be the adult here, but I don't feel like it. I don't want her there."<br />
<br />
At this point, I erupted. (I feel it prudent to mention I was in the bathroom at the time. Liam was opening gifts for his ACTUAL birthday DAY, my parents were downstairs, we had just finished cake... And for those who aren't parents, there's a little siren which goes off when kids realize their parents are on the phone. It's much like a dog whistle...but it encourages kids to just run WILD and get into every possible thing they can get their grubby little paws on. This requires multi tasking. AND ANOTHER THING. I hate talking on the phone. Just laying there talking frustrates me to no end. Multi-task. The end.)<br />
<br />
What I said went something like "ARE YOU KIDDING ME? FINE. I'LL UN-INVITE HER."<br />
<br />
"Well I mean I just-"<br />
<br />
"STOP TALKING. I SAID I'D UN-INVITE HER. WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT?"<br />
<br />
"I know how this sounds."<br />
<br />
At this point, I wanted to reach through the phone and grab her. Yes, I know how this sounds. You are CHOOSING to make a poor decision. "I could be an adult, but I choose not to be." One thing my MIL loves are peace signs. She's a grown up hippy. But not the kind who does sit ins and rallies for the whales. No no. She wears peace signs. They're on her walls. In her art work. On her shirts and earrings. Peace peace peace. Except for unwanted guests. Except for people she decides are "not one of us."<br />
<br />
This is like claiming "I'm pro-life! No abortion! Save the babies!" And then in the next breath condemns "illegals" to get out of our country. I'm pro-life! Just. Not YOUR life.<br />
<br />
Our pastor is leaving our church. It saddens me GREATLY because we love him and his family. They are our best friends, quite literally. They have three great kiddos, and we all have lots in common. For a church who practices "peace," we're not seeing much of it. Many times where strong opinions are voiced, the need to be heard outweighs the need to practice peace.<br />
<br />
We went out for breakfast the other morning. Andy ordered eggs over easy. The waitress came to our table bearing his eggs and a terrible look on her face, "Sir. I bumped your toast and it broke your egg yolk. I'm SO SO SORRY. I can take it back." Andy looked at her and gently said, "Oh I don't care. I'll break it myself here soon!" She breathed a sigh of relief, "Thank you so much. You wouldn't believe how people get so upset over that."<br />
<br />
I could choose to love refugees entering our country out of fear, but I don't want to. They should get their papers like everyone else. Women and children be damned.<br />
<br />
I could choose to speak to the pastor about my concerns, but an anonymous letter seems like a more valiant way to get my point across.<br />
<br />
I could choose to look at my waitress making minimum wage as a person and ignore my broken yolks, but, eh, she should get a better job anyway.<br />
<br />
I could choose to be an adult, but I don't want to.<br />
<br />
As an aside, my inlaws never made it to the party. My MIL had a high BP and went to the ER and they found out she had strep. She's got a medical heart issue- I'm not sure what it's called. But high BP could be fatal. Maybe it's time to let bygones be bygones and let go of some hate.<br />
<br />
My friend was gracious and did not attend the party. She changed her train ticket for Thanksgiving, which seems like an awesome time to be together with the people you love. <br />
<br />
Grace and Peace be with you.<br />
(And also with you.)<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-84912746109324235152015-10-06T12:43:00.001-07:002015-10-06T12:43:23.352-07:00It's Me! Only...better.<br />
<br />
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<br />
In the last 10 months, I have been on a quest. Better me. Better life. Better family.<br />
<br />
Move forward. Move up. Just move.<br />
<br />
After the Great Barfing of 2015 (let us never forget...) life went on. My MS remained in remission...until it flared again. I could feel everything, it wasn't a relapse. It's just all those ridiculous shots I was giving myself? Yeah, not working. Not even a little. More lesions on my brain.<br />
<br />
Then came the great schism of the insurance companies. Geisinger stopped "participating" with Pinnacle. What does that even mean? Well for starters, I got to find all new doctors for myself AND Liam. OBGYN to pediatrician, neurologist to PCP. Go ahead and transfer all those files and find someone new to confide in. You'll be fine. You mean you've been going to the same OBGYN since you were 16? Awww. That's adorable. Go ahead and find a new one.<br />
<br />
The new neuro stared at my chest the whole time. "My job is to keep you out of a wheel chair for as long as possible." He so pointedly remarked. Wheelchair? What? I didn't think I was that bad? He showed me my MRI (up until now I'd never seen one) "All these white spots are lesions. You need another medication."<br />
<br />
My new med was proven to drop your heart rate in the first dose, so you needed to be under the care of a doctor for 8 hours to make sure if I dipped, I didn't dip too far. And if I dipped too far...well. Someone to bring me up again. They came to my home and took my blood. Blood didn't make it to the lab in time (snow storm). Had to have it drawn again. Then the doctor who was supposed to come the very next day to do the first dose quit. Two weeks later, they found a new doctor. He was a slight fellow, interesting enough to make the day progress quickly.<br />
<br />
MuckFest came and went. My team was wonderful this year. This year it was different. Last year was awesome, but this year was more...spiritual somehow. The one member of my team, Linda, had lost her husband at Christmas. Our pastor and his wife were on my team. Zoi, my new aunt, was on our team. Lives were changed. I was in the ER with breathing issues 4 days ahead of time. Anxiety, they said. I believed it.<br />
<br />
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The MS Fitness Challenge came to town. "You're signing up." Andy told me. So I did. I kept making calls and filling out forms until they HAD to include me. My trainer's name is Lydia. She's absolutely beautiful. (Andy says she's not his type. Okay? Um? Good?) She's got gazelle-like qualities that make me feel like a 30 year old mommy with MS. She's so incredibly nice, it makes me excited to work out with her. I'm lifting weights like a boss. I'm TWICE the person I was 2 years ago when I was flat on my back, unable to maneuver my leg.<br />
<br />
6 months later, no new lesions. No change. "Condition stable." To God be the glory. See you again in 6 months to check again.<br />
<br />
I twitch now, which is like, ugh. Seriously? Makes me look like some Tourettes patient. It's not too bad, just irritating. Gets worse when I'm nervous. The end.<br />
<br />
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I will tell people, "MS saved my life." And nobody gets that. When our marriage was failing, MS stopped us in our tracks and gave us something new to fight against. We started talking, and I mean REALLY talking. My husband became more compassionate. I became someone I liked again. MS gave us a common cause. It's "our" disease to fight. So we fight it. Because of MS, I was challenged to lose weight. Lots of weight. People see me in the grocery store and don't know me. I say, "It's Libbie? Libbie George?" "OH! We didn't even recognize you!" <br />
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<br />
There's something extraordinary about being the best version of yourself you can possibly be. It's like being me...only better.<span id="goog_1680383871"></span><span id="goog_1680383872"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-49363512532305242112015-10-06T10:39:00.001-07:002015-10-06T10:39:21.066-07:00May I Write Again?I'm embarrassed.<br />
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Last time I wrote was the new year...January. It's October. This isn't the way friendships are supposed to go but... sometimes life just picks up steam, you know?<br />
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I can't even begin to form the words to express what an amazing place I'm in right now.<br />
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Liam is three years old today. Three. Years. I re-read my blog entries from his entrance in this world, and my stomach just ached. Seems all so far away. The majority of my friends are on baby number two! I've held many friends through miscarriages. I've celebrated 1st, 2nd, 3rd birthdays with all their children. It's just been busy.<br />
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There's been times I've concocted blog entries in my head. What I'd say to the masses about a particular subject. (Something witty and original, of COURSE!) But honestly, who cares? So many times a friend will post a blog entry and I'm like- blah blah blah. Sorry. I'm not a blog reader. But I came back to my page here to read about my labor and I saw- over 11,000 hits.<br />
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People are reading.<br />
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So I'm coming back with my tail between my knees stating, I really really want to write again.<br />
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So I will.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-85067310701335907862015-01-01T22:46:00.001-08:002015-01-01T22:46:06.446-08:00Careful, mom.Okay here's a riddle to start your new year:<div><br></div><div>What smells like puke, makes you go through half a pack of TP, and causes your out of town guests to stay longer than they wanted to?</div><div><br></div><div>Give up? That's okay. So did I. </div><div><br></div><div>It's the GI bug, of course!! And when five adults and one toddler run through it in 48 hours, you would give up too. Did I mention we have one bathroom. Did I mention five adults. Did I mention I have a two year old who isn't well versed in the art of throwing up. </div><div><br></div><div>Salvation came through a pair of these babies:</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rFQlLdj8CMs/VKY-rB0QR_I/AAAAAAAACfI/5beVr5M-m-E/s640/blogger-image-1635238213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rFQlLdj8CMs/VKY-rB0QR_I/AAAAAAAACfI/5beVr5M-m-E/s640/blogger-image-1635238213.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">You can only listen to other people yarf for so long until you're ready to take a long run in a short gym. Speaking of gym- those are my husband's gym shorts I'm wearing. Because I own no more baggy clothing. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">When everyone left and we Rug Doctor-ed the last "just about made it"s out of our oriental rug...we knew we just needed to get out of the house. On New Year's Day, you've got slim pickins. But we found a place with nothing but huge bouncy things like at a carnival. $9.50 per parent and Liam was free. Only thing is- people over 200lbs need not apply. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Sigh. Welp. Glad I lost that weight. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-pM7x-QWoIo4/VKY-mIJ4U0I/AAAAAAAACew/49uAdzxTftE/s640/blogger-image-539417105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-pM7x-QWoIo4/VKY-mIJ4U0I/AAAAAAAACew/49uAdzxTftE/s640/blogger-image-539417105.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This amazing kid skipped the 4 and under ones and just went to the top of the biggest slides pronto. At one point, he had scaled the top of this very daunting slide and was sitting there patiently watching his 30 year old mother do her best to fling her leg over the top of this INCREDIBLY UNSTABLE blow up obstacle. "Careful, mom." He says. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Careful, mom? Mom? What happened to, "help me, mommy!!" ??? Now he's like my mentor at the top of this carnival attraction??? Mom?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-6CbTgY3NzFQ/VKY-pYCItAI/AAAAAAAACfA/LPZLuL_dG1M/s640/blogger-image-1844844395.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-6CbTgY3NzFQ/VKY-pYCItAI/AAAAAAAACfA/LPZLuL_dG1M/s640/blogger-image-1844844395.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Earlier in the day I was standing in the bathroom trying desperately to do anything with my hair. Liam comes in and hugs my leg, "Happy, mommy?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">My heart melted. Yes! I am happy! You make me that way! Every day I get more attached to you and I love you more and I make you promise me you'll never grow up. But you will. And IF I've done my job correctly, my happiness and wellbeing will STILL be important to you. And BECAUSE I've done my job right, I will tell you- I'll be okay! You GO and do whatever you want! Whatever makes YOU happy! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In the meantime...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LPCmVvrJxUs/VKY-nnOmBNI/AAAAAAAACe4/CXeLyH2ql1Q/s640/blogger-image-570795344.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LPCmVvrJxUs/VKY-nnOmBNI/AAAAAAAACe4/CXeLyH2ql1Q/s640/blogger-image-570795344.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">You're going to need to go to Nana's now. Because you may be feeling better, but mommy is not. And selfies on the toilet are unbecoming. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">From my potty to yours, Happy New Year, friends. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-41188754254145236922014-12-29T18:42:00.001-08:002014-12-29T18:42:52.348-08:00Christmas 2014It started out as any normal Christmas.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-P8CEFKjl1bg/VKIRKvyRuKI/AAAAAAAACeg/UZShkwLJ6Xo/s640/blogger-image--1956192863.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-P8CEFKjl1bg/VKIRKvyRuKI/AAAAAAAACeg/UZShkwLJ6Xo/s640/blogger-image--1956192863.jpg"></a></div><div><br><div>Andy got home in time for the Christmas Eve service and our annual post-service-party went off without a hitch. We invited everybody, and everybody came. </div></div><div><br></div><div>My Christmas movie uploaded and formatted successfully. All packages were wrapped carefully, Santa's milk and cookies (and one tiny carrot for Rudolph) were shoved ever so mindfully under the tree, along with a note stating "thank you for presents" scribbled lovingly over with stickers and other unintelligible pictures. </div><div><br></div><div>I foraged the trail to the modest pile of gifts- plugging in the tree and turning on the music- and adding a "OH WOW HE WAS HERE!!!" Just for effect (which got an audible gasp from the second floor and a little happy dance with tiny feet).</div><div><br></div><div>I try not to post pictures of the gifts for FB. While people are posting "wrote this from my new iPad!" I tend to try to lose my phone and all forms of communication with anyone else but those around me. Pictures can be taken with the real camera. Video can be captured with the real video camera. In my small mind, Christmas should be quiet and intimate. </div><div><br></div><div>And then my inlaws came. And Liam started throwing up and Andy broke out with a fever of 102.1 and began running the other direction. My inlaws and brother in law were held captive to a second Christmas morning consisting of "open a gift, clean up Liam's puke, open a gift, wait 20 minutes so Andy can go to the bathroom." And then my mother in law started with it. And in our tiny house with one bathroom, pure medlam broke out. </div><div><br></div><div>One might say- well that escalated quickly. And one might be right. This is where you find me now. Sorta laying in bed, flannel PJ shirt, Andy's gym shorts and a plastic bag and roll of paper towels by the bed. Andy evacuated himself and Liam and his brother and went to Nana's. </div><div><br></div><div>The fact of the matter is- life has a way of doing this to you. One day you're writing about all the things you must get done, and the next day none of that matters. As I was sitting in the funeral service for our dear friend Alan, they were speaking about how kind and generous of a man he was. How he used to drive 15 miles to follow his mother home from work every night, to make sure she was safe. (A revelation to her as she loudly exclaimed mid-service "I didn't know that!") One day you're planning meals and shopping for the best prices and the next day, you're just puking it all up. </div><div><br></div><div>There's no ending to this post. No parting words of wisdom about prioritizing. About what really matters in life. About how when they contractor says "we could potentially put a second bathroom in here" and you're like "no, that's okay" how you should be slapped. </div><div><br></div><div>It's almost the new year, so we'll count on health and well being then. In the mean time...I gotta go. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-85595793418998179412014-12-24T06:45:00.000-08:002014-12-24T06:47:26.526-08:00So this is Christmas...and what have you done?This month has gone so fast.<br>
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My husband has been out of town all month. Literally. He's come home for the weekends, and then back out to Pittsburgh for the remainder of the month. Our time together this month has been spent over the FaceTime screen or on the phone, OR on whirlwind "buy everything you can as quickly as you can" Christmas shopping trips.<br>
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To say I am tired, would be a mere drop in the bucket to what I'm really actually feeling. Everything I've done this month, I've done alone. He can't help this, of course. It's training for his new job- the job that pays better and has better hours than the last two jobs. In short- this is a really really good long term thing, after a pretty crappy short term thing.<br>
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I've tried really hard not to get caught up in the hustle and bustle of the season. With Andy out of retail, I didn't even visit the mall this season. There was no mall Santa for Liam to pose with. We went to our little hometown Santa on a whim, actually. There were no trips to see Christmas lights- although we did go to Messicks Farm Supply to watch their "mighty machine lights" about 5 times.<br>
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I've tried really hard to make the season special for Liam. We wrapped his gifts for his grandparents together- using masking tape instead of scotch tape, because his fingers were too small. And after he had placed the bow gently on top of his daddy's gifts (that he painstakingly picked out at HomeGoods...) he looked up at me with his little cherubic face and said, "Daddy be SO HAPPY for Christmastime." Oh my goodness, I'm crying right now typing this. If you could only see those gifts. He picked a pack of bag clips that look like owls, a kaleidoscope from the toy department, and a pack of Reeses peanut butter cups. A two-year-old's bounty. <br>
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Daddy be SO HAPPY for Christmastime.<br>
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On Sunday morning, our great friend Linda found her husband face down on the floor of the bathroom. He had apparently died during the night and she found him in the morning. She came to church. Hours after watching her husband be zipped into a bag and hauled off, she came to church. Nobody could believe it. Nobody knew what to do with her. It was like she had the plague. People I think were actually angry at her for coming. But what people don't see is that she has nobody but her husband. Linda is the epitome of a "people person." And the church is her family. She and Alan were always the first ones there, last ones to leave, seen with a rag and bucket cleaning up tables after socializing, bidding on items at auction fundraisers. I mean- just everywhere. So where do you go after you suffer a loss? To love on your family. It makes sense.<br>
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Daddy be SO HAPPY for Christmastime.<br>
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None of my gifts are wrapped. I threw some of them in bags last night as I was trying to clean up, put Liam to bed (he finally gave up at 12:30, and then was up many times during the night). This Christmas movie I'm trying desperately to make is not formatting correctly. There's not enough room on the computer for this movie. I'm frustrated with it. The excitement I had for it is gone, now knowing that I have a few hours to figure something out, after I've been trying to "figure something out" for literally 48 hours now. I downloaded $40 of new software to make it work. Wasted two dual layer disks (at $45 a pack). It's costing me time and money I don't have.<br>
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Daddy be SO HAPPY for Christmastime.<br>
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Tonight we're having an annual Christmas Eve party. We have one every year. Just a few friends, mostly far extended family. Ten or so people tops. Except for this year when I'm planning on 25. And I've done it all myself. With a broken vacuum. And a toddler. My inlaws are coming down directly after Christmas, so somewhere in the scuttle, I need to erect two air mattresses, complete with bedding. Come up with some sort of food list. Make two lasagnas for another Christmas celebration the evening of our dear friend Alan's funeral. And I have an MRI on Friday. Don't forget that MRI. Because at the end of the year, my insurance is being dropped by all my doctors.<br>
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Daddy be SO HAPPY for Christmastime.<br>
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I'm missing it. Big time. And as I'm trying to stop and relax and pretend I don't care if stuff doesn't get done, I realize that I'm getting MORE anxious because stuff isn't getting done. Our work Christmas party is now my baby, because they fired the girl who normally did it (thank GOODNESS. Highlight of my year!) But it is also causing me anxiety because the people I work with are ungrateful. <br>
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But for my sweet little boy- Christmas is just happening all around him. To him it's magical and wonderful. He's excited to give the gifts he's wrapped. He's excited about the prospect of Ho Ho, ascending from the heavens and bestowing gifts on him in some unimaginable way. I think I'm realizing that I've been so frantic to get all this stuff done and maintain normalcy because I know how important Christmas is to a child. And I'm Santa now. I don't ever want him to know about the hustle and bustle and stress and anxiety surrounding this holiday, because I'm realizing now that I NEVER knew about it growing up.<br>
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What more is Christmas about? Than a little baby boy coming to save us from our sins, and a little baby boy wrapping gifts 2000 years later to give his sweet daddy. A daddy who has been taken away for a month, to make a better life for his family. A man and his wife, traveling to Bethlehem to make a better life for their family. <br>
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Daddy be SO HAPPY. For Christmastime.<br>
<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-zwAgXFnhKTU/VJrR_J2-tXI/AAAAAAAACeM/_o-d3R5QOWg/s640/blogger-image-757186058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-zwAgXFnhKTU/VJrR_J2-tXI/AAAAAAAACeM/_o-d3R5QOWg/s640/blogger-image-757186058.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-90112435476595292062014-10-31T06:25:00.000-07:002014-10-31T06:25:11.742-07:00Remember that time I was a really awesome parent?Liam celebrated 2 years of life this month. What I really need is a shirt for him that says, "Mommy and Daddy lasted 2 whole years!" Because this child is a daredevil.<br />
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Liam has been dabbling in the art of break dancing. He does this little fall to the ground and spin around on his belly, and then end up on his side with his head propped on his hand and his feet crossed at the ankles. It's really quite impressive. He first did it in my presence at a wedding we attended last weekend. My little, shy son went out on the dance floor by himself and just started busting a move! It was the hit of the wedding.<br />
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Rewind to a week before his birthday. Tuesday. The little break dancing boy is cutting a rug, spinning around and around until he crashes, and he just grabs his arm and starts wailing. Thankfully, this is in the presence of Nana and Daddy, and not me. So we do what ANY awesome parent would do- we put ice on it. Wednesday. He falls again. Inconsolable wailing. Awesome parenting move #2- we put a bandaid on it. Mind over matter? Maybe it will work! Thursday, he's running to grab his balloon, falls to the floor, alligator tears all over the place. Sobbing. Screaming. I look at Andy- "Maybe. It's broken?" Awesome parenting move #3- calling the doctor at 9:30 PM- Do we take him to the ER?<br />
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Friday. Day out of work. Pediatrician. X-rays. Cast. Two week sentencing.<br />
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So in case you're math minded, that's FOUR WHOLE DAYS we let our son
run around with a broken limb. Think about how many times I grabbed his
arm to prevent him from getting into trouble. Think about how many
times I held his arm while trying to get the wash cloth in between his
fingers after eating. Think about how many times that child told me his
arm hurt, and we didn't believe him.<br />
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For his birthday, I put together a Mighty Machines theme. I pulled out all my resources. Working in avionics, I had access to an airplane. (I'm also tight with the man who owns the airport adjacent to my parent's property.) Knowing a few boys with big toys, I commandeered a big rig truck with sleeper cab, a HUGE John Deere tractor with grain bin (literally the tires alone are taller than 6'4" Andy), an awesome motorcycle, and you should've SEEN the look on that child's face when the fire truck pulled in.<br />
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Liam just kept going from one machine to the next, touching tires and blowing horns and climbing into drivers seats. Cast and all. At one point, I was standing at the top of my parent's property looking down at the fruits of my labor- kids playing, parents laughing, Sesame Street Radio blasting in the background...Hopefully this makes up for Awesome Parenting Moves 1-3. But wait-who has Liam? THAT'S RIGHT. Nobody. And in awesome parenting move #4, my son is scaling the tractor, trying to get in the cab. Cast and all. "SOMEONE GRAB LIAM!!!!"<br />
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*facepalm*<br />
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Needless to say, my boy was a champ through this whole process. It was me running around with the saran wrap and press and seal who had the problem. The poor boy could hardly sleep, which isn't unusual, but it was even more difficult for a boy who sleeps on his hands. <br />
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So okay, maybe I wasn't an awesome parent. Maybe I made a FEW mistakes. But who doesn't? No child leaves childhood unscathed. It's not an excuse to be a crappy parent, but it's more of a...consolation. Because it's very very true that behind every amazing kid, there's a mom who is pretty sure she's doing it wrong.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-87628393010140105332014-09-25T05:41:00.000-07:002014-09-25T05:41:04.863-07:00Grandma's Got it Made<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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Last night I got to my parent's house to pick up my son, and this is what I found.</div>
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It's my dad, stuffed in a box. My son is in there as well. But my dad saw this box at work, and thought Liam would love it- which he did- but the box could not contain Liam AND grandpa. This was after they were swinging on the swing set, belly down. Liam's feet don't touch, but grandpa's feet touch a little TOO much. But that's the ONLY way to swing, and as my dad tried to get up, I heard Liam demand, "No. Pawpaw. Sit down right here on tummy." And "pawpaw" obliged.</div>
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Now, in our next exhibit, something like this would have really frustrated me. Not only is my son IN the washbasket with the clean wash, about ten of his toys are too. Notice the right hand side of the photo displaying Nana, looking undeterred from her folding. </div>
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Here's PaPa T (Muzz is up at the top with Liam) but here is an example of a man with bleeding disks in his back, MUSTERING up the strength to throw the plastic baseball up the slide for the 100th time so his grandson could roll it back down. As a witness, I was there for probably a good 20 minutes watching this all go down. Funny how that small voice chanting "again! again!" puts a bad back at ease...</div>
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And this. Well. We won't show this to the children's protection services. But grandpa had it under control.</div>
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As a mommy, and let's refine that into NEW mommy, I was never TRUELY aware of what it would be like to live life with four of these people. It's a complicated dance from the hospital (I cannot wait to show him to my mom and dad!!!!) to the days after getting home from said hospital (mom, can't you just stay for a few more hours so I can get some sleep??) to a few months after the hospital (Hey? Remember me? The one who GAVE you this grandchild?) to a few years after the hospital (OH MY WORD do NOT feed him that red fruit punch!!!).</div>
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It's an extremely complicated dance.</div>
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It includes hurt feelings (how do I let her know I don't want my dishes put away in ALL THE WRONG PLACES?) It includes mixed feelings (I really don't need my flower beds tended, but since he's here doing it, I feel bad asking him to leave and it really does look nice and I really don't know when I'm going to do it...) It includes feelings of relief (I'm so glad my parent's are watching him because he's sick and I can't miss any more work) Feelings of resentment (We cannot keep time equal between the two sets. There's no way we can drag Liam up there time after time). Feelings of accomplishment (So mom said she thought I was doing a great job raising Liam...) And feelings of frustration (I think I can't handle my own child and I don't need your advice!).</div>
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And once you get past all these feelings, and they learn where to stand you learn how to lay off...you've got "grandparents." In the early days it's hard to do this, because new mommies understand the importance of schedule. Because while the grandparents are excited to love and cuddle, you are desperate for some sort of "normal" again, and you do this by setting up a routine. You know what your baby likes. Nobody else can do it quite like you do. And ONE LITTLE SLIP in that precious routine could cost you countless nights of sleep, and many days of trying to get that precious routine back once more.</div>
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A friend of mine has out of town grandparents. I too have out of town grandparents. As they were visiting for the first time, she was lamenting over the anxiety she felt leaving her child with them. "I have to go home. My mom is crazy. She's not going to know what to do. They're probably bouncing her and she hates being bounced. And then they're going to feed her when she's not hungry because they're trying to console her because they're bouncing her and SHE HATES BEING BOUNCED!!! I have to go home and swoop her up." I heard myself saying those very words the first time my inlaws visited. Because even though they're grandparents, they're strangers to our kids. </div>
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Grandparents want to do things like...rock our babies to sleep, when we've tried to train them to fall asleep on their own. They want to sit and eat cookies with them, even when they don't really need the sugar. They want to teach them to blow bubbles in their milk, even when you're trying to instill good table manners in them. They want to give those toys that you've already said no to. They want to make comparisons between your childhood and their precious grandchild. And then they want to give them back.</div>
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Where do we stand in all this? We're the parents now, right? We're grown up. We're responsible people. </div>
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I'm here to say that the trick is letting go.</div>
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The things that make grandparents SO COOL to your kid, is that they are an escape from the routine. Because they'll play games with them for HOURS. Because they don't have to rush to make supper or get groceries. Because they teach them cool stuff like hand farts and blowing bubbles in milk. Because they let them get away with staying up late and breaking a rule here or there. That's what makes them special.</div>
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Memories are not made in routine. Memories are made out of the abnormal. Out of the extra-curricular activities. Out of the "remember that time..."</div>
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So do me a favor and learn how to do this: roll your eyes and shrug. Repeat after me: "Oh those grandparents." And apply this on a daily basis. Unless there is something mortally wrong going on, do yourself a favor and just...let it go.</div>
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Because at some point, if your kid is anything like mine, at some point you're going to come to pick him up from Nana and PawPaw's, and he's going to wiggle himself out of a box with his grandpa and run the other way while screaming "NOOOO!!!!! NO MOMMY!" And then you're going to know that it's ALL good. :)</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5752188822503190816.post-48570726729313229172014-09-22T13:30:00.001-07:002014-09-22T13:30:04.474-07:00Going out to Eat 101There's no actual dining when you go out to supper.<br />
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Not with a toddler.<br />
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Especially not with a potty training toddler.<br />
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My friend Alyssa and I met at Panera last night with the intention of going to Target. She brought Brynn, who I could EAT UP, and of course Liam was along for the ride.<br />
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We got our meals and Liam ate the meat and cheese and yogurt and left the bread. Brynn was shoving her face with handfuls of sandwich bits. By the time we were all finished, the floor looked like...well, like two kids under the age of two had just dined there.<br />
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When I go out with Liam, I do not order hot food. There's really no purpose in heating anything up when it's just going to sit and get cold anyway.<br />
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There's this little dance that mom's do when they go out to eat. Because you know what your child will eat, and what he won't. And when you're going out, and you're actually spending cash money on food (and not just pulling from the freezer or pantry...) you're going to put a TON of thought into what is LEAST LIKELY to end up in the trash can on the way out. You scope out menus BEFORE you go in. Kids menu? Anything on it not fried? Anything on it come without fries? Anything on it going to make a minimal mess? <br />
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You get into the restaurant and the hostess eyes you up. You eye the hostess up. Those heels she's wearing are going to give her varicose veins. Just saying. She looks on her little white board eraser thingy for an opening in the noisy children zone. 20 minute wait. Sure, why not? Until you pack up your brood, get to another place with less of a wait, you should just wait the 20 minutes.<br />
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What do you do with a child under 2 for 20 minutes? Do you remember when they were just infants and you could use this little nugget of time to breast feed politely in a corner or feed them their bottle or get out the container of cheerios in an attempt to keep them occupied. No longer, my friend. Because now, your toddler is capable of something called "spoiling their supper." This happens when they find a handful of rogue goldfish snacks in their car seat on the way to the eatery. This happens when they ask for a drink before supper and "just a little sip" turns into them handing back the cup empty. <br />
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So you're sitting there waiting for your name to be called. "Do you have to go to the potty?" No. "Yes you do, let's go." NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. "Yes." (Because at this point, you don't want to be the push-over parent for all to see and silently mock) so you stuff your board of a child under one arm, and head for the bathroom. You come back. He didn't go. Your 2x2 foot space on the waiting bench is now occupied. You hold your child. You show him every number and letter you can find. "What's this?! An H! H is for HOUSE. You say it." "What is this? a 5? Party of Five! Let's count to FIVE!" You dig deep in the diaper bag for something to do. Oh, here's a bulletin from church on Sunday and a red crayon from the last place at which you attempted to eat! So you draw. Then he scribbles. Then he's done. Then you look and find a plastic bag that once contained snacks. You put it over your hand like a puppet. You put it over his hand like a puppet. The bag rips. You dig deeper. You find a teething toy from when he was actually- it wasn't THAT long ago, was it?? He puts it on as a bracelet. He can't get it off. He wails. "Fold your hand into a little...no listen, not a fist, no, listen make your hand like this...just put your fingers...Liam, stop. Liam." You get the teething ring off his hand. Your place on the bench is now free. Hey, weren't they their after you? Okay, whatever, it's been at LEAST 15 minutes, your turn is up soon. Liam lays on the floor. "Get off the floor!!! It's DIRTY!!!!" He cries. He's starving. You pick him up. You put him on the bench. He purposely slides off. You pick him up again. He jellies himself and drops to the floor. You hiss something in his ear about no ice cream. He stands up straight. He grabs you by the face and kisses you. Baby. Ice cream please. "We'll see."<br />
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You take out the dreaded cell phone. The thing you have always VOWED to take out only in times of emergency because it bothers you SO MUCH to see parents shove an electronic device into their kid's hands while acting out. Guess what, sister? You're that person tonight. Thankfully it fills up the exact amount of time it takes for you to get your table and get seated. They have a high chair waiting. Great, your child doesn't fit in a high chair any more...and they're all out of boosters. Of course they are! It's fine, you'll eat with him on your lap.<br />
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You get situated and put in your order. Salad for you, white pizza with broccoli for him. Baby drink. "Let me help-" nope. Words out of my mouth...water on my lap. On my plate. On my purse, on the dreaded phone. The bus boy runs over to help. There's a small waterfall streaming over the side of the table onto the floor. You now have the attention of the entire restaurant. Liam starts to cry, and then like magic, the cold water on his inevitably warm body had encouraged him to, you guessed it! Pee down the leg. Some people would take the high road at this point- offer to help clean up- until you catch your son splashing in the water/pee and you decided you just need to make a clean break from this place. "Can we please get our food to go."<br />
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You shove a $5 tip on a $10 meal in the hands of the bus boy and head for the car, child on the hip, scalding hot box of pizza in your hand.<br />
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Maybe you'll try it again.<br />
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When he's 10.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16538825247599403838noreply@blogger.com0