Monday, December 28, 2009

Ouch!!!


After a slow November and early December, the ladies have picked up in their egg production. They're back up to laying 4-7 eggs, which is just about perfect. I have plenty to use myself and extras to give to friends.
Everybody molted last fall in September and October, and they're nestled snug in their coop. With the weather this cold, we have a heat lamp on in the coop and a device to keep the water from freezing.
The girls are really glad that Michael has taken over gathering the eggs and changing the water. It's a cold, cold job these days!
One poor lady laid the monstrosity you see above a week ago. To give you a little perspective, below is a comparison between jumbo and a regular egg.


Yeah, I know.
Ouch!


I finally got around to using the egg today and it turned out to be a double-yolk. I am so thankful for the ladies and the hard work they do for us everyday. A dear friend gave us meal worms for the chickens for Christmas. We need to get them out to the coop before all the worms die. Sarah wants to be sure each lady gets a worm, so they'll have to be hand fed.

Thank goodness for Michael!

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Holiday-ditty-oddity

Or why I need a thesaurus and a dictionary to write my Christmas gift tags.


Nearly 8 years ago, I bought my darling husband a set of DVDs for Christmas. You see, we'd been watching The History of Britain on TLC or some other channel that entire fall. Now, it's a long series, with many, many episodes and we completely enjoyed watching them.
When we could stay awake, that is.
You see, we'd start out watching an episode and one or the other of us, sometimes both, would fall asleep before the end. When we'd try to recap for each other, we'd find we couldn't remember crucial details, like what happened with Queen Mathilda or exactly what led up to The War of the Roses.
Strangely, this only deepened our love of this series, as we could watch it over and over... and over again and again and it never got old.
So, the perfect Christmas gift for Michael that year was, of course, the complete series on DVD. I wrote a funny little ditty on his gift tag, complete with rhymes and references to Romeo and Juliet.

Wish I'd saved the little bugger, since that was the beginning of a FAMILY TRADITION. You know what I mean, every family has them. We have many, i.e. Advent boxes, hanging the stockings, the angel at the top of the tree. Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without certain traditions, and though at times I'd really like to just write simple names on gift tags, doing so would likely cause some kind of holiday horror, like Santa not coming or the hot chocolate curdling.
So, each year, several days before Christmas, you'll find me gearing up for a burst of creativity, searching for the thesaurus and dictionary. I decided to record a few of this year's gems for posterity.


For Michael:

Hark! The herald angels sing
Glory to this great new thing
Hook it up and watch amazed
All those choices? You'll be dazed

No more lonely nights downstairs
You and dogs are now prepared
View it to your heart's content
Never mind how much I spent

Glory to this great new thing
Watch the wonders it shall bring
Glory be to heaven on high
Look at all your money can buy

He got a Roku player for the downstairs television.

For Melissa:

Well, doctor, it's a new field of study...
but preliminary analysis of the data indicates
the torture and murder of simulated creatures
is but one small step away from... ack! ugh!
No... no... don't lock me in here ... HELP!

She got SIMS 3.

For Stephen:

Recycled though I'm not
your mom, she didn't plot
The eco option wasn't there son
forcing her to buy a new one
Still and all you must admit
She tried and tried, yet did not quit
Greenest green I may not be
Still, greener than CDs, you see
Mama tried, she fought, she parried
then she bought, a little harried
Still, a good price she sure did find
Gee, she hopes you will not mind

He wanted a reconditioned Ipod Touch, but received a new one.

For Sarah:
(to the tune of Yankee Doodle Dandy)

More than useful, ornamental
that's the gift I aim to be
Use me with an air of caution
Heat and style you're sure to see
Made to aid the artsy-fartsy
Creativity!

She received a special kiln for the microwave for making fused-glass beads.

Okay, as I'm writing these down, I'm realizing the need for that dictionary and thesaurus probably isn't apparent. You see, I lost a couple of the best tags, so you'll just have to take my word for it!

Friday, December 25, 2009

Very Merry


And a good time was had by all...


Thursday, December 24, 2009

Christmas Colors?



This is what happens when you let the guys mix up the frosting for Christmas cookies.
I don't know about you, but gray and purple just scream "Christmas" to me.


Decorating Christmas cookies is a family tradition. This year, we decorated early so everyone could participate before heading back to college after Thanksgiving.
And so that the cookies were made and decorated before Christmas this year.
Ah hem.


We have such a good time together as a family.



Oh, wouldn't that cup of coffee be good right now with a sugar cookie????


See that stack of unfrosted cookies? I made a double batch this year, so we had several stacks like that.



I used to have to encourage the kids not to "gloop up" the cookies with too many candies, chocolate chips, and other decorations.


You can tell everyone is older now, since our favorites have just frosting and colored sugar. I'm not sure making the cookies that early is a good thing, though. Zach took a couple dozen back to school with him, but the rest of us managed to demolish the whole shabang in about a week.
Yep, that's right.
I think that works out to 3 or 4 dozen apiece.
No wonder my pants are a little snug...
You'd think I'd learn from my experiences... but I have another batch of dough chilling in the fridge right now.
Zachary felt cheated.
What else was a mom to do?

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Lap Dog


I have a lap dog.
The only problem is she weighs about 115 pounds!
Just try telling Ivy she isn't a lap dog.
These days, every time I'm downstairs she jumps on the couch next to me to snuggle and almost always ends up on top of me.
I don't really mind, though Michael gets a little miffed when I tell him there isn't enough room on the couch for the three of us, so would he please move?


She's actually a little St. Bernard, since she'll likely finish up no more than 120 lbs. Her mama was 160 lbs. and her daddy weighed 140 lbs.
I can't imagine.
We'd like to write a series of children's books about "Ivy, the Littlest St. Bernard."
Wally has gotten used to her and will even "snuggle" at times.


This is her spot on the couch.


She likes to be kissed on her "po' dots."



Sometimes it's hard to get your angle just right.
We've had Ivy now for just over year.
And what a year it's been!
But we can't imagine our lives without her.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Eerie Community


Late every fall, the crows descend.
They arrive by the hundreds to roost in the tall trees in my yard.
Apparently, crows used to roost in the countryside, but starting 30-40 years ago, began to congregate in cities.
I find it a little creepy to see mobs of these huge, black birds flocking in the skies over my house. Then again, I was probably only 6-years-old when I first saw Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.
Why do these birds roost together in the fall?
Ah, the mystery deepens.
No one knows for sure, but thoughts include warmth and safety, communication, and socialization.
Perfectly natural reasons, I'm sure.
But it still gives me the willies.

Monday, December 21, 2009

You can ring my bell...

Not allowed to sing, dance, play Christmas tunes, or do much of anything for two hours...

About 10 years ago (and believe me, I have no idea where all that time went ) I saw a great Christmas Advent idea in a magazine and decided to copy it for my family.
Thus was born the advent boxes.
It was great fun for little ones having a box to open every night counting down to Christmas. At first, it was easy: candy canes, pencils, Christmas activity books, etc. I must admit, the best use of the advent boxes was my own - for years I chose tree ornaments that I loved, placing 4 of each in one or two boxes. I never would have felt okay about doing that directly for myself, but hey, if it was for the kids...
But as the kids got older, 25 boxes full of kitschy X-mas stuff seemed a little... excessive. I mean really, an 18-year-old guy really doesn't want stickers and pencils any more, you know? Plus, my ornament collection pretty much filled up the tree, so... it was time to come up with a different idea.
So a couple years ago, I started letting the kids come up with advent box ideas of their own - typically activities, such as "Go to a movie," "Have hot chocolate and play a game together," that sort of thing.
This year, we included lots of charitable activities, of which Salvation Army Bell-Ringing was one.
Fortunately, I had the foresight to choose an indoor location and the day after the great blizzard found the girls and me ringin' that bell in Merle Hay Mall outside the Sears store.
For two hours.
Late in the day.
When no one was shopping.
Not the most thrilling experience we've ever had, but we did get a few donations.


Ringing a bell for two hours doesn't really help a migraine.


There are a lot of rules for bell-ringers, enumerated on the back of the Sharing/Caring sign. You aren't allowed to sing... if you do, only loud enough for the person standing next to you to hear, which in our case was probably a good thing.
You aren't allowed to bring a CD of Christmas music, either.
We did our best to follow the rules, though the time sure did crawl.
About 1/2 hour in, I remembered there was a Starbucks in the Target at the other end of the mall. I scrounged up some cash and sent the girls for Mocha Frappucinos, though I questioned whether drinking gourmet coffee while asking for donations would be appropriate.
Apparently, it wasn't.
The Starbucks was out of mocha.
Finally, our two hour stint was over, the kettle had a few extra dollars in it, and the three of us felt good that we had done something to help others.
Best quote from the experience "Smile. I think they're going to give us money."

Friday, December 18, 2009

Hopelessness

I didn't think I would be here again, in this particular place.
It's been years now that my two oldest children managed to tame their own personal demons and gained, if not total dominance, then great control over their mental illnesses.
Each of them was diagnosed with severe anxiety disorders and major depression at the tender ages of 10.
Now, at 21 and 19 years old, they are fully-functioning young men, in charge of their lives and imbued with the great desire to help others. Our oldest will graduate from college in the spring; the other is a successful sophomore at Iowa State University.
I gained control over my own demons over the course of about 5 years of therapy, therefore able to start my forties without the cloud of severe depression coloring my every day.
I'll never forget the day I realized my oldest daughter also suffered from mental illness. The signs of her OCD and anxiety were unmistakable. With trembling hand I called the therapist to report that she needed to be seen immediately... my little girl was suffering.
Nothing can prepare you for the suffering of a child. And when it's your own child, you feel helpless and frantic. A fear so primal it makes you want to scream in agony takes over as you begin the waiting, wondering, and hoping.
Her disease also manifested at age 10.
She, too, found help through therapy and medication.
But now, here we are nearly 7 years later, and the worry and anxiety seem more than I can bear. My little girl is suffering again and there truly is nothing I can do to fix it.
She's suffered from unceasing migraines for the past 7 months. That's close to 210 days with chronic pain. She's gone through several medication adjustments and changes with only occasional, moderate relief.
As if that weren't enough, depression has reared it's ugly head again, taking control of her heart and soul. She feels hopeless. Helpless. Scared.
Through it all, she's persevered, maintaining A's and B's (maybe one C) in all advanced classes. But the shroud of depression blocks these accomplishments from her view. All she sees is cloudy and dark, the lenses of depression filtering out the happy, the good.
There is no sunlight.
Only pain.
And I find myself in a place I thought I'd never again be forced to visit, helping my child through a maze of physical and emotional pain.
And trying not to scream.
But hugs aren't enough.
She will need more courage and strength than ever before to make it through.
As will her father and I.

I wrote the following nearly 9 years ago, in the midst of my second son's panic attacks. It remains an accurate reflection of a mother's fear and torment.
Of my fear and torment.


I’m being held prisoner. Like a tiger in a cage, there is nothing I can do to protect my young. I am not in jail and have never been arrested. But the walls of my prison follow me wherever I go. They are inescapable. My jailer pursues me endlessly, not even in my sleep can I find freedom. The agony of my situation makes me want to cry out in pain, to wail and keen, to tear my clothing, but I cannot even reach the tears. The pain has cut through my heart right into my very soul. Any mother would feel this way, for the bounds of my prison are my son’s mental illness.
How did this happen? Why? Could any God be so cruel to an innocent child? I question the wisdom of faith, for I no longer can have faith in anything. “Don’t worry, he’s going to be OK,” his therapist assured me repeatedly over the course of the last year and a half. But he isn’t OK. In fact, he is worse. Whose fault is it? No one’s. Perhaps that’s partly what makes this so difficult to bear. There is no one to blame, no one to point a finger at, to scream at, to curse.
I hold my son in my arms as he cries, wails and screams in the agony of a panic attack so brutal he feels there is no escape. His weight is crushing me, shoulders digging into my chest, tears soaking my blouse. And I remember holding his dear, sweet baby-soft, fuzzy little head in the crook of my neck. I can remember how he smelled, that wonderful, innocent baby-powder smell. Eleven years ago, when I held his peaceful little body in my arms, I never dreamed he would have to face such a demon. All there was then was the infinite promise the future would hold for my perfect little boy. Now, I hold his sobbing, hulking form as he screams for me to protect him, keep him safe, not to let anyone hurt him, and I wonder how much of that promise is now lost.
We are waiting for a new medication to start to work. Two-to-four weeks, we don’t understand why the symptom reliever isn’t working for him, we are stumped. Maybe you should get a second opinion. Never seen a child with this severe an anxiety disorder before. No comfort anywhere I turn. A strange reversal from hearing he got the best grade in class, was the best speller, earned the highest score possible in the music festival, Now he holds the title of “most severe case.”
There is no one to have faith in. We wait, fingers and toes crossed, for a medication to start to work. It has barely been tested on children, no one knows what the long-term side effects might be, how it works, or even if it works now, whether or for how long it will continue to work. I have no faith. There is simply nothing else to try.
It’s no one’s fault, I repeat as my mantra. It’s no one’s fault, I assure his grandparents, cousins, my husband. It’s no one’s fault, the therapist, the psychologist, assure me. I’m afraid you are feeling guilt over this, let me help you with that, the therapist says. Guilt? What is motherhood without guilt? I remember the time I forgot to send in snacks in first grade, the time we forgot to go to the elementary art show, all the times I have made mistakes as his mother. I forgot that he is the one who doesn’t like milk on his oatmeal, gave him his brother’s lunch bag, yelled at him in anger. This is genetic, they say. Small comfort.
Intellectually, I can accept that it is some cosmic joke, an error of genetic combination. But in my mind I go over every minute of his life, looking for signs I might have missed, ways I should have behaved toward him, things I should have said. I know it is genetic, but there must be someone to blame. I am his mother, I am supposed to protect him. Now, I cannot keep him safe. Safety. Look both ways before you cross the street. Wear your bicycle helmet. Buckle up. If the ball rolls into the street, don’t run after it. Never talk to strangers. Don’t use drugs. It was all so frightening, yet so simple. I could teach him to be careful, to be safe. Now I try to teach him to recognize the signs of stress before they become distress. Hold my hand, count as you breathe, go take a shower. I will keep you safe, I assure him. But I know I cannot. I have no more power over his anxiety than he does. I feel so helpless. So alone.
He cannot go to school. His teachers are understanding, but they don’t understand. How can they? This is so much more than a stomachache to avoid school. If he had diabetes that was out of control, or was laid low by a viral infection, or a congenital heart defect, his classmates would all have made him get well cards. But I hesitate to tell them the truth. If his friends know, will some of their parents no longer allow them to play with him when he is well? Will it become something to bully him about? Will they think he is crazy? Will he get well?
Are you sure this is real? his grandmother asks. She means well, and it is a valid question. She lives far away. And it would be so much simpler to deal with if he were “faking” something. But would anyone question whether an infection or other physical illness were real? Would you question the shortness of breath of an asthma attack or the fever of strep throat? This is a physical illness. His body chemistry is out of whack. The only difference is that it affects the functioning of his brain, not his liver, or heart, or sight.
Just as no one can truly understand how overwhelming caring for a newborn can be until he/she has a baby of their own, no one can understand what it is like to face mental illness without direct experience. I try not to expect anyone to understand. But I am so alone.
How do I even begin to describe the all-consuming, abject fear of hearing my little boy scream, “It isn’t worth it if life is going to be like this,” and to know, in the midst of his terror and desperation, he means it, Don’t ever say that, if you ever feel that way you must tell me, have you ever thought about how you might kill yourself?, it won’t always be this way, I will protect you. But I can’t. I can’t make it better. A kiss, a Band-Aid, a Life Saver, a hug. Not this time. I am afraid to leave him home alone.
You must search for answers on the Internet, you need to take care of yourself, you need to get more sleep. They mean well, but they don’t understand. I can’t even get a decent meal on the table, fold the laundry, fill out school registration forms, clean, let alone do anything else. The therapist suggests taking a candlelit bath with scented bath oils when I have a free moment during the day. Only a man or a non-stay-at-home parent could suggest something like this. With four children, a puppy, Brownie meetings to plan, therapy sessions, meetings, teacher conferences, and the weight of the world on my shoulders there is no such thing as a “free moment.” Plus, before I could take a bath, I would have to clean the master bathroom, buy scented bath oil, find candles and matches, put the puppy in his kennel, make sure my four-year-old is safely occupied, and these days, make sure my son was not headed for panic. Never mind having to clean the bathtub again to wash away the slippery oil, put away the candles and matches, and probably dry my hair. Impossible.
So I wait, and watch, and worry. Will I be an 80 year-old woman with my sixty year-old son still living with me? Will this medicine even work? What if it doesn’t. What if it works for a while, but then stops? What if there are side effects? What do I do if he has another panic attack tonight? Will he be able to go to school on Monday? What if one of his friend’s mothers calls?
My four-year-old daughter asks me why we didn’t go to the library last week. Her brother didn’t feel well. Will we go next week? And before I can answer her she says, “We probably have to wait until his anxiety disorder gets better, right Mommy?” That’s right honey. We’ll just have to wait.

Monday, November 30, 2009

So proud

My oldest son Stephen is 21 now. I can't quite believe how fast all those years flew by. He'll be graduating from Drake University this spring and likely heading off to graduate school in the fall.
In his 21 years, Stephen has accomplished more than I have in my 46. He takes what he believes in and turns it into action.
In many ways Stephen's life has not been easy, but his struggle with mental illness has not consumed him. Instead, his fight against depression and OCD have made him stronger than anyone I have every known. He takes his empathy for those less fortunate and works hard to make a difference. He has lived in Egypt and South Africa, worked all through college, volunteered as a literacy tutor, assisted at Head Start, worked as a statewide volunteer for Oxfam international, and is an active member of his church.
My little boy has grown up to be a man to be admired.
He is loving, caring, funny, smart...
I am so thankful, Stephen, that I am your mother.

What follows is a sermon Stephen gave last summer at First Unitarian Church in Des Moines.
He received a standing ovation.


Spiritual Journeys through South Africa

Let me begin with a story, for what is life but a series of narratives in which I am both author and character? This story begins at my darkest hour. Suffering from severe depression, I am questioning the value of living a life without apparent meaning. I cannot see past my pain, neither can I bring myself to plan an escape. I am forced to choose between utter despair and the possibility of a better future. I decide to give it two weeks. By waiting, I have in fact made a decision. I've chosen to live!

Fast forward six years. My life looks different now. I am twenty: on scholarship at Drake University, volunteering with anti-poverty organization Oxfam, and preparing to study abroad for five months at a university in South Africa. I've come a long way in these six years. I am ready to engage with the world and all it has to offer. I am free.

Upon arriving in South Africa, the first thing I notice is the fences. Tall and topped with electric or razor wire, they surround every home and business of value. Crime is a daily reality in this country. I'm told it is driven by poverty, a culture of entitlement, and a high social tolerance for violence. This reality is driven home for me every time I go out to buy groceries. The way to the mall is lined with beggars. Some have homes and families to support, others have been on the streets since childhood. They try to make do on the generosity of the affluent. Most people walk on by, seemingly oblivious to their presence. I make a point to talk to them and to greet them respectfully as people.

One man, who goes by "Mr. Rubbish", is particularly friendly. He is always curious how my studies are going. He often cautions me to be safe and only occasionally asks for some groceries for his family. Yet there will always be barriers between us. In my short life, I've had opportunities that Mr. Rubbish can only dream of. I have the opportunity to be educated, to work at a decent job, and to travel abroad. Mr. Rubbish dreams that one day his children will experience these opportunities. It is not too late for them.

I have never felt as "White" as I feel on the streets of Pietermaritzburg. Whites are a minority in South Africa, but as a White man I retain the identity of a colonizer. While I didn't ask to be privileged in life, I benefit every day from my White-maleness. These benefits of privilege are two-sided. I can access opportunities that people of other races and genders are excluded from. However, as long as the implicit assumptions of my identity go unchallenged, I will lack the ability to learn from the identities of others.

Like many White American men, I haven't had to think much about my identity growing up. I was more inclined to think of everyone as "just people". This is partly right and partly wrong. All of us do share a common human bond, but eliminating others' cultural and gender identities from consideration too often leads me to consider them solely in terms of my own White Male identity. Seeing myself in this way, as a "default" that everyone else must be judged by is dangerous if I want to grow in a truly multicultural, multiracial, multi-gendered world. My experiences engaging with multiple beliefs in our UU congregation make it easier for me to adjust to the multiplicity of identities that is newly brought home to me by my status as a foreigner in South Africa.

My religious perspectives are brought to the fore early in my stay. The second Sunday of my trip I visit the local Pentecostal church. In an unfortunate incident, I am forced to call-out the youth pastor when he asks if anyone doubts his proof of the existence of God. "Haven't you assumed the existence of God and then proven his attributes?", I ask. Fortunately, he takes it well, and we proceed to have a good conversation about the meaning of worship. While we agree that worship is about service out of reverance for something, we disagree about the way that worship should be approached. His tradition approaches worship as something that stems from certainty in the truth of the doctrines of his form of Christianity. While I could acknowledge a need for God within me, I was not in the least bit inclined to worship out of logical compulsion. I tell him that I would worship if I understood that it was the morally correct thing to do. He asks me if I would consent to worship a God that did not create me. I can tell that he is still thinking in terms of compulsion- if God didn't create me, he would have no power over me. I tell him I'll get back to him on that one.

Meanwhile, classes begin and I am plunged once more into the world of academia. I thrive off the constant discourse around development. While community development is seen as more or less an aside to education in the United States, it is central to the academic discourse in South Africa. I realize this early in the semester, when I am speaking with my floor-mates. They are curious why I came to South Africa to study and are initially not impressed by my explanation that I came to learn about my own culture. To them, education is the pathway through which the student's entire community is uplifted, and they don't see why I would come from a rich country to study in a poor one. I explain that the United States is not uniformly wealthy and that many people who do have enough materially are struggling to find meaning in their lives. After a half hour discussion on life in Iowa, I am rewarded with one of the most gratifying experiences of my trip when he says "I guess you Americans are ordinary people after all”. "That's why I came here," I think to myself.

I am fortunate that one of my classes arranges opportunities for me to volunteer with social justice groups. The first group, the KwaZulu-Natal Christian Council, advocates for policies that allow poor communities to regain control of their destinies. Poverty is far more than a deficiency of material things. Poverty is about power: the power to feed one's family, to work in a dignified environment, and to express ones views in society. My experiences of powerless during my frequent bouts of depression leads me to empathize with people who lack the power to do even the most basic things for themselves. Like depression, poverty is a treatable condition that can be reduced in most cases through the actions of the human community.

One of the assignments that I receive is to develop policies that will enable people to feed themselves through gardening. In a poor country like South Africa, poverty or illness often means starvation. The government is supposed to prevent this with a handout, but often the donations of food or money arrive too late. Many communities would like to take matters into their own hands by growing some of their own food. I visit a local women's group that is starting a garden to grow vegetables for children, the elderly, and people with AIDS. I share my knowledge about watering and mulching vegetables, and they share their recommendations for how the government could support their work. I combine their information with further research and draw up a set of policies that they can use to lobby government officials to support community gardening. By challenging the prevailing notion that views poor people as little more than objects of charity, I open up a space for them to asset their power.

This form of empowerment is humbling work. It requires me to sacrifice some of my control- to trust the newly empowered women to help guide our common future. As they continue to gain experience lobbying their government, there is no guarentee that they will say what I would want them to say or do what I would want them to do. By helping these women to take their place at the decision-making table, I have given up some of my power. But what alternative is there? How can I ethically say that I- by virtue of wealth and status alone- should have a disproportionate say in the direction of the world? I would rather replace this culture of dominance with one of compassion, where every person is able to participate in determining our future. I believe that we will not see the end of poverty and environmental degredation until we empower each individual person to participate constructively in the decision-making process.

After a few weeks with the Council, I begin work with a second organization. The Ubuntu Crisis Centre is an orphanage in the rural township of Edendale just outside the city. The centre provides support to orphans, poor, and abused children. Most of the 32 girls at the centre have been raped or beaten. All of the children have witnessed violence that most of us would find unimaginable at their ages. My role at the centre is to be a positive male presence in their lives. We play games, do science activities, and laugh together. One day, I help the children to make ecosystems in plastic bottles. We gather soil, plant weeds, and have fun searching for cockroaches to represent the animal kingdom. After explaining science as a way to learn by watching the world and thinking about what is seen, I set the kids loose to record their observations of the bottles. After a week, we think about our results. One group kept everything alive and considers their bottle a success. The other groups overwatered. All of the children gain an appreciation for nature and for using science to learn about the world. Meanwhile, I gain a valuable insight into myself. I discover how to use my freedom.

I think everyone discovers this at one time or another. We witness the pain and evil in the world and discover our freedom to chart our course through it. During my periods of mental illness, my sole freedom was to choose to live. As I have slowly become more free, I am able to choose how to live: what actions to take, who to build relationships with, and what path will guide the direction of my life.

I choose the path of service. I do so because for me, service to the human community is the fullest expression of my humanity and the logical outcome of my freedom. I do not serve to remake the world or to make everything better. I realize from my interaction with the girls at Ubuntu Crisis Centre that I cannot make the pain of the world go away. What I can do is be present, help when needed, and nurture the spark of freedom inherent in each person- no matter how awful their past or present.

I want to take a moment now to emphasize that community service is only one form of service to humanity. I know a woman who once expressed admiration at the degree of activism I engage in and told me how different she felt in her own life. However, this same woman brought up two children from a young age and now cares for her disabled son's young children. Surely this woman, through caring for her children and grandchildren, has done as much for humanity as I can hope to achieve through my activism. In my mind, service to humanity occurs any time we put the needs of the human community above our own immediate desires.

Which brings me back to the question of worship. Would I consent to worship a God that did not create me? A God with no power over me? To answer this question, I must first understand what worship is. As I see it, worship has two components: an awe and reverence component, and a sacrifice and service component. The former comes from discovering something greater than myself, the latter comes in when I act on this basis. So worship has to do with service out of awe and reverence.

As I continue to speak with the minister at the Pentecostal church, it becomes clear that I would indeed consent to worship a God without power over me. Indeed, I believe that this is the only God one can worship, given our inability to prove the existance of a Supernatural Divinity. My answer comes as a surprise to both of us. Being an evangelical, the minister sees worship solely as an act of absolute surrender of the self to a higher power. As a UU, I have traditionally seen worship solely as an act of community in the here and now. To him, God was compulsion, to me, God was incidental. My truth now rests somewhere in between.

You see, one of the lessons that I learned in South Africa was how to believe in something. Perhaps as a result of my history of mental illness, I often struggle with an excessive urge to control my life. In the realm of belief, this has led me to demand absolute certainty in an ideal or a reality before I’m willing to put my faith in it. South Africans, including Mr. Rubbish and the orphans at Ubuntu, taught me another way. Facing challenges of powerlessness and pain that are similar to what I had faced, these people exercised choice instead of control. The idea that we can choose where to place our faith has had important implications for my religious journey since then.

Realizing that I had a choice of where to put my religious faith, I began to think about what path I wanted to take. The most important criteria for my decision of what religious path to take were its applicability to my situation and its potential for my transformation. The more I thought about it, the clearer my decision became. I chose Christianity- not in the sense of literal belief in every church doctrine, but in the sense of living as I believe Jesus would have taught me to live.

My reasons for choosing liberal Christianity are largely personal, and my faith is still evolving. Right now I will share just one aspect of my faith. I interpret the Christian teachings in a Universalist manner, choosing to believe that God's love is for all of us, and that it is more than enough to make everyone worthy as they are. This adds a new dimension to my service. I no longer have to serve in order to justify my human dignity, and I am instead freed to serve others because they share in this dignity. As a Christian and a Universalist, my worship compels me not to write any human off as incapable of growth- of salvation.

This is not about denying the existence of evil. I've experienced enough depression to know the reality of human suffering. Nor is it about eliminating all forms of pain- as if we could. Rather, it is expressed as something closer to Ubuntu- the African concept that my humanity is inextricably tied up in yours, in ours. My worship leads me to become the best person I can be through service to the larger community of which I am but a part.

So even as I am personally attracted to the possibility of God, I am unreservedly grounded in the reality of a world in need and my opportunity to use my freedom for its betterment. At times this will require me to ceed power to the poor or influence to the oppressed; as our Church has ceeded its monopoly on religious truth. But one thing I’ve learned is that humility is the gateway to true spiritual growth. As I continue on my spiritual journey I take comfort in the affirmation that we are endowed with reason that we may choose, morality that we may coexist, and each other that we may love. This affirmation is the bedrock of my religion, and I look forward to your help in building on it. Thank you.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Handiwork


Sixteen years ago, back when I was still a young mother of only three, I came across this idea in a magazine and it has become one of our most cherished holiday traditions. Every year at Thanksgiving we trace the children's hands on the holiday tablecloth. My mom then embroiders the name and date of each child in the handprint.
The adults trace their hands the first time they spend Thanksgiving with us, so I even have a my dad's handprint; a vivid reminder of all the Thanksgivings we spent with him before his death in 2004. Stephen and Zachary were 5 and 3 when we started this tradition and they each stopped tracing their hands several years ago. Sarah was a baby, and we have her footprint on the tablecloth, as well as all 16 years of her handprints. This is probably the last year she'll trace her hand. Melissa's footprint and an entire life of handprints are also on the tablecloth, as well as some family and friends who have only been with us a time or two.
My mom always asked the kids what color they wanted their handprints, so we remember when Zachary's favorite color was pink and Melissa's was lime green. We have all the paw prints from our dogs and cats, too. My mom added all the names of other pets we've had over the years as well, including Stephen's pet rats, the girls' gerbils, and Zachary's mouse. Even "Big Bertha," Melissa's pet millipede, is recorded on our tablecloth.
It's amazing how quickly the years fly by, how fast the children grow, family members pass on, and residences change. This tablecloth helps capture some of those precious memories.

This year was Ivy's first Thanksgiving with us, so it was time to trace her paw on the tablecloth


She was a willing and cooperative subject.



Some family members, however, tend to be a little less cooperative.
The kids noticed that Lester's pawprint, made two years ago, was made when he was just a kitten. Since his paws have grown since then, they insisted that he get a second pawprint.



He was less than thrilled.



Thanksgiving isn't his favorite holiday anyway.
Lester prefers climbing the Christmas tree and chewing on the ornaments to having his paw traced on some stupid tablecloth.
Maybe when he gets a little older, he'll understand...

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


Whew.
Some of us have been working hard.
It's amazing how quickly the house can get put together when everybody is home! Laundry's folded and put away, vacuuming is done, dusting and general straightening up mostly done (it's just awaiting my input for final placement of stuff).
With everybody else pitching in, I was free to do a flurry of holiday cooking - all pie crusts are made and waiting in the fridge for tomorrow's French apple and pumpkin pies, a Southern Chess pie is ready for tonight, raspberry topping stands ready for the cheesecake, and two loaves of pumpkin bread just came out of the oven. My cinnamon roll dough is rising... should have the rolls made and ready to bake in another hour and a half or so.
Mostly I've been reveling in atmosphere of a full house.
Yes, indeed, I do have much to be thankful for.

Thanks, Turkey


This is our thankful turkey.
He has visited our house for nearly 18 years (gasp!) now.
When Stephen and Zachary were just little guys, so very long ago, I started the tradition of the thankful turkey. Each day, starting November 1 or thereabouts, we each record something we are thankful for on a feather and add it to the turkey. By the time Thanksgiving rolls around, that turkey is fairly bursting with thankful feathers!
This was a great way to show little ones how much we have to be thankful for in our every day lives... and to show them that we could keep on adding thankful feathers seemingly forever and never run out of thankfulness.

We still do the turkey, all these many years later. Melissa, 12, has become our tradition keeper, for which I am grateful. We're looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner when we each grab a handful of feathers and take turns reading aloud all our family's thankfulness.

This year, we are saddened that my mom won't be able to be here with us for Thanksgiving. She had to cancel her plans for a visit due to some sudden health concerns. We will miss her terribly, but all of us are thankful for the excellent medical care she has and that her medical issue has resolved. She'll enjoy a Thanksgiving meal with friends and we will be thankful she is well again.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Things that go "BANG" in the night...

Or, maybe it's time for my great "social" experiment to end.
Let me explain.
Last night we came home from a delightful family dinner in Ames, though we discovered a disturbing lack of decent dessert options at Carlos O'Kelly's. Anyway, we were all off doing our own thing - computer for Michael, reading for Melissa and me, Sarah was cleaning the litter boxes - when multiple loud bangs rang out next door.
Now, these weren't "pop-pop" sounds but were real "bang, bangs." I didn't want to believe it was shots ringing out, but what else could it be? 10-15 in a row M-80s?
That's what dh thought, until he looked out the window and saw a patrol car several houses down with its lights flashing.
We knew then that we needed to call the police, who took our information about where to look. Not long after, the police were in our neighbor's yard with flashlights, trying to find shell casings. Thankfully, no one was injured (as far as we know), but we could hear one of our neighbors yelling as more and more cars and young men began to fill the street.
Right after dh climbed in bed and we turned out the lights, the doorbell rang. Reminding my too-trusting dh not to open the door unless it was the police, he grabbed his robe and ran downstairs. He invited the officer in - actually, he asked to step in - and repeated what we'd told the cops on the phone.
He said they'd found several shell casings, but with so many "alleged" gang members showing up, he and his partner were waiting for back up.
Later, we noticed a police car with lights flashing in the alley, and another police vehicle parked across our driveway. They stayed for several hours, though I don't know what they found, if anything.
Now, could this have happened in other, less economically stressed neighborhoods? Undoubtedly. But this is the third time in a week there has been noticeable police presence on our street.
I just now heard a commotion outside and looked down the street to see a small group of people - mostly young men and a couple of children - being harangued by an older woman in a house dress and slippers. Oh, and she was wielding a wrench, no less.
Yes, I said "house dress," but that's not really the point.
I don't like living in a neighborhood where drug deals go down regularly at the park, aggressive dogs run free, and gun shots ring out in the night.
Now, we've discovered that most people here are just plain folks; friendly, helpful, and just living their lives.
But there's just too much of the other "element" for my comfort.
Besides, I don't want to end up in a house dress and slippers wielding a wrench at gang members any time soon.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Going Bananas

I mentioned in my last post how I initially went a little crazy with the coupons.
That may be a slight understatement.
You see, when I first started, Target was running a coupon special for 1lb. of free bananas. I discovered that I could print out as many Target coupons as I wanted from Hot Coupon World, and everbody here was on a banana kick anyway.
The girls came with me and we'd each buy 1 pound of bananas - and usually only be charged a couple of pennies (it's hard to weigh out exactly one pound of bananas!).
Now, the bananas weren't the only items I was buying at Target, so I wasn't making special, single-item trips. I usually did my weekly shopping at least one of the times. At the time their single-size artisan breads were also free with a coupon, as were single-serving Cheerios cups.
We went to Target so many times over the next several weeks that I think the sales people recognized us. I know the managers at a couple SuperTargets probably wanted to duck and cover when they saw me coming - apparently Target is notorious for not knowing it's own coupon policies and I started carrying the official corporate coupon policy in my purse!
Anyway, I probably "bought" more than 48 lbs of free or nearly free bananas during that promotion. And yes, that is a lot of bananas, but I have a great banana bread recipe that freezes well, so I don't think I threw away any overripe bananas.
I also have a lot of the mini-artisan bread loaves in my freezer. They make great garlic bread! We also are heavily stocked with our free single-serving Cheerios cups. Each holds about 1 1/2 cups of cereal, so it takes only 3 to make Cheerios treats - a favorite snack item around here.
No sooner had the Target promotion ended than I discovered HyVee had a one week only coupon for 1 lb. of free bananas. Chalk up another 10 lbs. during that week!
Alas, no one has free bananas right now, but that's really okay. The girls were starting to cringe when I called out "Who wants to go to Target?" and we're all pretty tired of bananas.
You may not think it was worth it, but I'm glad to have saved the $25-$30.
Plus, it's a real kick to walk out of a store with "free" merchandise.

Monday, September 28, 2009

The plan

I've been working hard at managing our finances this year, but in the last 6 weeks or so I have really ratcheted-up the cost-saving strategies at my disposal.
I joined Swagbucks and have earned almost $15 in Amazon gift cards. Likewise, I opened an Amazon rewards Visa and by using it judiciously to pay some of our monthly expenses (and of course paying off the balance each month) I now have $125 in Amazon gift cards. I'm trying to earn enough gift cards to buy Zachary the Kindle he wants for Christmas without having to spend much "actual" money.
I've been reading lots of coupon sites and really working store sales. I'll never save as much as some people do on their food budget since I buy very little processed, prepackaged food, but have found that I now typically save 20% to 30% at the grocery store. I spent the last two months building up a stock pile of food and toiletry items, so now I can pick and choose only the best deals.
The freezers are full of local fruits, veggies, homemade sauces, and bread from the day old bread store. Sunday I bought 16 loaves of whole grain bread for just over $10. I always have bread in the freezer and never find myself having to run out to the store to buy a loaf for $3 or more.
I still do all my cooking and baking from scratch, which I know saves us loads of money. Tastes better and is better for us, too.
I worked out a plan this weekend that shows it is possible to pay off our credit card debt and our car loan in one year. While it's possible, I'm not sure how likely it is, as I didn't figure in college tuition, but I'm encouraged nonetheless.
I've been playing the prescription transfer game, so far garnering $75 in Hy Vee gift cards just for transferring our prescriptions. Once I'm done at HyVee, I plan to transfer 4 prescriptions to Kmart for another $100 in gift cards. I love our small pharmacy, but they understand why we do this and welcome us (and our money!) back with open arms. Of course it would be better not to have any prescriptions to transfer, but our fate has dictated otherwise, I'm afraid.
All of this takes a lot of effort and a fair amount of time, but it's definitely worth it. We've saved hundreds in the last two months - about $700 in fact - just by watching for sales, cutting coupons, and practicing frugality.

Now that I'm stocked-up, I've decided to only spend $50 a week this month on groceries and toiletries. Our month starts on the 26th, and so far, so good. Since I'm mostly shopping from the freezer, I decided to make a weekly menu plan.


Sunday: Chicken chili burritos and sweet corn
Monday: Rebaked potatoes, green beans, salad, pumpkin pie
Tuesday: Lentil Chili, veggie platter, corn meal muffins
Wednesday: Veggie-beef stew over cheesy polenta, fresh veggies, gingerbread and applesauce
Thursday: Garlic pasta, steamed broccoli, fresh tomatoes, french bread
Friday: Pesto, sliced tomatoes, garlic bread, apple pie
Saturday: Whole wheat pasta with ricotta cheese sauce, mixed cooked veggies, garlic and rosemary focaccia
It's hard for me to stick to a menu plan, but if I stay flexible I probably won't resist too much.

I must admit I went a little crazy with the coupons at first and my girls are tired of being my coupon accomplices. They're still willing to head to Walgreen's with me or to Target or HyVee when I need a couple extra buyers, but now I try not to ask more than once a week!

Neglected

Sometimes there are things you mean to do; I mean, really and truly intend to follow through on, but somehow you just don't quite meet your goals.
No, I'm not talking about keeping my exponentially-increasing gray hair under control, though I certainly need to decide what to do about it once and for all.. You see, maintaining the high-lights and low-lights in my hair requires professional dyeing every 5 weeks or so. Add to that a trim and eye brow mowing wax, and we're talking second mortgage here.
Or I guess, in my case, third mortgage.
Is there even such a thing?
But I digress.
No, I'm referring to my poor, lonely, post-less blog.
It seems that once I got derailed I just couldn't quite climb back up on that horse.
How's that for a mixed metaphor?
I enjoy writing my blog, even though I don't exactly have a "readership." Just a couple of friends and an occasional relative. So I guess I'm not doing it for an audience.
I think I enjoy expressing myself in writing, relating the rather mundane happenings of a middle aged wife, mother and zoo keeper.
So, basically I do it for myself.
I think it's therapeutic.
I also, however, do it for my kids, especially my youngest, who is my biggest blog fan.
Melissa reminds me almost daily that I haven't posted. She will often go back and reread my blog from beginning to end.
She thinks I'm funny.
And that is about the greatest compliment a mom could receive from her preteen daughter.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Beautiful...


Um...
Yeah.

Poor baby

It's no fun recuperating from surgery.
You have to wear goofy medical paraphernalia.
Your mom makes fun of you, calling you "AstroDog" and "CosmicCanine."
You need help getting up on the furniture because your "lampshade" collar keeps getting caught on the edge of the couch.
The doctor makes you wear a t-shirt and its hard to drink out of your water bowl, let alone chew a bone.

But worst of all?

You have to stay inside and watch all the other dogs get to play.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Sweet boy



Wally is in surgery right now. He has age-related fat tumors (hey, don't we all?), one of which could start to make walking uncomfortable. I know he'll be fine, but I can't help but worry about him. He's my Wally-dolly.

I love our veterinarian, though. Wally is freakishly scared of the vet clinic and tends to be a fearful dog anyway. Knowing this, they didn't make us drop him off as early this morning as is usual for surgeries. Instead, the office called to let us know when to bring him in.

I so appreciate this concern for my honey-dog.

And I hope he's okay.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Not again... please

So, we survived.
Mostly.
Zach is back at school and almost back to full-strength. Sarah is still battling headaches, though the severity has decreased.
Now all we have to fear is H1N1. I hear that universities are sending sick students home to recuperate.
I'd like to question the fairness wisdom of that medical decision.
My oldest son, a senior at a local university, decided to forgo the misery commeraderie of the dorms and live at home this semester. His daily activities take him from a campus full of germ-ridden young adults, to coffee shops, work, and a myriad of volunteer events, not to mention church on Sundays.
My oldest daughter is a junior at the local pathogen cesspool high school, mingling daily with perhaps even more greatly germ-ridden adolescents, eating her homemade lunch in a cafeteria (really, how often do they wash those tables?), riding a city bus, and hanging out with theater kids, no less.
Youngest daughter, while homeschooled, associates with a much smaller number of people, but generally accompanies me on errands around the city.
Think Walmart, folks.
Dearest husband, of course, not only works in a building with hundreds of other people, but regularly travels to other states, sometimes even breathing the recirculated air on the corporate jet.
There have already been several cases of H1N1 at Zach's school. He's already had a horrible cold, so H1N1 infection is likely only a matter of time.
My question is, if he gets H1N1 and they send him home, does that mean the entire family must stay home until total infection and recuperation are complete? If not, won't the flu spread more quickly to other institutions (another university, a high school, a major seed company, Walmart)?
I had the flu once, years ago.
It was 1997 and I was nearly 8 months pregnant with Melissa. It was early February and my husband had left for a 12-day business trip to Hawaii.
I was home with our then nine-year-old, 7-year-old, and 3-year-old.
Did I mention we also were remodeling the basement?
Yeah.
I'm not bitter.
Anymore.
Anyway, first one son, then the other, came down with the flu. As the oldest began to recover, the youngest fell ill.
It was a fun time.
By the time Michael got home from his trip, not only was I exhausted and even more pregnant, I came down with the flu.
I don't think I've ever been so sick.
I spent nearly a week in bed and darling husband had to miss 5 days of work. I had barely recovered from the flu when I developed a horrible sinus infection.
I have received an annual flu shot ever since, vowing to do all I can to prevent ever being that sick again.
But now, there's this new version.
Oh, I'll get the immunization, as will everyone in my family who is eligible.
But it somehow doesn't seem fair to send what will amount to a typhoid-Mary into my house.
Of course, I wouldn't want Zach to be away at school, lying ill in a dorm room with no one to take care of him.
It's just that the thought of being that sick again, even all these years later, is a little frightening.
At least this time I have friends who'll leave Kleenex and soup on my front doorstep.
Right, guys?

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Resistance is futile...


Earlier this week Zachary began experiencing symptoms of c. difficile infection.
After a blood test and stool samples, the doctor could prescribe an antibiotic, so we caught the infection at the start this time.
Thank goodness.
Zach has been on anitbiotics now since Tuesday and he's beginning to feel a little better and is now able to eat a bit. He's still exhausted, but hopes to go to work a half day on Monday.
I can't explain the level of dread he and I both experienced on Tuesday, heading back to the hospital for tests while he felt more and more ill.
It took perseverance on our part, though, to get the antibiotics as soon as we did. I had requested that his doctor, who was doing a hospital rotation that day, call us in the evening. The receptionist assured me he would. Well, along about 9:30, I began to suspect that he never got the message. When Michael got back in town at 10 p.m., he agreed we should call the answering service.
We were just so afraid of waiting and having the infection progress without treatment.
Within 5 minutes of leaving the message with his service, the doctor called us, talked with Zach, and called in a prescription to a 24-hour pharmacy nearby.
Zachary seems to be on the mend, but I know we're all worried about yet another re-infection, especially since goes back to college on Thursday and classes start Monday. Fortunately, he attends university just 40 minutes away.
I'm concerned about his stamina, about susceptibility to other illnesses since he's been so weakened by this illness. He had regular check-up on Monday, before he knew he was getting sick again, and discovered that he had lost more than 20 pounds during his illness in July.
There's a lot to be thankful for - our medical insurance, access to quality medical care, that this reinfection seems to be clearing up...
But it's hard not to worry about him.
And it's scary to realize how such serious illnesses can seemingly come out of nowhere and wreak such havoc on a young man's life.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Temptation

I aint got no "stick-to-it-iveness.
In other words, I have difficulty with long-term planning.
When I decide to make a change, whether it be rearranging the furniture, landscaping the yard, or getting rid of our debt, I want it to happen now.
Or preferably 5 minutes ago.
We've been working hard on our consumer debt, having paid off $21,000 since January. I've had a few splurges here and there, so we're actually about $1,000 behind where I wanted to be, but the goal of being out of consumer debt in two years is still within reach.
I've been driving myself crazy for the last 6 months cruising money and debt blogs, couponing, and plugging our numbers into debt calculators.
Over and over and over again.
Repeatedly.
Our success so far is really quite remarkable, but it's that remaining balance that nags at me. Last week I decided to start accumulating all the "found" money - insurance reimbursements, rebates, etc., and put them toward our debt. We had two reimbursements and a store return that equaled $176. I immediately applied them to our largest debt, which is our primary focus.
Ah, but temptation never fails to rear its ugly head. Also last week, the pressure canner I've been eyeing since last season went on sale - 40% off - at Amazon. At $179 it still wasn't cheap, but it's the top of the line and I've been dying to can my own beans.
I know.
I have issues.
Anyway, I ordered the canner, plus a couple new books about canning. This was all made easier by my new Amazon charge card, which Zach and I used to purchase his fall textbooks, saving him boucoup bucks, plus an additional $30 off the first purchase.
But you see, having that Amazon credit card provided me with the means to buy what I hadn't budgeted for this month and put the bill off until next month.
Now, in the past, I wouldn't have planned to pay it off right away the next month; instead the debt would have continued to grow. So at least I'm getting better about my splurges in that regard.
The canner arrived and I was giddy with excitement.
For about 15 minutes.
Then I looked at next month's budget which includes new shoes for the girls, tuition payments, home repairs, car repair.
Gulp.
Suddenly, that canner no longer made me happy.
Instead, it was a symbol of my lack of self-restraint. The canner isn't a necessity, but a luxury, that right now I can't afford.
A quick trip to the computer and I printed off the return tags for the canner and books and asked Michael to please, quickly, whisk them out of my sight before I changed my mind.
And you know what? I still feel a little sad about not being able to can my own beans, but that is far outweighed by the fact that I made a sound financial decision.
We will be out of debt in two years.
I just have to stay strong and think of how good it will feel to buy that pressure canner with actual cash on hand.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Shell-shocked

Whew.
I think I'm still recovering from the emotional stresses this summer has bestowed on me.
First, there are Sarah's headaches, now diagnosed officially as migraines. I should probably say "headache," as she hasn't been completely without it since mid-May. Fortunately, the preventive medicine she's taking has helped, and hopefully will continue to do so, as it builds up to its full strength over the next couple of weeks.
She's trying a new medicine to deal with the lingering pain - a "rescue" med rather than preventive. So far it, too, has helped, but nothing seems to zap the headache for good.
Not yet anyway.
Multiple trips to the doctor, the pharmacy, the hospital for EKG and MRI, neurologist appointment, and frustration with our insurance company, calls to the neurologist, but worst of all, Sarah suffering with horrible pain.
All summer long.
On a side note, as I explained to the neurologist our family history, I included the headaches I've have had periodically for the last 20 years. Throbbing, sometimes lasting days, sleeping helps, always on one side of my head, can usually feel the headache coming on ... he diagnosed me on the spot with migraines of my very own.
Awe, and to think I only gave myself credit for tension headaches.
Of course, I can't use his diagnosis, as he's a pediatric neurologist. I'm not yet ready to pursue an official diagnosis for myself, though, as I can usually blast the headaches away within a day with my over-the-counter arsenal of Ibuprofen, Excedrin and naproxen sodium.
Fortunately he didn't laugh as I described my non-prescription pharmacological battle plan - first I take 2 naproxen sodium, then if the headache isn't better in about an hour, I take two Ibuprofen, and try to sleep. If I still have the headache when I get up, I take Excedrin and pray to the great Pain-Reliever in the Sky (Analgesia?) to spare me.
Anyway, I've seen enough doctors this summer without seeking more for myself.

And then there was Zachary, felled by not one, but two potentially deadly intestinal infections, toxic E.coli. and C. Diff. He spent 10 days in the hospital, pumped full of antibiotics and fluids, and is still recovering now weeks later.
I can't believe the suffering he endured.
He escaped major complications, and we're hopeful he won't have a recurrence of the C.Diff., something that happens in about 20% of infections. Don't quote me on that... I'm too tired right now to look up the exact number.
We still don't know how he became infected. My conversation with the Polk County Health Department lasted nearly 30 minutes. The nurse was shocked by how sick my son had been.
One of his gastroenterologists told us that C. Diff. used to only be found among immune-compromised patients, patients already in health care settings, children in daycare, and people who had used certain antibiotics within a few months of the infection. Now, however, there is an epidemic of community-acquired (as in general community) C. Diff. infections, she said.
Another reason for rampant over-use of antibiotics to stop, including in the livestock industry. Yet another reason that I refuse to buy meat from industrialized agriculture, though I do occasionally indulge in a fast food hamburger or pizza with meat toppings.
Of course, my son got the infection anyway.
It's amazing how long it's taking him to come back to full-strength. I can see how this disease, even without major complications, could be deadly to those already weakened by other diseases.
I've learned that I'm great in a crisis, able to hold myself together for the sake of others (and myself, I suppose). The girls were a mess of worry over Zach's illness, and fortunately I was able to help them through their anxieties. I was upbeat for Zachary, polite and knowledgeable with the doctors, ready to advocate and be strong when necessary.
But when it was all over I felt as if I had been run over by a truck and had half my blood drained.
The exhaustion was nearly overwhelming and I found my emotions all over the map. I wanted nothing more than for someone to come take care of me and take over my responsibilities so I could huddle in bed and recuperate.
But we all know that mothers always have to recover on the run, so to speak.
And I have, mostly. Though I still have days when I find myself suddenly on the verge of tears, for no discernible reason. I know my stress level has not yet come back down all the way to Earth. I'm trying to be kind to myself while still being productive.
While I've been able to process a bunch of tomato sauces, make some jam, and cook all our meals from scratch (I'm definitely extra leery of fast food and am trying to build Zachary up again), there are ridiculous projects I don't seem able to take on.
Thank goodness Michael took over freezing all the green beans. He's also been doing the laundry.
And corn.
Good lord, the corn.
Michael's been prepared to pick up a free bushel of corn for us the past two weeks.
Yep, I said "free."
And yet, for some strange reason, I cannot face the corn.
I keep postponing its arrival, hoping it will still be there next week.
Or maybe the next week.
I know it sounds silly, but I think that bushel of corn symbolizes the emotional healing I still need to do.
When I can face the corn, I'll know I'm better.
Maybe next week.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Still Here... Sort of

I'm still here, my son is recuperating, my daughter's headaches are slowly improving, the dog is still crazy, the house is still furry, the garden is going like gangbusters, and summer weather has finally found us.
I hope to start posting regularly again... soon.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Ruminations

In a heroic act of normalcy, my husband and I dashed to the Farmer's Market Saturday morning before heading to the hospital and my seriously ill son.
This may sound like a heartless and unfeeling act by a dispassionate woman. My God, how could you go fruit shopping with your son in the hospital?
But to me, making sure I had enough raspberries and blueberries to feed my family for the week, and enough to make jam and start the winter storage hoarding, was an act of anxiety reduction.
I know. It made sense at the time.
You see, I've been worried about that raspberry situation for several weeks now, and I haven't gotten much jam made yet this summer, what with Sarah's headaches, multiple trips to the doctor, and that dog of mine... so I a little fruit therapy seemed warranted.
Of course, Zachary had a bad day on Saturday, adjusting to different pain meds and fighting nausea. I wasn't prepared for a step backward, so I was thrown for a loop and my anxiety ratcheted up several notches beyond it's already sky-high rating.
Zach is doing better again today, thank goodness, but it's going to be a long road back to health.
I've spent a lot of time alone with my thoughts these past few days (and believe me, if you could hear my thoughts, that's a bad place to be). Zachary has mostly slept and I've sat somewhat paralyzed in his darkened room. It's been too dark to read, though I can't concentrate enough to handle anything more than a short magazine article anyway, and until Stephen lent me his laptop, the days have been long, dark, and full of rumination.
Turns out the effects of fruit therapy wear off fast, as I've been thinking about all those berries sitting at home waiting for attention, along with the dogs and, of course, the girls, who have spent way too much time home alone this past week. Thank goodness for good friends who had them over for two whole afternoons. (The girls, not the dogs)
At the market, while still buoyed by my fruit purchases and not yet in the thralls of buyer's remorse, we passed a couple we used to know. Well, I guess we still "know" them, though now they'd be in the category of "former" friends.
Let's just say, when I needed her most, this friend, with whom I had shared so much laughter, so many feelings, dropped me like a lead balloon.
She was depressed, but hadn't told me; I had just lost my father and wasn't coping well. She complained, I defended, and asked what was wrong, had I done something to offend?
Denials, back and forth, and she checked out of the friendship.
I don't know that I've ever been more wounded. The loss of this friendship reverberated throughout my life, affecting other friendships of mine, and causing to me withdraw from almost everyone, save my kids and husband.
I thought I was over it, but I guess all losses stay with you, in some form, forever.
So I saw them as we passed at the market, said "hi, how are you?" as we both kept walking.
The sting of that loss has come back to haunt me a little these past couple of days.
I'll never understand the "why" or even the "how" of something like that, and certainly regret other friendships lost as a result of my emotional cocooning all those years ago.
Today, I treasure my friendships more than ever.
My friends sustain me, care for me, laugh with me and at me.
They mean the world to me.
I think sometimes in life we have to experience certain losses to appreciate what we have.
And believe me, I do.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Worry

Right now I'm sitting in my son's hospital room, watching him sleep.
Zachary, 19, has been in the hospital since Tuesday night's trip to the emergency room.
What we thought was simply a nasty stomach virus, turned out to be much, much more.
It started with him feeling nauseous Sunday afternoon, and several episodes of vomiting throughout Sunday night. By Monday afternoon, the vomiting had stopped, only to be followed by diarrhea. The diarrhea continued, with the addition of gut-wrenching cramps over night. By Tuesday morning, his stools were mostly blood, the cramps continued, and he couldn't keep anything down. A trip to the doctor's office, and we left with a stool sample kit in case the bloody diarrhea continued into the afternoon, and advice to sip Gatorade. He couldn't keep any of it down and had been dashing to the bathroom every 12 minutes for nearly 3 hours.
A late afternoon call to the doctor ended with the advice to take him to the ER, as he likely was dehyrdrated.
We left for the ER around 7, and the triage nurse told us it would be a 3-hour wait. We stationed ourselves next to the bathroom, but he could hardly stand the pain; after 3 trips to the bathroom in 15 minutes, I went back to the nurse, told her what was going on, and that I didn't think he could wait. One look at him and she exclaimed, "You look white as a ghost!" She called her supervisor, and he was taken right into the ER, where we had more hurry up and wait.
More tests were ordered, history taken, IVs, pain meds.
He was moved to a surgical floor, taken to X-ray, pain meds adjusted.
He had severe colitis, but the cause was still unknown. They started him on vancomycin, as blood work indicated infection. The pain, the blood, the cramping all continued.
Finally on Thursday we had a definitive diagnosis: toxic E. coli and an infection called c. diff., both extremely dangerous infections. We couldn't trace his exposure to these bacteria to any foods, as the whole family had eaten together the past week. More antibiotics, more waiting.
It's unusual to have two of these infections at the same time, let alone in an otherwise healthy 19-year-old. So far, he seems to have escaped deadly side effects from either of the infections, though we aren't completely out of the woods yet.
Yesterday he felt quite a bit better and was put on a clear liquid diet and did some walking. Today is a bad day.
They had to stop his pain pump, as these pain meds (morphine, delaudid) slow the working of the intestines and he needed to get his GI system up and working again. He suffered from quite lot of pain again all day today as well as nausea and couldn't drink much more than sips of water, nor could he do much walking.
Needless to say, this has been an incredibly stressful time.
I wasn't prepared for him to feel worse today, and so can only hope tomorrow is better again.
These two bacteria are frighteningly powerful. The illness is horrifically painful.
We don't know yet when he'll be coming home, though it could still be 3 or 4 days at least.
I'm sitting here in the hospital watching him sleep, thinking about all he's been through, and hoping for a fast recovery.
It likely won't be fast, but I'll be so thankful when I can take him home again.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

One Local Summer - Week 6


Finally, my garden is starting to produce in earnest, with many of this week's veggies coming from just a few feet outside my back door.
I use my Italian vegetarian cookbook all the time, with this week's marinated cauliflower salad a new find. The lighter cauliflower is from my garden, that glorious purple cauliflower is direct from the farmer. I've never seen cauliflower in such a gorgeous hue! I lightly steamed the cauliflower, made a quick vinagrette-type dressing, and tossed in a handful of calamata olives for extra flavor. After a quick one-hour marinade at room temperature, it offered a crunchy, tangy, counterpoint to the rest of the meal.

This is the first year I've successfully grown eggplant! My kids made fun of my little happy dance on the porch when I spied the first fruits, and a friend offered only cheerful disdain regarding my joy over "tasteless purple vegetables," yet I remain undaunted.
I love eggplant!
I sliced the eggplant and some garden-fresh green peppers, brushed them with olive oil and sprinkled them with salt and pepper before broiling them until browned and tender.


These luscious slices were then layered between homemade bread, with just a tablespoon of olivada (homemade, but imported olives) spread on the bread.
It was heavenly!


I've been dying to make my favorite stuffed tomatoes and finally had enough locally-grown (from about 100-ish miles away in Missouri) and tasty tomatoes to make it worthwhile. The tomatoes are hollowed out and filled with a mixture of homemade breadcrumbs, fresh parsley and basil, salt, pepper, olive oil, and garlic. Baked at 375 degrees for 20 minutes they are incredibly flavorful and melt-in-your-mouth terrific.
I can't wait to see what my garden - and my farmer's market! - produces this week!