Why God Didn't Invent Tai Chi Regalia

I'm sure by now we all are aware of the time a restorative yoga class taught me the rather awkward pose of Lady With Head in Toilet Bowl so you may understand why I have a little aversion to all-things-yoga.

Except the pants.

Really.  Have they ever invented a single piece of clothing better than these things?  Face it; these things are perfect.  If I were God, these pants are exactly what I would have sent Adam and Eve out of the garden wearing once they ate that forbidden fruit and realized they were naked.

Stretchy.  Elastic.  Comfy.  Wrinkle free.  Available at Walmart.  BLACK!  Hide everything.  Double as PJ's when you're lazy.  The simple act of wearing them makes people think you have just come from the gym.    The same will be true for leggings the second I lose those extra pounds that make me glad I'm not naked in the garden.

So even though I hate Downward Facing Dog, I love the apparel  in which I am forced to act like a sick canine against my will. 

Not so Tai Chi.

Yeah, this outfit may double as really, really, really big PJ's  (although the front closures look a bit difficile for the lazy girl in me) but just imagine what folks would think if you donned your tai chi pants to run to the grocery store.  And as much as I love the White Crane Spreads Its Wings move, I admit that I'd look like Crazy Woman Wears Big Sleepwear while doing it.

Would God ever contemplate sending you out of the garden wearing this regalia?  I think not.  Even the angels would have been laughing.

For All Those Interested

I suppose it is finally time I told my story about my illness and hospitalization.

Most anyone suffering from an autoimmune disease should be familiar with the roulette wheel of medications.  Physicians keep prescribing them until they find one that sticks.  The one that works, where you don't suffer from its wide range of side effects.

With Sjogren's Syndrome, these second-line medications are called Disease Modifying Anti-Rheumatics.  They are almost all immunosuppressants and meant to be steroid-sparing agents because, although steroids like prednisone do an excellent job at reducing inflammation (and hence joint pain) long term use has proven to be very harmful to joints like hips and knees.  And so, a little more than a year ago my rheumatologist put me on Methotrexate.  After about three months I developed excruciating headaches and so was switched to another drug, Arava.  After about eight months on Arava, we decided that the extent of my hair loss was just not acceptable.

Enter Imuran.  After a medication break over the holidays, I began taking this new immunosuppressant on January 3rd.  A word of explanation here:  I currently take something like 11 different medications on a daily basis, so I may not be as attentive as a normal person would be when starting a new medication.  I was two weeks into it, had no headaches, and my hair loss had slowed down significantly.  And this new medication had the added benefit of not taxing the medicatee's liver so there were no cautions about alcohol consumption while taking it.  Primo for me!  I scheduled myself for the required bloodwork to be done four weeks after starting the medication and thought no more about it.

I began to feel dizzy on January 18th and took some potassium and magnesium supplements because I had a strange premonition that my electrolytes were out of whack.  But that night I began vomiting and so I thought I somehow acquired a stomach bug.  I woke up with a fever of 101 the next morning and the diarrhea and vomiting became quite bad.  Same too the next day.  Yet everyone seemed to tell me that there was this terrible stomach bug going around which lasted two days.  So even though I couldn't lift my head from the pillow without vomiting, I soldiered on.  Saturday morning I felt somewhat better and was even able to keep my morning meds (including my Imuran) down for the first time.  Soon I felt awful again.

For the life of me I cannot figure out why it took me so long to make a connection between my illness and the Imuran, but at last I realized that this immunosuppressant may be making it harder for me to recover.  I truly felt like hell for the third day in a row and finally decided that I should go to the ER.  By the time I got there, I was barely able to talk.  Once I was evaluated by the triage nurses I was rushed into my ER bay where a resident and a nurse were waiting for me.  I remember them putting me into a hospital gown and then I surrendered myself to their care - aware of the fact that I no longer needed to hold myself together.  Grateful, so grateful to be there.

Things happened rapidly.  Blood was taken.  A thermometer was placed in an area I don't want to mention. Bags of IV fluids - including IV antibiotics - went into both arms.  An abdominal CT scan was performed.  I heard them declare success in bringing my heartrate and temp down.  But my blood pressure seemed to remain a problem.  Next there was discussion about the fact that my nose and lips had turned blue.  And my skin was mottled.

What I didn't know was that I was in a state of septic shock and that my blood pressure was at an all-time-low of 50/30.  My kidneys, liver, circulation, electrolytes, and other systems were all shutting down in order to protect my heart.  My thinking was fuzzy.  My heartrate had been at 184; my poor heart working overtime to try to restore my blood pressure.  The only way to bring up my blood pressure was to insert an additional IV in a vein in my neck which flowed directly to my heart and begin to flood me with vasopressers.  Thank God it worked.

But what had happened?  How had I gotten to this state?  My bloodwork revealed that my platelets were reduced and my white blood cells had all but been wiped out and were at extremely low levels - allowing an infection to enter my bloodstream and induce sepsis.  I was experiencing a rare, but potentially life-threatening, reaction to Imuran.

I have since read the over 50 percent of the people who end up with septic shock do not make it.  I have also read that each hour left untreated increases that mortality rate by 6 percent.  I can't help but wonder just how many hours I had left in me.

There's Thinking for You!

This was the best graphic I could find to explain what happened to me.  All of the others had the word death as the next stop after septic shock.  And I can't bring myself to think about that.

But I can't help it.

You see, I was on that very trajectory.  I had septic shock.  I didn't know it.  Didn't think I was that sick. Thought I had a run-of-the-mill stomach bug.  Hemmed and hawed about even going to the emergency room on day three.  And then it hit me.  I was on a new immunosuppressant medication for my Sjogren's.  Maybe that's why I wasn't getting better.  Holy heavens, what took me so long?  What was I thinking?  I'm the very one who spent five weeks in the hospital as a child because I had appendicitis for four full days before going to the ER.  Wouldn't you think that I would have learned my lesson?

So now I'm left with flashbacks of things that happened (or I imagined happened) in the ER.  I'm left with the knowledge that - given another couple of hours without medical attention - I would have died.  I'm left with regrets that I didn't tell my family how much I loved them as the nurses and doctors scurried about; trying to bring my blood pressure up from 50/30.  And for the life of me I just can't imagine why I wasn't praying to God above to save my very life.

Was I just going to lie there and die fat, dumb, and happy?  Was that how my life was going. to end?  With me not having a clue?

Sure, there were times when I was completely out of it, but at some points I was lucid.  When they told me that I would have to go to the I.C.U., I told them it was better because I wouldn't have to wait as long for a bed there.  Now that's thinking for you!  When my nose and lips turned blue, I somehow agreed with them that Sjogren's often makes my lips blue.  What?  I manage to complain about a lot of symptom, but circulation problems that bring about blue lips has never been one of them.  When they expressed concern over the fact that my skin was mottled, I told them that I often get rashes.  Yeah, like WHEN I'M ABOUT TO DIE!!!!  I get rashes then!

And what about the good catholic girl that I am?  I briefly thought about getting last rites but knew that every priest I know - including the hospital chaplain - was at the very same birthday party I was supposed to be attending at that very moment and I didn't want to bother them.  Yes, I was to be the first one to arrive at those pearly gates and tell St. Peter that I arrived there in a state of sin because I had the misfortune of dying on a Saturday night didn't want to be a burden to anyone.

And then I heard music that no one else did.  Not angelic chanting, mind you, but marching music. . . like John Philip Souza music.  Yes, I suppose I was planning on high-stepping on in to the afterlife to Stars and Stripes Forever.

Like I said. . .

Fat.

Dumb.

And happy.

Oh yes, and lucky.  Very, very, lucky!

And the Supreme Being Waits. . .

Does anyone else have a problem keeping your thoughts in line while praying?    

My mind wanders here, there, and then over there again until I realize that I have been keeping the Ultimate Audience waiting.  In the past when my mind would swing back in a moment of startled awakening, I used to envision a somewhat-patient-challenged-Supreme-Being pulling out his pocket watch urging, “Come now woman, back to your story.”  

 One day I read something which changed the way I view things.  It stated that as God looks over the world, he lingers over any face that is weeping or eyes that are laughing; and when he passes a soul in worship, God kneels down too.  So I now picture Him patiently sitting beside me – perhaps thankful for a little down time himself – thinking, “That marvelous mind of hers will have to return to me sometime!” and I somehow feel gladdened that He and I get to spend an extended length of time together in these ways.    

I hope that I can also count on you to act in the same manner whenever I leap into one of my characteristic tangential abysses.

Pain - There I Said It

I was composing a poem the other day.

It wasn't a poem I intended to publish. Ever.  It was sort of a private poem.  Okay, if you simply must know, it was a prayer.  I was composing a poem that I could memorize and say upon waking each morning.  (Proof that you can take the lady out of the church, but you can't take the church out of the lady.) I intended it to be full of gratitude in hopes of helping me to start each morning on a positive note.

And all was going exceedingly well.

Until I attempted to use the word pain.

In fact the exact line was:  Help me to trust that your plan is mighty;
                                        embracing my pain, redemption's reward
                                       When weakness I feel, Lord, let me humbly join to
                                       your lonely passion in one accord.

I know. . .quite lovely isn't it?

All except the use of that one simple word!  I didn't want to use the word pain. I erased it.  I put it back.  I replaced it with suffering.  I put it back.  (Suffering, after all, has too many syllables for that line.) I hemmed.  I hawed.  I felt guilty.  I scratched it out. I put in the word life instead.

What in heaven's name had come over me?

I'll tell you what.    I don't want to be seen as a complainer. .  . a whiner. . .a self-centered-woe-is-me kind of person.  Even in my private prayers to God. Because so many people are suffering with life-threatening illnesses while my disease is just life-changing instead.

And a big part of the change is the "P" word.

Oh, I don't want to use the word, but I live it.

I live in pain and I don't talk about it.

Yes, I live in pain from the moment I wake up in the morning until the moment I wake up twenty-four yours later. (Because, although I sleep, I experience pain throughout the night.  When I roll over. . . when I hobble to the bathroom. . .and when the neuropathy in my feet decides to rear it's painful, ugly head in each and every knuckle of my toes at 4:00 a.m.) Yes, pain is a nocturnal animal.  In fact, it never sleeps.

So what's a another word?  A softer word? A more tolerable word?

Discomfort.

Now discomfort is a whole different animal.  Discomfort is what I feel in my lungs upon waking each morning when I have the sensation they've had the life squeezed out of them.   Discomfort is what I feel in those god-forsaken toes during daylight hours because the inflammation in the nerves has caused the piggy who ate roast beef to pull apart from the piggy who stayed home - causing each of those last three toes to overlap and run away from home, not towards it. In fact, the discomfort is such that - despite the specially ordered shoes I wear - it causes all of my piggies to detest going to the market and opting to stay home instead.  (Do you get the picture? It's some sort of neuritis.)

And discomfort is what I feel from the hallmark symptoms of Sjogren's - dry eyes and dry mouth (Xerophthalmia and Xerostomia respectively.)

Pesky? Troublesome? Difficult?

Yes, all of the above.  But discomfort is almost nuisance-like . . .something I can deal with.   I know these symptoms will be with me for the rest of my life but they can be temporarily relieved through any number of things in my arsenal:  steam. . .water . . .eyedrops . . .lozenges . . .toe alignment socks or flip-flops.

But the "P" word?  My  "P" goes right to the bone and is present with virtually every move I make.  Heels. . .ankles. .  .knees. . . .fingers. . . lower back. .  . and even creeping into my wrists and hips now.

It's pain.  Pure and simple.

And despite the myriad of pills and numerous prescriptions I take around the clock, my pain has gotten worse since the onset of this disease a year ago, not better.

So pain, now, is a fact of my life.  I acknowledge it.  And, as so many others have said before me, I have forgotten what it's like to feel "normal" (a.k.a. pain-free.)

There.  I said it.  Now the word can go back in my prayer.

After all, I'm pretty sure God knew it was there all along. . .

Why Must I Be Responsible for My Angel's Wings???

 

You see George, you've really had a wonderful life.  

Don't you see what a mistake it would be to just throw it away? 



So do you remember the conversations between God and George Bailey's fledgling guardian angel, Clarence, in It's a Wonderful Life?

Well, I keep envisioning my very own bumbling angel (let's just call her Clarese, shall we?) misinterpreting my last post. . .  or perhaps she was just trying to get a good laugh at my expense. . . whatever, that neophyte of a guardian angel read my blog post and ran straight to the Big Guy with it.


How do I know?

While it turns out that I have just a touch of psychic in me, I am completely  Clarese-voiant.   And so this is how it all went down. .  .

________________________________________

Clarese:  Hey God, I read A Mom on Spin's blog again and I saw that she's complaining of boredom.

God:  Bored?   How the holy heck could that woman be bored?  Have we not sent enough challenges her way over the years?  Haven't we given her daughters who suck every last bit of energy out of her?  Doesn't her job overwhelm her at times?   Didn't we just take away her internet access at the shore?  Didn't we just break the air conditioning in her 1999 mini-van for the last - and final - time while making sure that her cleaning lady drives a fully-functioning Land Rover?

Clarese: Yes, God, we did all of that.  But perhaps she wasn't meant to have things go her way.  Perhaps she even thrives on adversity.  Some people do, you know. . .

God:  So what are you suggesting we do?


Clarese:  Well, I think she needs a little more to worry about . . .  a little push so-to-speak. . . something to shake her out of her doldrums. .  .

God:  Are you sure we should throw more stuff at her?


Clarese:  I don't presume to know it all . . . I don't even have my wings yet. . . but I take my job as her guardian angel seriously and I read her blog faithfully.  And  it's all right there in gray and white.   She's down and out.  She needs something to light a fire under her. .  . you know. . .  something to get her blood racing again. .  .

God:  Okay,  if you say so. . .but  it's 1:15 a.m. . . .  do you think she'll answer the phone?

Clarese:  Oh, she'll answer it alright. .  .

God:  Here goes. .  . but Clarese? Can you do me a favor?  Can you at least take pity on her and see to it that the emergency room isn't too busy at this time of night?

Funny, that both God and his angel use ellipsis too. . .  isn't it???

My Silent Language

I feel the need to clear up something here. . .

In thinking about my last few posts, I fear that I may have inadvertently given you the wrong impression.  For after reading over the exploits of the past week I realize that you - my dear readers - may mistakenly believe that I have a mouth like a longshoreman.


So I'm here today to tell you that I don't . . . have a mouth like a longshoreman, that is.

In fact, if you were to ask my husband, family, and co-workers (the priests especially) they would tell you in no uncertain terms that they have never heard a swear word come out of my mouth.   But the truth of the matter is that lately I've been dealing in a steady stream of expletives - in my head only.

Do you know how - when you're learning a foreign language - they'll tell you that you'll know that you have truly mastered that language once you start to think in your new tongue?  Well congratulations must be in order for my rapid learning skills because I now think in obsceniteese.

Case in point . . .

I have recently started using a most peculiar phrase whenever I drop something. . . or when I go to use my makeup remover pads and some teenage daughter has stolen them. . . or when I have to walk into the messy room that once was a neat little nursery. . . or when I go to do a load of wash and find another person's wet clothing still sitting in the bottom of the washer. . . or how about when I go to take my car out of the garage and find a lazy daughter has parked directly behind me . . .  or when I return home at eight o'clock at night and no one has bothered to feed the dog . . .  or when. . . well, you get the picture.

And just what is that peculiar phrase you might ask?


Sh*t and a half!

That's right.  It's no longer good enough to use, Sh*t!  I have to practice one-up-manship and add an extra half - making it, Sh*t and a half!

But, however odd the phrase, the odder thing may be the fact that the displeasure never makes it past my teeth and lips.  Instead, it stays swirling around the jumbled vortex of my head so that, while on the outside A Mom on Spin may appear to be happy, jolly and content, on the inside her brain is twisting, cursing and contorting in a way quite unbefitting a lady of any kind - much less a lady who spends half her life at church.

So you see, my friends, when I did all of that re-entry swearing after vacation, it really was all in my head. . . you know. . . kind of like my own private language.  And ditto for when Trigger incurred all those overdraft charges. . . .the expletives were private thoughts . . .like prayers. . . only the opposite. . .and sometimes the prayers and the swears were even mixed together in one big old half-holy slurry . .  .like, Dear God, would you please help that feckin' Trigger to learn how to manage a freakin' bank account? 


Yeah.  That's it.  A half-holy-prayer-and-swear slurry. . .

What?

Is there anything wrong with that?

Winning the Lottery

So this morning I met Roberto.

He makes and sells bracelets to support his family.  He sells necklaces too. And purses, and shawls, and placemats.

The only problem is that Roberto has just turned 14.

You see, Roberto is a Mayan boy who lives in a tiny corn-stalk house in Guatemala with his mother and sister on one of the most beautiful lakes God ever placed on the face of the earth.  But Roberto's family is painfully poor, and Roberto's mother - like most Guatemalan mothers - planned on withdrawing him from school so that he could work to support the family.

Until a chance encounter changed Roberto's life.

For one day, in a town far from his home, Roberto sold a bracelet to a man.  This man happened to be the founder of not-for-profit organization that builds one-room cement homes for poor Guatemalans.  Something clicked. The man spoke to Roberto's mother and she agreed to let her son stay in school if the man would help her sell the family's textile goods.  Against all odds, the man somehow arranged for Roberto to get a visa to come to the U.S.


I can only imagine that Roberto must feel as though he's won the lottery. . . being allowed to attend Junior High. . . traveling on an airplane. . .discovering the joys of riding an escalator in a shopping mall. . .

Yes, the lottery.

And just yesterday I chanced to encounter a long-time-family friend who - after raising four strong boys - had both the good sense and heart to adopt a tiny young girl from Guatemala.  And this friend brought his children today to meet Roberto.

And I quickly realized how - in this game we call Life - this particular orphaned little girl had somehow won the Mega Millions.

I don't know how many of you remember that Veggie went to Guatemala last Christmas to volunteer to build houses with From Houses to Homes, Guatemala.  And I don't know if you recall how she returned there again for her Spring Break later that year - her senior year in college.  And I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned that Veggie - at this very minute - is in . . . oh, I don't know. . . someplace like Prague. . .or Dresdin . . .or Berlin. . . with the very volunteers she met while in Guatemala. . .  and that she has been living with them in the U.K. since her graduation last summer. . .

But I'm quite sure that I have never stated how proud I am of Veggie for her volunteer efforts in Guatemala.  And how thankful I am to this wonderful family in the U.K. who have embraced her and allowed her to experience an awesome overseas living adventure.

Veggie is due to return home in two short weeks.

And, yes, I feel as if I - too - have won the lottery.

That couldn't be a tear I'm choking back. . . now could it?

And don't forget to visit Roberto's website.  Once you read his story and that of From Houses to Homes, you - too - will suddenly realize that you are more fortunate than you have ever known.

Hello God? Hold the Phone!

Hello God?

Can you hear me now?

I know I'm a day late for our weekly conversation (and do you think you could possibly do something about the "dollar short" part too?)

Anyway God, I want to start off by talking about Cheetos.  The crunchy kind.   Do you think there is any possibility that you could get someone to make them where the orange-cheesy-powdery stuff doesn't get all over your fingers when you eat them?  For some reason, the keyboard of my new netbook is developing an orange sheen. . .

But that's not what I called to tell you.

I want to tell you that I've become aware of more-than-a-few instances where life in general has become unusually unbearable for some folks within my ken, and I won't bore you with the whole Why? question again, but I feel the overwhelming need to raise my hand and shout Hold the Phone!

So Hold the Phone! (if you will. . . .) while I rail against the following. . .  

But she was only 35!  Perhaps that particular melanoma could have been saved for someone who didn't leave behind three small children.  And a handsome husband.  And a beautiful home. And a fairy tale spoiled.

But he is merely 31!  And also the parent of two young toddlers.  What would make anyone think they had a right to beat another soul within an inch of his life?  Leaving his father devastated - and trying to hold it all together???

But she has young kids!  You tell me what complicated jumble of depression/ambition/helplessness would cause a mother of three young children to jeopardize their childhood by doing anything that could send her to jail for five precious years of their lives?  And - perhaps more importantly - how was there no one there to stop her?

But she's only 20!   And here we quickly fall into the old  There but for the grace of God go I . . . saying that my mother used to mutter at others' unfortunate events.  Let's leave it at that, shall we?  I know I might very-well be in her parents' shoes one day. . .


And - last, but never least. . .

But she has blond hair!  Okay, I can't really come up with another reason that someone shouldn't be suffering from the strange and eerie symptoms that she's experiencing. . . but she's young. . . and beautiful. . .and blond. . . yes, she's a God-fearing person!


So that's it, my friend, in toto.   I now conclude my written correspondence for the week.  You can keep the whole Cheetos thing on the back burner for a while if you need to.   I realize that some of my action items may be more time-sensitive than others, but it really would be kind of awesome. .  .wouldn't it????

Oh. . . and about that little swear word in front of you today. . . at the tabernacle?   I really didn't mean to blurt it out like that, but that door to your house is heavy and that broken nail hurts like a mother. . .  .

Hello God? It's Me Again. . .

 

Hello God?   Can we talk?

As I'm sure you already know, Trigger was home this weekend.

That's right, Trigger was home for the first time since she left for college over six weeks ago.

Now I don't pretend to call myself an expert on dorm life or anything, but I'm convinced this may have been the first opportunity our little Trigger had to actually sleep since she left home.  And the first opportunity to shop. . . and the first to get her eyebrows threaded. . . and her nails mani-pedi-ed. . . Oh yeah. . . and the first time she actually did her laundry ( 'cause it seems that if you spend all those extra flex dollars your mother puts on your student card on Pumpkin Spice Lattes, suddenly there will be none left over to do your laundry . . . )

But it was also our first opportunity to embark on a new more-grown-up mother/daughter relationship.

Just how did it go? you might ask.  Let's look on the bright side and say that - although it may have been the first - it will definitely not have been the last.  . .

And so I find  -  Dear Lord - that I'm in a position where I simply must ask you once more. . .

Watch over that little Trigger of mine. . . keep her safe and warm (even though I refused to buy her that new white Northface jacket) . . .  Keep her healthy (promise me you'll make her phone that prescription in and start taking her meds like she is supposed to, 'cause  Friday's phone call from her NYC Rhuematologist with her blood test results should have been enough to scare the bejesus out of anyone. . .)  Make sure you drag her little butt out of bed for her 8:00 a.m. classes and teach her that all-nighters should be reserved for exam time only.   Remind her always to clean her hair off of the shower walls (she does have roommates, you know. . . ) and show her the miracle of  putting more flex-dollars on her student card from her own bank account!  Make sure she's eating a healthy diet (once more, the absence of flex points rules out her prior vending machine diet. .  .) And in regards to her social life and the sorority she's joined?   Could you make sure that she remembers to stand on her own two feet (despite the fact that she will be forced to stand in her old Uggs and not the new pair she begged me for. .  .) and doesn't do anything too wild and crazy with those frat boys???

Could you do that, Lord?

'Cause God knows  (yes, You! ) I can't.

Hello God? Can We Talk . . . Again???

Hello God?

I am very sorry to be phoning on what I'm sure must be a big day for you.  I admit I don't know much a  Judaism, but - if Jewish guilt is anything like Catholic guilt  - folks must be flocking to you in droves on the Day of Atonement.

But never-the-less, I have an urgent little matter to discuss with you.

I fear that I may have single-handedly disrupted the circle of life.

As you know, I have been serving as The Grim Reaper's useful sidekick (Funerals R Me) for close to four years now.   And never before have we had a dry spell like this. A week without a funeral?  Perhaps.  Two weeks? Maybe once or twice. . .  But two whole months without a funeral???  Unheard of!

And somehow last night during my sleepless Goldilocks-bed-hopping escapade, it hit me!

I told people not to die!   Right here on this blog.  I told them not to die because I was going on vacation at the end of July.

And no one has died since!

You know how you often hear from the hospice folks that sometimes you have to give people permission to die???  Well God?  Can you tell them that they didn't really need to stretch their expiration dates that far?  I really didn't mean to upset the celestial apple cart. . . or disrupt the natural life/death flow. . . I just wanted a peaceful vacation. . .

God? Can We Talk?

Hello God????

I only need to say one thing this week.

Thanks.

If it were another day. . . another week. . . another reason for this post. . . perhaps I could elaborate.

As for today? I've cried tears of happiness. . . tears of joy. . . tears of sadness. . . tears of elation . . . I've cried so blasted many times today, I'm not sure there are many left left for when I tuck myself into bed tonight.

And so I believe that a mere "Thank you" will suffice.

Thank you for a day that meant so much to so many. . .

Another Letter to The Big Guy

Dear God,

I'm sorry to go straight to the top on this one ( I know we Catholics usually use a more circuitous route) but I need to ask you a question.

It's about my friend Dora. . . we've spoken about her before. . . you know . . . she's the 450-pound-mildly-retarded woman who cares for her 500-pound-bedridden-husband, Meke (of course, I've changed their names around a bit for the sake of their privacy, but, hey. . . you know who I'm referring to . . . right???)

Well, my question is . . . and I don't mean any disrespect. . . but. . . (Oh, don't I hate it when my daughters preface a statement by saying. . . No offense, but. . . ) well anyway . . . my question is. . .Why is life so damn miserable for some people????

And the reason I'm asking, God, is because yesterday she came to me in her motorized wheelchair to pick up her monthly food vouchers and she looked at me with those big brown eyes and cried, Liz, who can help me with Meke? I gotta talk to somebody!!! And although I can't elaborate on her woes right here (for they concerned a lack of hygiene and some bodily functions which I would rather not discuss with the general public. . .) I was overwhelmed by a sense of sadness for poor Dora and the daily trials which she must be enduring.

And more than that, I was humbled by her trials.

Her trials. . . so much greater than having some teenage daughters who drive her to distraction. . . who push the envelope. . . who break the rules. . .

For there she is. . . barely able - both physically and mentally - to live alone in a cold-hearted society, much less to be burdened by another whose needs are greater than hers. . . . living in the "projects" . . . scraping by on only the generosity of others . . . And (I dare say) knowing that if she makes the unthinkable choice of putting her husband in a Medicaid-accepted nursing home, her own precarious living situation may be compromised.

And so I ask you now, dear God, to be with her. . . to see that perhaps those small steps I made with her. . . the only phone call that I knew how to make. . . will be enough to provide her with some relief. . . some comfort . . . some reprieve. . .

And I guess I don't really need an answer to that Why is life so miserable? question. I guess I just need to know that you will hear my plea on her behalf and do whatever it is that a God like you decides to do.

And yes, I thank you for the dose of humility which I so desperately need from time to time. . .

and don't expect a p.s. 'cause I don't want to push my luck here. . .

Seatbelts on Wheelchairs and Words that I've Written

Dear Dad,

Welcome home.

I can honestly say that the neighborhood has not been the same without you for these past three weeks.

For there has been no 85-year-old sun worshiper perched on his front lawn. . . no noisy early riser rifling through the recycling bin next-door. . . . and no well-read copies of Business Week carefully maneuvered into our overstuffed mailbox.

Oh yeah - and even though Mom told everyone she was doing fine without you, I think she was scared to admit that she missed you too.

We've all known that you've had early stage Alzheimer's now for quite a few years, but I guess we've been crossing our fingers and hoping for the best. I - for one - could not imagine that anything could get the better of your giant-sized intellect. The disease may bring down others - I thought - but clearly it had never encountered an individual with your brain power.

And yet somehow these past few years have ushered in more than a few unwelcome and unforeseen changes. And you - my father - have faced each one of these challenges with untold grace and dignity.

For suddenly the man who taught his seven children how to drive, could no longer sit behind the steering wheel himself.

The permanent deacon who - at each Sunday dinner - asked us to discuss the homily, could no longer preach . . . or baptize. . . or assist in liturgies.

The father who used to pay his children a quarter to search for his missing glasses had grown poor in spirit - losing his wallet. . . keys. . . Yankees cap. . . and beloved Magnificat on a daily basis.

The Wall Street banker who misplaced his ATM card one-too-many times, could no longer carry it with him.

And - perhaps the most unsettling of all - a few short weeks ago, the first mortal born with an inboard GPS system, misdirected me while riding shotgun.

And now we have this.

The aftermath of The Fall.

And we silently watched as the forward thinking consumer who demanded seat belts be installed in our 1966 Chrysler station wagon, was alarmed and belted into his wheelchair at the rehab center. . . and the fitness enthusiast who used to rise at 5:00 a.m. to do his calisthenics and run laps (quite literally) around our dining room table each morning, came home with a walker.

Tough. . . all of it.

So excuse us if we hover.

Pardon us if we don't give you the independence which you so rightly deserve.

And be patient with us if we choose cheery conversational topics instead of asking you how you really feel about this new normal in your life.

For we know that one thing remains unchanged - your capacity to see the best in all of us.

Love always,

Oh. . . and one more thing. . . if you know what's good for you. . . . never - and I mean NEVER- call Mom Nursie again. . . for she doesn't always share your sense of humor about such things. . .

Got the world on a string. . . (and I don't mean a G-string)

Got the world on a string

sittin' on a rainbow

got the string tied around my finger

what a world. . . what a life. . .

I'm in love. . .

- Ted Koehler

I completely glommed on to Adlibby's idea last night and gave my blog a new facelift. Do you like it? I was afraid that I would wake up this morning with blogger's remorse, but when I awakened and saw my little leprechaun winking at me - I knew I was in love! (Of course, he's not winking at you because he's down on the next post. You get to look at tinkerbell now, but she's doing her best to look cute for you - I dare say she almost looks coy. . . a little hussie-ish or coquettish, if I do say so myself. . . you know, like she's wearing a G-string or something . . . no wonder those boys never wanted to grow up. . . . )

But I digress!

I couldn't wait to get to work this morning because I knew it was going to be a perfect day. . . .


Knew that my boss (the good "Father") would be on the golf course for the first time since the fall. Alleluia!!! (Whoops, I forgot . . . we buried that word for lent.)

Knew that the parish secretary had scheduled the day off. . .

Knew that the office assistant doesn't work on Wednesdays. . .


And so I carried my blogging boots into work, placed them under my desk, made myself a pot of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. . . sat down at my sunny little desk . . . beside my sunny window . . . with the sunny little daffodils on it . . . and here I am . . . blogging at work!!! It's a miracle! I'm happy!

And you know what else is a miracle??? (Well, maybe not a miracle, per se, perhaps more like a good omen. . .) I was a wee bit on the early side this morning and so I saw the perfect children of the woman with the perfect coats at their bus stop with their Grandpa (yes, my friends, at times the extended family stands at the bus stop to see the perfect children off to school) and they were fighting!!!!! The perfect children were fighting!!! So I gave them a little Toot! Toot! with my horn and proceeded on with my perfect day.

What a world. . . what a life. . .

And I dare anyone to try and mess it up for me today!!!!!

p.s. Well maybe someone better try to mess it up, because my next task is to write a post for Secret Spineless Whine and I'm not sure I know how to whine when I'm happy. . . Bring it on, people!!!

My future's so bright, I gotta wear boots

In case you didn't notice, I didn't post yesterday.

Instead, I spent the night being jealous of this man.


Well, not actually jealous, because he's - well- dead, but let's just say. . . . envious of his accomplishments. (Yes, folks, I heard another eulogy yesterday.)

This quiet and humble man was a furniture maker, an engineer, a classical pianist, a clock-fixer, a painter, a world traveler, and - by the looks of this picture that his daughter painted of him - a coffee drinker. And what's more, he spawned generations of gifted artists to follow in his footsteps. His children and grandchildren are musicians, dancers, painters, actors, writers, and missionaries.

You know, about a month ago I purchased a pair of those crazy rain boots - brown with pink polka dots to to be exact - and I've been holding off on wearing them . . . waiting for the perfect rainy day so I wouldn't feel silly.

Mark my words. . . I'm wearing those boots tomorrow, come rain or come shine. And - from this day forward - I'm going to be joyful, life-loving bootwearer!!!!

That's them! The exact boots I bought and will wear tomorrow!!!!

The reason I know God has a sense of humor

I'm sorry to trouble you with extra reading, but if you want to know precisely why I know that God has a sense of humor, you're going to have to do a little extra work today.

First, I would like you to read the post that I wrote last night and planned for today. The post was in the form of a letter to a woman who is an acquaintance of mine through my job. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Fannie Dae Kell,

This letter will serve a two-fold purpose.

First . . . I would like to thank you (in a long-overdue manner) for your Christmas present comprised of the not-so-gently-used-leather-pocketbook-with-evidence-of-someone-else's-life-in-it-in-the-form-of-tissue-droppings-and-the-two-tubes-of-already-used-lipstick-in-the-zipper-pocket. It was (in many ways) the most thoughtful gift I have ever received.
I hope that you don't mind that I passed your gift along to our parish secretary on her recent birthday. A gift like that is too good not to be shared. . .

Secondly. . . I need to inform you that I am hereby removing myself from your "case" (not that you have a "case" but somehow it seems right to call it that. . . )

Yes my friend, as of the writing of this letter, I am going to run into the conference room whenever I see you coming and declare myself in a meeting until you leave.

I can't help it, Fannie Dae Kell, I am - quite literally - giving away the store to you!!!! You know I can't resist it when you flash that gold tooth at me and pass me those little love notes when you think no one is looking. . . . the ones that read. . . need $ for wash clothes. . . or when you twist your face into that distorted look when I ask you if maybe you shouldn't get food stamps. . . or when you beg me to drive you home to the seniors center in the middle of a snow storm. . .

My heart goes out to you, Fannie Dae Kell . . . but the church and I are going bankrupt in the process!

Have you seen me driving Dora Schmalton around? Is that the problem??? Do you think I'm spending all my excess cash on her???? But you must have noticed, Fannie, that Dora is a good 400 pounds and needs some help . . . have you not seen her zipping around town in her motorized wheelchair? It's tough for her in all this snow and ice. Those wheelchairs don't come with four-wheel-drive, you know. . . One wrong move and she's toast! Besides, she has no one else to drive her around. . . God knows her husband can't help her at all because he weighs more than she does. . . and they need a lot of food - those Schmaltons. . . a few extra pork chops now and then are all I can do . . .

They won't take your place. . . Honestly!

Be grateful for your gift of health, my dear (even if I did have to give you bus money to go and have an ultrasound of your distorted stomach and to find the root of those damned nose-bleeds - the proof of which you always feel the need to show me in the form of a bloody tissue . . . See, my nose is bleeding again!!!!) for who knows when we may end up helpless like Dora Schmalton. . .

But - in all honesty - I can not stand it when you sit there looking like I've wronged you in some way by not financing your every move!!!

You remind me of my daughters!!!!!

And, for that reason alone, I am hereby declaring myself Off Duty! whenever I see you coming!!!!!!

With all hopes for your future success, I am. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So here is the reason I think that God is chuckling at me from upstairs. . .

This evening when I left work I needed to pick up some ingredients for dinner. Now usually I run to the pricey grocery store around the corner, but suddenly I remembered that my trendy minivan has developed quite an annoying squeak (yes, it's relevant, keep reading. . . ) and I'm tired of other mothers in their S.U.V.'s looking down on me (quite literally) thinking How could she drive around in that squeaky old thing? or Don't tell me she's still missing that hubcap! and so I decided to run to the cheapy A & P instead.

That's where God comes in. . .

I no sooner walked through the doors, but who should I see?

Now I know you're thinking off the bat, I bet she saw Fannie Dae Kell! but you're wrong!

I saw Dora Schmalton in her wheelchair with an overflowing basket of groceries on her "lap" and a loaf of bread dangling from the wheelchair's arm! (Shopping, of course, with the $40 in food cards that I had given her earlier in the day. . . )And so I cry, Hello, Dora! Are you going to be okay getting home with all that stuff? Do you need a ride or anything? (Although how in God's good earth I was going to put that wheelchair in my squeaky hubcap-challenged van, I just didn't know. . .you see, she's not lame or anything. . . she usually walks to and from the car when I drive her.) Well anyway, she declares that she's perfectly fine and off she zips. And I, in turn, go on my way. . . rounding the corner into the first aisle when who do you suppose I saw next????

If you guess Fannie Dae Kell now, you're right!!!

Liz! says she, I was just thinking about you! I'm out of my A & P cards and I don't have enough money to pay for my stuff!

And so I knuckled in and handed over $20, a ride home, and a promise that I would sneak her some more food cards tomorrow.

And that - my friends - was when I caught God laughing.

I don't care what you call the entity that I refer to as "God". . . Supreme Being. . . All-Knowing. . . Allah. . . Buddha. . . Creator. . . Brahma. . . Divine Spirit. . .

Call God what you will. . . but you have to admit, She's got one heck of a sense of humor!!!

Spring Break

Well, Number One Daughter has headed south for her spring break. But I don't think I need to worry about her appearing on one of those Girls Gone Wild videos.

That's because she left this morning for Guatemala to volunteer again with From Houses to Homes, Guatemala

She enjoyed her service trip to Guatemala on her winter break so much, she has headed back again.

For once, I am left speechless. . .

And in awe. . .

And without a complaint. . .

This child can't be my daughter!!!!

A letter to the big man

Dear God,

Thank you for sending that Angel of Mercy to the Stop 'n Shop earlier today.

I was clearly in a bad way. . . what, with the sudden intestinal distress that came over me not even halfway through the store. . . leaving me faced with a decision . . . Should I abandon my grocery cart right there and then? Could I possibly make it all the way to the dairy aisle???

When push came to shove, I just couldn't abandon all of those items I had so carefully placed in my shopping cart, so I beat a hasty retreat to the self-checkout with the chosen items, where - of course - I encountered some technical difficulties. . .

But you were so kind as to send that Angel with the Slovak accent who scanned my whole order for me. I promised that I would give that nice lady a recommendation for a cashier's job, but I figure it would be better to put in a good word for her to the big guy himself.

In my rush to leave the store, I didn't get her name, but hey - you're God - I'm sure you already know who she was.

If you have any questions, I believe you know where to find me.

With fondest regards, I remain. . .

p.s. I hope you didn't take offense when I chanted Sweet Jesus, come and squeeze us! as my mantra on the way home, but it was truly a long ride - proving that I should never again travel more than two miles from home in search of a bargain. . . .

Daughter Number One returns home

I am only one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something.

And I will not let what I cannot do interfere with what I can do.

~Edward Everett Hale

For all who are wondering. . .

Yes, Daughter Number One made it home from her service trip to Guatemala safe and sound. . . and, Yes, she loved it. . . and No, she didn't even mind the bugs. . . and Yes, she desperately wants to go back for her spring break. . . and Yes, she still wants to join the Peace Corps when she graduates in May. . . and Yes, in an unpredictably strange way, her mother has come around to her decision. . . and Yes, her often reticent mother is proud of her!

While there she helped to build a home for a poor Mayan family . . .

Each home costs approximately $3,000, which covers the cost of the construction materials, transportation, salaries, rent, office expenses, etc. Our homes are 13 x 19 foot homes, made entirely of concrete block, with cement floor, corrugated metal roof, with skylight, a metal door with lock, and a metal-framed window with glass. The home is stuccoed and painted inside and out with colors chosen by the home owner. A plaque with your name will be placed on the home honoring your donation.

Don't forget to check out their site http://www.fromhousestohomes.org/