Welcome February!

2015 Feb 1

Welcome February! 

Historically, I have seen February as the light at the end of winter's dark tunnel. It helps that February is a short month and contains three benchmarks for me: Ray's and my wedding anniversary, Valentine's Day, and my birthday. Three celebratory days when one is encouraged, by custom, to eat cake, contribute to the fact that I enjoy February. 

In the past, when we were living in Pittsburgh, we often took a vacation to Corolla, NC, in the month of February. Now, in our current living situation on Hatteras Island, we are looking forward to other family members taking a vacation to Corolla. Perhaps as many as four of my brothers (but, probably at least two or three), my sister, as well as my adopted 'sister from another Mother', are planning a vacation to the OBX's northern beaches in late February.  I am beyond excited! 

There is also the possibility of a trip to Staten Island in mid February. Pat and Van, two longtime Ocean Waves Campground campers and workers, have invited us to come to visit them. Actually, we were invited earlier in the off season, but were reluctant to leave Hatteras Island until after the holiday season. We then settled on a date in January, which got bumped by winter storm Juno. Then we planned to spend Super Bowl weekend, but again, the weather was uncooperative, as that area of NY is expecting a winter storm with snow, ice and freezing rain. As it stands, we will visit, but not until mid February, and only if the weather cooperates! 

Gosh! February is going to zoom by this year! I am grateful that the month began with warmer temperatures, diminished wind, and sunshine. We have experienced much cold and freezing winds this winter, as well as a few nor'easters. Having celebratory dates to observe, and visits to anticipate, is certain to make the light at the end of winter's tunnel even brighter.

2015 Jan 28, Beauty, Joy, and a Certain Peace

Beauty, Joy, and a Certain Peace

Monday afternoon as we returned from a trip to Manteo, NC, I noticed a particular colorful aspect to the clouds. We were headed south on Hwy 12, in the area near Bodie Island Lighthouse. There are, fortunately, patches along that stretch of road to pull over, so we did. I was certain the sun and clouds were about to amaze with a beautiful sunset display. I was not disappointed.

Poor Raymond does not have the same ability to see some of the potential for color in the sky that I have, due to his color deficiency. So, some of the beauty I saw immediately, was lost to him. I often find myself trying to explain what I am seeing, and getting confused looks from him. Some of the pinks that I saw on Monday, appear as yellows to him. But, I digress.

As I took photo after photo, I realized that one of the clouds had what was to me, a distinctive Lab profile shape. The more I watched it, the more distinctive it became. Unfortunately, the only camera I had with me was my phone, but I zoomed in anyway. 

As the "Angel Cloud Dog" took shape, I began to cry. 

Earlier that afternoon, I had been thinking about our Greyla Girl a lot. I was missing her. But, the Greyla I was missing, was not the frail, elderly dog whom we had allowed to cross the Bridge last November, but, rather, the silly, often goofy, sometimes mean girl we had raised from a pup. The thought plaguing me that afternoon, was whether we had held onto her too long. Had we egotistically made her last months harder than they would've been out of selfishness, because we didn't want to let her go? 

And then I saw the dog shaped profile in the clouds. I pointed it out to Raymond, but it seemed to have much more significance to me. I took it as a sign that Greyla bore no ill will toward the selfish humans who loved her too much. It seemed to me that it was a sign that Greyla was, indeed, at peace and in a joyful place. I took it as communication that there is beauty, joy and peace, if we look for it. Yes, I cried. In fact, I still cry when I look at the series of photos I took that afternoon. I cry because sometimes the beauty in the world is overwhelming. I cry because that beauty, though overwhelming, also brings me joy. And on that particular afternoon, I cried because seeing an "Angel Cloud Dog", brought me peace.

Watery Oblivion

The sea calls to me
the waves crash
the wind blows
and I am drawn to the roughness of the surf and the depth of the water

Today there is no sun a front is moving in

I am filled with tears I cannot shed
Perhaps my tears desire to mingle with the salty ocean
to merge with their perceived kin

For the first time in my life, I want to walk out into the surf 


                                                             2014 Nov 1

The Comfort of Watery Oblivion

2014 Nov 1

If you are a reader of Mind Flotsam, or a Facebook friend, or a friend in real life, or any combo of those, you may know that I deal with clinical depression. My personal opinion is that it is partly hereditary, partly seasonal, partly brain chemistry related. I take medication, which may help the condition. I know it did help when it was initially prescribed. In recent years, I have begun to doubt the ongoing benefits of fluoxetine therapy. That is not my reason for writing, though.

I need to try to articulate a brief thought that occurred to me yesterday as I sat on the dune line, staring out to the ocean. The thought may or may not have been related to my chronic depression. I need to put it out there, in an attempt to somehow banish it from my future.

Perhaps just a little more background is necessary. While I LOVE being near the beach, ocean, water, I rarely get wet, unless its raining. I do not swim. Nor do I venture into the surf, even when it is gentle. I will sometimes walk along the water and allow my feet to get wet. But at no time do I venture into the surf, to any depth above my knees. Though I am a person who loves the ocean, I also have extreme fear of moving water, especially deeper than say, eighteen inches.

So, try to understand the confusion that gripped me when, while sitting looking out at the raging waves yesterday, I suddenly felt drawn to walk out into the waves. Me, the person fearful of more than calf deep water. These were waves  breaking onshore with strength that ate up the sand and a height of about 3 feet. 

For a moment, it seemed I was drawn toward the water, and the possibility of oblivion. There was no value judgement attached to this desire. It only seemed like a good idea, to allow myself to be engulfed by the water, embraced by it, as it were. I didn't give any thought to the water temperature, or what anyone would think. For the time span during which I felt mesmerized enough to do this, I had no other thought. 

It was only scary in retrospect. When I "came to myself" and realized how comforted I was by this thought, I suddenly became frightened. Frightened by how desperately I had to force myself to think about the idea with logic and with the idea of consequence. Even then, it was a struggle to let go of what was an appealing, thoroughly comforting idea. I prayed for God to help me to get a grip. Then, I cried.

I sat there on the dunes for some time, trying to figure the whys and wherefores of this thought of walking into the embrace of the wild ocean and into oblivion. When I came home, I tried to talk to R about it, but that was not fruitful.

So, today, even though the thought has departed, I must write about it in an attempt to exorcise future thoughts of this type. 

Greyla

2014 Sept 27

 Mind Flotsam ~ GREYLA

Yesterday was a beautiful day weather wise, but an extremely heavy day emotionally. I awoke from a pleasant dream, feeling that something had worked toward resolution with regard to an old emotional wound. A good start to a good day, was my hope.

When I took Greyla out for a walk, the day began to turn emotionally darker. 

Greyla is 15 years, 5 months old, and has some neurological degeneration in her hindquarters, along with arthritic changes. Her vision is poor and her hearing less than perfect. However, her sense of smell and the pleasure she derives from sniffing is topnotch. We walked through the grassy area that she loves, out to the highway, where she always stands with her nose scenting the breeze from the Sound, which I am sure is rich with salty sea smells. Then we returned to our space and RV. 

As we walked the area between our Jeep and the RV, Greyla misstepped and fell down. Because her hindquarters are weak, I tried to support her as she attempted to rise. This resulted in her front legs giving out for the first time that I had noted, and her snout hit the concrete. 

When I finally got her inside the RV, and explained to R what had transpired, he seemed to think it was an anomaly.  My thinking was more dire, which set me on a path of wondering how we will know when the appropriate time comes to put our girl down.

With Blue, our first dog, I had the guidance of both our regular Vet whom I trusted implicitly, along with the Vets I worked with at the emergency Veterinary clinic, and my dear friend Carol, also a Vet. Blue had dual problems, in that she had a tumor on her liver, as well as renal dysfunction. It was the hardest decision we ever had been faced with at the point in our lives, yet we knew what and when it had to be done. 

With Jake, our second dog, the diagnosis was less clear, and we took the necessary step to gain clarity before making any decisions. Once we were relatively certain his 13 year old body was suffering from Leukemia, I was still unable to let him go. I loved that boy with my heart and soul, and so for a short time, while he was on steroids in massive doses, I slept on the floor of our sunroom with him, as his IV bag hung from the ceiling fan. He was unable to stand on his own. I remember awaking from a nap in the middle of the night, on the floor next to him. He had had a bloody bowel movement and attempted to scoot himself away from it, resulting in his beautiful face being inches from the poop. I am haunted by the look in his eyes. At that moment, in perfect clarity I saw that I was keeping him alive only for me.

Our third dog, Baxter, was a rescue who came to us at six years of age. We loved him for six years. At 12 he began to have problems with walking and balance. After x-rays and lengthy exams and observations, it was determined that he had a brain tumor, in the area controlling his balance. It would only exacerbate with time. It hurt, but there was clarity about the decision.

Katie was the fourth dog we put down. She came from a shelter and lived with us for 13 years, which made her probably around 16 when we faced her euthanasia. She made the decision easy for us. She stopped eating, gradually and then refused to drink. She communicated her need to move beyond this life very clearly. She was the only one of our dogs to that point, who didn't die at home, yet it seemed fitting, as she loved all the people at our Vet's office, so when the time came, she was among lots of people who loved her, in addition to her family.

Greyla is another story all together! There were those, including our trusted Vet, who counseled us to put her down in April of 2013, when abdominal x-rays showed the reason for her labored breathing to be a mass, extending from her diaphragm to her small intestine. But, because nobody could site the origin of that mass, we chose to have an ultrasound, ostensibly as part of the diagnostic process. From the ultrasound we discovered that the point of connection for Greyla's mass was her spleen, not her liver, as we had feared. After much consultation with both the Vet who did the ultrasound and our steadfast, caring Vet, Ed Bennett, we opted to go forward with surgery to remove Greyla's spleen and the mass, knowing full well all the ramifications. Greyla's recovery after the splenectomy slow, but steady. And there has not been one day when we have regretted that decision. 

I need to say, that all of that did not take place in a vacuum. Only three months before Greyla's surgery, I had received information that my Daddy had stage four lung cancer, discovered when he required emergency surgery for a bowel obstruction. I was not prepared to have so little control over so many events in such a brief period of time. Keeping Greyla alive at that point, gave the illusion of some control.

While we were in Pittsburgh, both last year, and again briefly in late April, Greyla has had follow ups with her Vet. We currently have her on a combo of meds to ease her arthritic inflammation, as well as to ease any pain she has. We do not have a Vet here on the Island. However, All Pet Animal Hospital and their staff have been wonderful via long distance. 

The problem is, now that I see deterioration, and although she still enjoys going outside to sniff,and she has never peed in the house, although she does poop in the house in a laying position regularly, she still eats though with less gusto, and drinks normally, and we are mostly able to manage her pain, I'm not sure how to gauge when it is time to let her go. Add to that, the complexity of R's relationship with her. Greyla is technically R's dog. She was a gift to him for his 50th birthday, as he had expressed a desire for another female black lab. 

The other night I thought I saw just a shadow of the look that Jake gave me that haunts me still. However, I don't want to be the one who makes this determination. I don't fully trust myself ~ the past year has been a difficult emotional one for me, filled with loss and mourning, on many levels. And Greyla, although a sweet dog in many ways, is not the brightest bulb on the tree :) I'm not certain she has the depth of spirit that Jake had, so it could be that I'm allowing guilt to see things that don't really exist.

R's response to my queries yesterday regarding Greyla's health and general well being was, "Her life's not so bad right now". Is he correct? Or is he delusional? 

How do we know what is right and when it's right? Do we wait for her to be unable to walk at all? To pee in the house? To loose all interest in food? Does her dignity come into play? And does she even have the self awareness to have "dignity"? 

Yesterday, my conclusion was to wait it out until R sees and resolves that  the time has come.  Today I find myself wondering if he sees through eyes so blinded by love for her, as I was with Jake, that he is missing important clues to her well being.

I spend too much time crying because I fear the loss, yet cannot bring myself to say with certainty that now is the time to let her go. This sucks.

Random Thoughts On Soul Mates and The Love of One's Life

2014 August 14

Random Thoughts

Several days ago, a friend posted on Facebook, a quote which basically said that the concept of "soul mate" and "love of your life" are not the same concept, but rather separate concepts that involve choice.

My knee-jerk reaction was to disagree. In my mind and heart, the concepts were intertwined. The idea that there is one person to whom my soul responds, as if we are, both somehow, tuned to the same frequency. A single person whom I instinctively trust completely, even in areas where I had been afraid to trust previously. One individual to whom I am drawn, as if by powerful magnetism, who also is compelled toward me, in the same fashion. These were the concepts that in my mind, defined both the love of one's life and one's soul mate.

Until I read what Chris posted on her wall on Facebook, I thought that both my soul mate and the love of my life, were one human being who passed through my life nearly forty years ago. I see now, that while that may have been true at that time, I have changed and grown in the interim. I married and committed to marriage with someone whom I did not view as either my soul mate, nor the love of my life. And to be honest, I am aware that he doesn't see me as either of those in his life. So we made a choice to love each another. As our vows said, "..for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death parts us." That was A CHOICE!  

Then I began to think about it, as the original writer had expressed, as a choice. Perhaps one's soul mate is the person to whom your soul resonates, as if tuned to the same frequency. But, perhaps, the love of your life, depends on your definition of love. And perhaps throughout our lives, that definition can change, according to our spiritual, emotional, and psychological growth.

As I thought about the idea of both soul mate, and love of one's life, it occurred to me that looking at it from a Christ-perspective, isn't our Creator, Redeemer and Comforter, the true and real fulfillment of both these concepts? 

If real, true, agape love is about honoring the "other person", then haven't we all been done the greatest honor by Christ? He loves us unconditionally, and awaits each of us, patiently, till we turn to him. Even when things we do pain him and are an affront to goodness, still he waits, loving us, even in our sinfulness. That seems to me, to be perfect love. 

Too often, I let the corporeal define how I interpret concepts like soul mate and love of one's life.  I know I am not alone in this. Too many people are caught up in how the world defines us. The things of this world will pass, including our bodies. So, why define important things by limited concepts?   What is the first thing we learned as children, in catechism? In case you don't remember, or didn't have catechism, the answer is: God is love. So, shouldn't we always choose love?  Perhaps that is what the originator of my friend's post meant. God loves us, in spite of ourselves. We need to learn how to do that - to love each other, regardless of the circumstances. That starts with a CHOICE.

'All Growed Up', as my friend Laura would say...

2014 Feb 17

Yesterday I met one of our neighbors here in the RV Park for the first time. She and I were comparing notes on how challenging this winter has been for so many folks, health wise, and in other ways, as well.

I mentioned, in conversation, that my father passed away in January. It was the first time, I realized later, that I had spoken those words without tears welling up. And, as I thought about that later, I wondered what kind of a daughter can reach such a point in so short a time frame?  I felt guilty. 

However, as I sit typing those words, I am crying. So, I am guessing that I am the kind of daughter who now grieves alone, rather than in public. I am the kind of daughter who dreams of her Daddy, and wakens sobbing. I am the kind of daughter who knows I will see him again, but who is saddened that he is away from my senses at present. I am a daughter like many others, I suppose. Certain dates will bring tears to my eyes and longing to my heart. Yet, I will bear that pain in private, rather than uncontrollably, wherever I happen to be when it rises up. 

Is this what it means to "be grown up'?

2014 Feb 2 A New Beginnng

2014 Feb 2

Very recently, my husband had a bout of pancreatitis. It was the worst he's experienced, and he's had some bad ones, starting back in June, 2004. For years our PCP has treated him while continually explaining to him the need for him to stop drinking. While he did finally forgo hard liquors, he continued to consume beer, on a daily basis, and occasionally wine. The decision to stop is one that only the person consuming alcohol can make. 

My husband says he has made that decision. 

Great! Wonderful! To God be the glory! Well, yes. Absolutely. 

Yet, as with any change, there is something frightening about this shift in the whole dynamic of our relationship. This is all new, for both of us. Our roles have been well established over our long years together. Sometimes there has been an irritating imbalance. Yet, our patterns seemed set and there was a certain comfort in the familiarity, even when it was irritating.

We are currently just a few days into our brave new world and the only things we have going for us in this sobriety, are honesty, caring, and our long history, along with the fact that we each made a commitment to be in this relationship for the long haul. That, and the fact that, In spite of all our ups and downs, and round the bends, we do love each other. Not that we haven't questioned that basic tenet. But, as Tevye and Golde so eloquently sang in Fiddler on the Roof, "Do you love me?" "I suppose I do."  Yet I find myself wondering if that will be enough in the days, weeks and months to come.

For years, I prayed that God would do whatever it took to make my husband stop drinking. In fact, I was on a bus in Ireland, praying exactly that, when he had his first pancreatic attack, in 2004. Gradually, I prayed less. Sometimes I nagged more. Neither seemed an effective strategy. Now, it seems my husband's eyes are finally opened, and I am afraid. Of what, you ask. I suppose the whole paradigm shift that is taking place scares me. What if we are too comfortable with our old roles? What if, in his sobriety, he realizes that he doesn't really love me? What if I am unable to adjust to these changing patterns? What if the strain of getting and staying sober is too much for us, as a couple to handle?   

Please, do not counsel us to go to therapy. I suggested that several months ago during a particularly rocky patch, and was met with a resounding, "NO!" I suppose I may revisit Al-Anon, at least for awhile. I am grateful to have several people in my life who have walked this road and who, I am sure, will be willing to offer whatever guidance they can. I am praying again. This time, for both of us, that God will provide His wisdom, and most of all, His love as we navigate these new circumstances. The times they are a-changing. Lord, give us grace to change with them.

In honor of William (Bill, Will, Willie) Balkovec, 1925 - 2014

 In honor of William (Bill, Will, Willie) Balkovec, 1925 - 2014

The Leader of the Band by Dan Fogelberg

The leader of the band is tired

And his eyes are growing old

But his blood runs through my instrument

And his song is in my soul

My life has been a poor attempt

To imitate the man

I'm just a living legacy

To the leader of the band

I thank you for the music

And your stories of the road

I thank you for the freedom

When it came my time to go

I thank you for the kindness

And the times when you got tough

And, papa, I don't think I

Said 'I love you' near enough

The leader of the band is tired

And his eyes are growing old

But his blood runs through my instrument

And his song is in my soul

My life has been a poor attempt

To imitate the man

I'm just a living legacy

To the leader of the band

This song reminds me of my Daddy. Not because he was ever a band leader, but because of his love of music, especially the music of the Big Bands of the 40s and early 50s. Lately, the stanza about thanks has meant a lot to me.

I am grateful for his love of music and the exposure to it in our house. I am thankful to know who Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Bunny Berrigen, Fred Waring, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Eddy Duchin, Count Basie, Glenn Gray, Duke Ellington, Sammy Kaye, Louis Jordan, and many others I'm sure I've forgotten, are. I might have been one of the few kids in my age group to know the words to songs like "Skylark", or "Pennsylvania 6-5000", or "Chattanooga Choo-choo".

My daddy's stories were not "of the road", but rather of his times playing baseball, or times growing up with his family, or his friends in the Army. He always had stories to tell. Only in the last couple of years did I listen intently. I am sorry for not listening with greater appreciation through the years. 

We left Pittsburgh several times over the last few years and each time it was with my dad's blessing. So, indeed, I thank him for "the freedom when it came my time to go". And I thank him especially for telling me when I needed to come home.

My Daddy was almost always kind. He stood up for me when others did not. He may not have always understood my choices, but he loved me enough to always have my back. I hope he knew how much that meant to me. I can't say Daddy got tough with me too many times, but there are a couple that stand out in my memory. Those were turning points to a better relationship between us, I think.

As to whether I told him I loved him enough…I did not. I don't think "I love you" was a phrase used in our house when I was growing up. Consequently, I never told my Dad I loved him until I was 25. And I was afraid to say it. Amazingly, once it was out there, that first time, and Daddy responded with, "I love you, too, kid," there was never anything holding back our mutual "I love you". Still, "Papa, I don't think I said 'I love you' near enough".  

The leader of our family has moved beyond this life. He was tired. Not just his eyes, but all of him. But, his blood, does run through each of my his children's instruments. His songs live on in our hearts and souls. And I think I speak for each of us when I say that, indeed, our lives have been a poor attempt to imitate a good, loving, caring, kind-hearted man, whom we were blessed to call our Dad. I pray we are a legacy of which he can be proud.

ANGER ISSUES

2014 Jan 27

Where to begin? My family of origin doesn't really have anger issues. I do not ever recall seeing my paternal or maternal grandparents get angry. My Mom had lots of issues, but I'm not sure anger was one of them. My Dad was not an angry man. Yet of the eight siblings in our family, at least four have or have had anger issues. Currently, I would say at least two of us, maybe three need to work on our anger. 

So where does this anger originate? According to Pastor Bertine's sermon yesterday, at Gulf to Lake Church, anger generally originates as a result of hurt, and or frustration, and or fear. Since I can only speak to my own stuff, I would say that I have the trifecta of origins going on.

Most of my anger is involved in my relationship with my husband. Hurt? Yes.

Frustration? Yes. Fear? Yes, but not of him, rather of where our relationship is headed.

The past year has been a most difficult one for me, for our marriage, and for the general feelings of marital joy. Neither Raymond or I are the perfect spouse. But, I thought we shared in common, a strong sense of family. 

Now, for some recent background.

Last February, as we were planning our travels for 2013, my Dad had emergency surgery for a hernia repair and bowel resection. At that hospitalization it was discovered that he had stage 4 small cell lung cancer. We changed our plans, and instead of heading to Texas, drove to Pennsylvania. Dad's oncologist would not discuss life expectations, so we took up residence at a local campground, uncertain how long we would be in Pennsylvania.

By summer, Raymond was getting the urge to move on. Since he doesn't drive, any moving that was going to take place had to involve me. We made plans to travel from Pittsburgh through upstate New York, into Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. Then, on our way to Florida, we would come back through Pittsburgh for my doctor appointments and for Dad's 88th birthday.

Throughout the spring I had been experiencing numbness and tingling from my chin to my shoulder. My PCP suggested I see an Orthopedic neck specialist, which was one of the appointments scheduled for September. I have had severe arthritic changes in my cervical spine for several years, but they had only begun to be intrusive during 2013.

On our return to Pittsburgh in September, we opted to park in Raymond's brother and sister-in-law's driveway, since the plan was to be in the area for about two weeks. Even so, Raymond disliked the location because he felt too isolated in the far northern suburbs, since very little was in walking distance, and I was rarely available since I was spending as much time as possible with my Dad.

The real curve ball came just before we were scheduled to leave for Florida. My symptoms were progressing and I really felt, as did my surgeon, that waiting till spring for neck surgery was a gamble. So, I scheduled the cervical surgery and fusion for mid October. Raymond was very unhappy. Between the surgery and recovery, the absolute earliest I would be available to drive our RV to Florida would be the last week on November.

Raymond acted in a manner that hurt me deeply. Later when we talked about it, he explained that his reaction was because he felt blindsided. 

Shortly before my surgery, my Dad began radiation therapy to attempt to shrink one of his tumors which was causing him difficulty breathing. He finished radiation while I was recovering, but still unable to drive. 

I began driving when my surgeon OK'd it. Slowly, I began to build my strength and my range of motion. By my final post op visit, early in the last week of November, Dr. Smith gave the OK for me to try the drive to Florida in the RV. It was two days before Thanksgiving. Raymond wanted to leave immediately. I want to spend Thanksgiving with my dad and brothers. At this point I was feeling both fear and frustration. The fear was two pronged. I was afraid of Raymond's reaction if I told him I wanted to stay on longer in Pittsburgh, as well as feeling fear that this would be my Dad's last Thanksgiving. Frustration was full blown because Raymond seemed to be lacking an empathy for my needs, at that point. Frustration was also in play because of my father's situation.

Yep, I had the full trifecta, of hurt, frustration and fear. Only I didn't know it at the time.

Truth be told, I didn't want to leave Pittsburgh at the end of November. But we were already paying for a lot in Florida that we hadn't used in October or November. The weather was freezing in Pittsburgh, and our RV is not really made for winter camping. Raymond was unhappy in the extreme. I was depressed. My Dad was dying. Life was overwhelming. So, in an attempt to be "a good wife", we left for Florida on November 29.

The drive took a lot longer than any before.  Apparently I still did not have the stamina to drive long distances and found it necessary to stop frequently for rest and naps. When we made to to Edisto Beach State Park, in SC, we stayed four days. I needed three of those just to recharge.

After arrival at Nature Coast Landing, in Crystal River, FL, the thought of immediately turning around and driving back to Pittsburgh was daunting. So, I didn't think about it. Instead, I called home every other day or so to see how things were going. I distracted myself by decorating the lot and the RV for Christmas. 

On Christmas, I was very homesick. Raymond was very melancholy and seemed to be missing his parents, who died several years ago. Because of Raymond's emotional state, I was glad that I hadn't left him and Greyla alone over Christmas. Although, I was still torn by thinking of Daddy and the fact that this might be his last Christmas. Still, when I spoke with Daddy on Christmas morning, he seemed in good spirits. But there was still some part of me that was resentful of Raymond and his blindness to my needs and wishes.

New Year's day arrived and I called to wish my Dad and brothers a Happy New Year. My brother informed me of Daddy's decline & after talking to Daddy, I knew I had to return to Pittsburgh. I explained to Raymond that I needed to face this own my own. I would be wanting to focus all my energy and time on my Dad, at my brother's house, and that to have him & Greyla along at a local motel (which was what Ray wanted), would be too much of a distraction. Perhaps that hurt him. I don't know. I just knew it was the truth as I was experiencing it.

I arrived in Pittsburgh on the afternoon on Jan 5, after driving from Florida.

I spent time talking with my Dad. My brothers and I spent time trying to care for him over the next several days. He passed away in the wee hours of Jan 9. Following Daddy's last wishes, we arranged for his cremation, with no viewing. There was a service the day of the interment of his ashes, at the chapel at the cemetery, on Jan 14.

The next day, Raymond began pressuring me to return to Florida. I was not ready. There were things to be done. There was a need to be with my brothers and sister. There was a need to grieve with my family. Raymond seemed not to have any understanding of these feelings.

My feelings of anger grew. Each time Raymond called, I dreaded answering, knowing one of his first questions would be, "When are you coming back?" I wanted to stay at my brother's house. I wanted to be with people who were experiencing the same pain and loss I was feeling. Twice I put off my return date. I really couldn't understand Ray's impatience for my return. Especially since every time we spoke, I cried. Finally, when there was news of an anticipated storm and snow accumulation, I relented, and planned my departure. 

Then, my brother, Vinny, developed a problem with his left arm. His doctor's appointment was scheduled for 8:15 AM, the day I was scheduled to leave. I called Ray to let him know that I would be getting on the road later in the morning that day, and his reaction was not positive. He assumed I was going to stay to see what Vinny's outcome would be. I had to explain, more than once, that I would drive Vinny to the doctor and get on the road around 10:30, rather than the 8 AM departure we had originally figured. Regardless of Vinny's status, I was not yet prepared to leave. However, I felt I had to in order to placate Raymond.

Several times on my way back to Florida, I became overwhelmed by emotions and cried. Some of that was loss. Some was anger.

Having arrived back in Florida on Jan 25, just three weeks to the day since I left, I was in full on anger mode with regard to Raymond. At this point I knew it was anger, because God graciously pointed it out to me as I drove. And there was an assurance that I had to return to Gulf to Lake Church on Sunday morning. I knew that the sermon was one I needed to hear. It was!

I am now trying to work through both my anger and my loss. Pray for me. And for Ray.

LIFE GOES ON

2013 October 5

Life Goes On

First, the update on my 88 year old Daddy. On September 30, my brother, Vinny, and I accompanied Daddy to his oncology appointment.  Daddy has been experiencing a cough which often produces mucus and blood. This is relatively new. He is apparently losing weight again. He has intermittent pain, although Dr. G, the oncologist, assures us that if this were cancer pain, it would be "persistent and progressive", rather than intermittent.  Daddy is also very frail, as he likes to say, "well below his fighting weight", and his balance and gait are unsteady. Add to that the fact that he is a stubborn old man, who refuses to use any steadying device when he's at home and only a cane when he goes out. Plus, if he begins to wobble, and you touch him to offer a steadying hand, he becomes angry. He is constantly at risk for falling, but refuses to acknowledge it. 

Since Dr. G is an oncologist, he tried very hard to explain to Daddy which symptoms were cancer related and which were related to aging and frailty. I'm not sure how much Daddy actually heard. The next step, with regard to the lung cancer, was a CAT scan, to check the progression of the tumors, followed by two doctor's appointments, one with Dr. G and one with a radiologist on the same day. Those will happen on Tuesday of this coming week. Depending on what the scan showed, Daddy may have 10 days of radiation therapy, in an attempt to slow the tumor's growth and control the bleeding. 

It is very difficult for me to watch my Father become a shadow of himself, and an angry shadow, at that. I can only imagine how hard it is for Vinny, with whom my Dad lives. 

TOO MUCH

2013 September 

Too Much in a Short Time

There have been multiple events that have had the effect of overwhelming me both very recently, and over the last several months. I want to share, because I think part of the centering process for me, is in sharing.

There is the ongoing circumstance of my Dad and his cancer diagnosis and prognosis. After spending about five months in Pittsburgh after Daddy's surgery, unrelated to the cancer, and the cancer diagnosis, we spent eight weeks traveling before returning to the area on September 19.

One reason for the return to Pittsburgh was my Dad's 88th birthday. Another, was a series of doctor's appointments and procedures that I wanted to accomplish before heading south for the winter. And, additionally, it was time to have the difficult conversations with Daddy regarding his wishes regarding end of life issues. 

All of this has been emotionally draining. Add to that, the fact that I have been diligently trying to reduce my dependence of Prozac to treat my depressive symptoms for the last year, and I seem to have hit an emotional wall. In fact, I hit that wall and began to slide down it. The fact that I was also ingesting a hormone as part of the treatment of hyper estrogen production, contributed to my emotional fragility, too. And that hormone was making me extremely emotional and skewed my already impaired perceptions.

The breaking point seemed to come about three weeks ago. My thought processes became very dark. I recognized the shift enough to reach out via text message to my former therapist, requesting an appointment when we arrived in Pittsburgh. I am grateful that her cell number hadn't changed, and that I kept that number. I am also grateful that I knew that if I made an appointment to see her, it would help me hang on until we got back in the Pittsburgh area.

All of that is related to the emotional aspects of my life. Then there are the physical aspects.

We arrived in the Pittsburgh area in September 19. The morning of the 20th, I had an appointment for a uterine biopsy. Still feeling very depressed, and anxious, I was overreactive when the OB-Gyn was, as usual, running behind schedule. Our interaction was less than pleasant, especially when I was emphatic about NEVER taking progesterone ever again. I left his office angry and unsatisfied with regard to the state of my estrogen/uterine health, and awaiting biopsy results. 

The following Monday, I had three doctor's appointments. First was my PCP, for an annual check up, for which I had already had blood work done. Because she is a caring and thorough doctor, she is also notorious for running behind schedule, and because I love her, I forgive her. It is also why, if possible, I try to schedule to be her first appointment of the day. I arrived at 7:50, for my 8AM appointment. At 8:20, I was getting extremely nervous and agitated, as my next appointment was at 8:45, one floor above. I set the timer on my phone to go off with enough time to get up the stairwell and to the next appointment on time. When my Dr. entered the room, I held up the phone, showing her the timer and announced that she had six minutes. To her credit, she took one look at me and asked, "Are you thinking of harming yourself?"  I immediately broke down, sobbing. Her ability to cut to the chase when necessary is another reason I love her. We discussed, (quickly), my Prozac dosage, my upcoming therapy appointment, the results of my blood work, and my Dad's situation. When my alarm went off, she told me to take the emergency door, so as not to be late for my urology appointment, and to come back later to pay my co-pay and pick up prescriptions. 

By the time I made it into the Urologist's office, only one minute late, I was feeling like maybe the world wasn't collapsing in on me, and that maybe, if I increased my Prozac, even temporarily, I might find my way out into daylight again.

My urologist is another doctor whom I love. I am completely comfortable with him. When he entered the room, he asked if I had any questions. I told him my only question was the date of my last bladder tumor and if it was long enough ago, could I move to yearly cystos. He said that he had wondered that very thing himself, and checked my records. Turned out my last "new" tumor had been in August 2009, so barring any developments, I could move to yearly checks of my bladder. As he was doing the procedure, I was chatting with the nurse, so I was unprepared when Dr. Traub said, " We may have jinxed ourselves. There is a new growth at the top of your bladder wall that we need to remove."  While I do love Dr. Traub, I was looking forward to seeing him once a year. Now, suddenly, I knew I was back to the every three month schedule, and it felt like the low point in my day. The good news was that because he is aware of our lifestyle, he went above and beyond to schedule the removal (fulgeration) later the same week. 

When I finished with the urologist, I had thirty minutes before my next and final appointment of the day at the Orthopedic surgeon's. I went and paid my PCP and picked up paperwork. If I had eaten, I would've gone and had some follow up blood work done, but since I hadn't and Dr. Ebbert clearly stated this was "non-fasting", I put it off for another day.

At the Orthopedist's office, I got taken back to an exam room right at 10. Things were looking up again, since my appointment was for 10. Little did I know… Dr. Smith arrived in the exam room around 10:15, which wasn't too bad. He was much more engaging than on my previous visit. He showed me my MRI and explained all that was happening in my cervical spine, little of which was good. We discussed my initial positive response to Medrol and the return of my symptoms after seven weeks. We discussed my symptoms and the probability of their progression. He tested my arm strength, which shortly thereafter induced more symptoms. He told me that I was "on the surgery track." This was NOT something I had expected to hear. He also said that surgery wasn't necessary immediately, but would be in the near future. I asked about cortisone injections. He explained that he generally doesn't like to inject necks, but that, in any case, mine was not a single area problem, but rather, a three tier problem. That means that my cervical spine isn't just screwed up in one area, but in three! (Just typing that makes me want to cry.) 

I told him that I had gotten the cervical traction kit and he suggested I also get a soft cervical collar to wear at night, in hopes of making sleeping easier. We discussed the possibility of anti-inflammatory drugs. But all of these are short term, stop gap measures, until I decide to have him cut my neck. 

He explained the procedure, too. A small incision would be made in my left anterior neck. My trachea and esophagus would be moved to the right, while my carotid artery and large neck muscle would be moved to the left, allowing a clear plane for the surgeon. He would then chip away the bone which is causing pressure on the nerve that passes through it, in several areas. Then cadaver bone would be placed, essentially as a spacer. And this comes with all the "normal" surgical risks, in addition to the additional risks involved with spinal surgery. As to the cadaver bone, it is used because to use bone from one's own hip is extremely painful, and, I am assured, cadaver bone works just as well. 

To say I was overwhelmed would be a gross understatement!

I did ask if I could wait until spring for the surgery. Dr. Smith said I could, if my symptoms allowed, and revisited the progression I might experience. I explained that we have a rental commitment in Florida for the winter. His response, is still puzzling to me. He said, " Well, if you wait until February for the surgery, I'll need to re-evaluate you in January."  In what universe is February, spring? Anyway, what he meant was that if I put the surgery off for longer that 90 days, the insurance company will require him to re-evaluate me prior to the scheduling process. To be honest, I still haven't quite wrapped my brain around all the logistics involved when I schedule the surgery. But, more about that later. 

That was all on Monday. Monday night, I did increase my Prozac dosage as suggested by Dr. Ebbert. Tuesday, I had an appointment with my former therapist, Lisa. Wednesday, I bought a soft cervical collar, which produced my first good night's sleep in several weeks. I also tried to fill a prescription for anti-inflammatories, but ran into an insurance snag. Still trying to get that sorted. On Thursday, I had my fulgeration of my "new" tumor, and Dr. Traub graciously has allowed me to either have my next cyst in March, or, if I come back sooner for the neck surgery, he'll see me sooner.

I am feeling brighter, thanks to increased Prozac. So, the emotional strains are getting under control. The physical strains? Well, that remains to be seen.

Today is Saturday. Monday my brother, Vinny and I will take our Dad for his oncology recheck. Perhaps the emotional strains will be tested further. 

Going Back

2013 SEPT 18

Going Back 

What is it about each return trip to Pittsburgh that fills me with anxiety?  

I know, this time I am concerned for my Dad's appointment with his oncologist, and I am a bit swamped by the number of my own doctor's appointments. Yet, truth be told, each time we return to the town where we grew up and spent most of our adult lives, I am overwhelmed intense feelings. Sometimes these are unexplained anxiety. Sometimes, grief. Sometimes intense sadness. And before you jump to the conclusion that the grief and sadness are because I miss my hometown, let me assure you, the feelings do not spring from anything so mundane as homesickness.

I do sometimes miss my family, especially my Dad. But, I do not miss the city.

As we were driving across Pennsylvania today, I was relatively relaxed. I noted, though, as we began moving farther west, I felt less at ease. Some of the tension may have been simple fatigue. I was up early and had driven many hours, and I begin to really wind down after 2PM. Yet, there is a feeling of dread that I cannot fully contribute to being tired.

Over the years, I have become more and more aware of the effect certain places have on my sense of well being, and on my psyche. Our old house in Pittsburgh was a place I never felt comfortable in, even long before it was "our house".  On our visit to that property last September, my level of discomfort was so fierce that it made me physically uncomfortable to be there. In addition, it made me psychologically uncomfortable, as well. I have had visceral reactions to places while traveling, too. Some in a negative sense, others in a very positive way.

What is it about returning to Pittsburgh that causes such an extreme reaction in me? I am sitting in a campground in Bellefonte, PA, trying to sort out these feelings of anxiety, grief, tearfulness, and dread. 

Rediscovering the Past

2013 August 9

Rediscovering the Past

Yesterday I reread my prayer journal from my last trip to Ireland and the Dublin Prayer Conference (DPC), in 2006. Finding it and reading it brought back a rush of memories. 

It was my third time attending the Dublin Prayer Conference. It was the only time I attended as an individual, not as part of a team. It was in the midst of a trying period in my relationship with my home church and especially, with my then pastor. I was struggling spiritually. Previous trips to the DPC had fueled desires to do whatever was in my personal power to support and encourage missions. On this trip, I felt less connected, more vulnerable, and more afraid of my personal shortcomings. Some of those feelings were based in the loss of Elder Matt Smith, from New Hope Church. Some were outgrowths of my own insecurity, some because of my desire to fit in, especially without a team to offer encouragement and support. 

The notations in my prayer journal seem to run the gamut from intense praise and worship, to recognizing my extreme shortcomings and asking for guidance to overcome them, to a report of my inappropriate outburst of anger and the need to offer apologies to those affected by it. Not a stellar journal, by any stretch of imagination.

Reading it, though sometimes uncomfortable, did bring to mind the many people who probably have no memory of me, but who had a profound effect on me. People like Jonathan and Hazel Reid, Jacob Reynolds, Craig Maiden, David Ross, Brian and Collen Corr, Mick Breen, Cathy Breen, Andy and Louise Halpern, Tom and Vickie Gilliam, Ron and Mary Wilson, along with many of the attendees of the Conference. It jogged my memory. These were people whose experiences spoke to my heart about the need to spread the good news of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. These were people for whom I had prayed regularly for years. Yet somehow, I had drifted away from both God and them, and the promise to do what I could to support them in their work of missions. 

It made me realize that in some ways I had allowed some negative experiences in my home church to have lingering effects on too many other aspects of my life, especially in an area where I had previously felt called, in the arena of missions. I had allowed disappointment, pain, and hurt to fester until I forgot about my commitment to pray. I painted with too broad a stroke, and in the process painted myself into a corner, and turned my back on my promises and on God, who had himself promised to "be with me always, and in all ways".

I am grateful for finding that prayer journal. It is the beginning of a rediscovery process, as I begin to recover my relationship with my God who has never left me. I know this will be the beginning of a new start and I am buoyed by the thought. I also hope this will be a new beginning and a recovery of my relationships with those whom I have lost along the way, especially those in the work of missions.

At 63 Years Old

2013 July 28

At 63 Years Old

Before I begin what will likely be a rant, perhaps a little background information is in order. I have been happily menopausal/post menopausal for about nine years. That in itself will give you some indication of what this rant will encompass, so if you are offended by discourse regarding female issues, stop reading NOW!

My reproductive system has never really been user friendly. I have endured PMS, infertility, arrogant fertility specialists, and assorted surgeries, pains and discomforts over the years. Once having come to terms with all of the challenges offered up on a monthly basis by my uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes, I settled in, and learned to "tell time" by the passing of each menstrual cycle. If nothing else worked well in that system, it was, at least, regular as clockwork. For me, a month was the length of time from the beginning of one cycle to the next.

When menopause began, I actually felt a little sad, in spite of the tempestuous relationship with my lady parts, because it required me to rethink my time passage measurement. But, as women always do, I adjusted. And I cruised along becoming comfortable with a new season of my life. 

In many ways, a very pleasant season. No cramps, no mood swings, no sudden gushes during a period caused by doing something strenuous, like lifting something heavy no unexplained cravings for chocolate, no emotional outbursts - none of those unpleasant, annoying aspects of womanhood. Learning a new way, albeit "normal" way to measure time transit seemed little to take on in exchange for loosing so many annoying things.

So, in this new found freedom, I have cruised through the past nine years. Granted, my family doctor, who does my pelvic exams, would occasionally bug me about a uterine polyp with which she was concerned. Mostly, I have been able to ignore her. However, once we were in Pittsburgh for an extended period this late winter into early summer, I could ignore her no longer. (The reason I was ignoring her requests to have the polyp checked was that it required me to visit the gynecologist whom I did not like. And because I was too lazy to seek out a different gynecologist) To placate her, more than for any other reason, I scheduled an appointment with the dreaded gynecologist.

Poor Raymond. I made him go with me, even into the exam room. To my dismay, his impression was that, "he seems like a nice guy". That really isn't relevant, though. The initial exam, concurred with my PCP's concerns, and I was scheduled for a procedure, to remove the polyp and biopsy it and my uterine lining, with was "too thick for someone so far post menopausal". Suddenly the lovely period of detente between the lady parts and I was at risk.

The polyp was removed and was benign, as was the too thick uterine lining. It seems that although I am indeed post menopausal, my ovaries are producing more estrogen than is considered normal, which in turn, causes a thickened uterine lining. Both the gyne and my PCP are concerned that left to its own devices, this lining might decide to evolve into uterine cancer at some point. In order to combat that possible issue, they both thought (think) I should follow a course of treatment that would require me to take 10mg of Provera (a hormone my menopausal self no longer produces ~ progesterone) for ten days at the beginning of each month for three months. In fairness, the gynecologist wanted me to take it for June/July/August, but I didn't start it in June, as I waited until I talked to my PCP, to get her take on it. Since I trust her, and since she seemed to make a case for taking it, I acquiesced, and decided to move the treatment to July/August/September. Since my next appointment with the gynecologist isn't until late September, I figured it really didn't matter.

So, on July 1, I began my first month taking Provera. The doctor had warned me that if I had been prone to PMS symptoms, they could return with this medication. PMS would've been welcome! Instead, I became a screaming, psychopathic, irritable bitch! There is no other word for it! It was as if my evil twin had taken up residence and even though I wanted to, I could NOT evict her. I hated everything and everyone! I was critical of everything Raymond did or didn't do. I was cranky beyond measure. I cried or yelled, more or less constantly. Everything and everyone irritated me to the point that I wanted to slap them, or worse. In a word, I was UGLY! I was SO UGLY that I couldn't even stand myself! It seemed like the longest ten days of my life! I can only guess how long it felt to my poor husband.

In the midst of the early days of July on Provera, I also began a course of Medrol (a steroid - yet another hormone!) this one for the treatment of the severe arthritic changes in my cervical spine which were causing problems with a nerve root. I asked the pharmacist if this would interact with progesterone which was already recking havoc with my personality. He said that it might "intensify" things for the first few days, but somehow thought it reassured me when he told me, "it's really not a 'you' thing - it happens to everyone taking progesterone". I was not comforted!

The pharmacist was correct, though, as the steroid for the arthritic stuff didn't seem to effect me as badly as the other hormone.

Finally, day ten arrived. No more Provera. Thank you, Lord! I won't say I mellowed out immediately, but there was light at the end of that tunnel. 

Remember the joke about the light at the end of the tunnel being the oncoming train? Yep, there it was three days later, as promised by the gyne, the light at the end of the tunnel that turned out to be my first period in nine, did you hear me? NINE!!!! years! While I knew this was the expected outcome resulting from dumping progesterone in my body, it still came as a general shock to my 63 three year old system!

Let me say this as simply as I can: at 63 I am too old to be standing in line buying tampons and pads! Granted the whole period was over in five days, but it sucked! I don't want to have a period at 63! especially after not having one for 9 years! The whole process, from the crazy irritable person inhabiting my body, to the shedding of excess uterine lining, to finally staring to feel human again took up more than half the month of July! I don't want to repeat that process in August and September! 

Yesterday, while driving to Adams, NY, Raymond and I were discussing all of this. I said that I was leaning toward stopping the Provera. He was enthusiastic in his support. Until he questioned why I was doing it in the first place. When I explained to him that the doctors were concerned about the thickened uterine lining developing into uterine cancer, he suddenly had a change of heart, and thought I should take the remaining course of Provera, in spite of the maniac we both fear I will temporarily become.

I'm still not convinced. As I told Raymond, if I'm 63 and on a scale of 0 to 10, with 0 being no chance of cancer and 10 being cancer, I am at 1.5,  and if I have been at 1.5 for at least 9 years, what are the odds that I will develop cancer? And if I do, couldn't they just yank my uterus? Raymond's response was to question whether that type of cancer would spread if it did develop. 

So… here I sit, just a few days away from the beginning of the next month with no idea what I am going to do. Take it, or not, that is the question. I do not want to become a screaming mimi for for the first ten days of August. I also do not want to deal with having another period. I hate the whole process. It feels so unnatural. Yet, I certainly do not want to develop uterine cancer. But the question remains, if I have had a thickened uterine lining for the past nine years without it being positive for cancer (it has been pre-cancerous - but NEGATIVE for actual cancer cells), what are the odds that I WILL develop cancer? I don't want to tempt fate. I have been down the cancer road with my bladder and am grateful for how contained any abnormal cell growth there has been.

I'm thinking phone calls to both docs are in order tomorrow. Perhaps the severity of my reaction to Provera will decrease with each consecutive month. Perhaps it won't. I need some straight answers and NOT simply, being told this is what we generally do. In spite of the song, I am NOT every women! I am an individual and perhaps this is not the course of treatment for me. I certainly don't want to take medication that in the long run, may not really have any effect. But, on the other hand, I don't want to see my uterine lining morph into cancer. What's a 63 year old to do?

Oh! and just a little side note. When I asked the gyne if we couldn't just do a hysterectomy, back in April, his response was, "I can't in good conscience take out healthy tissue." So, if it's healthy, why am I taking Provera and scheduled for yet another biopsy in September? It all seems rather convoluted to me. 

Perhaps I should've called him while I was harboring my angry twin during those early weeks in July.