The Ramblings of a Depressed Human Needing Love Words

It has been four months since I have wrote words on this page. And although I haven't decided if there is purpose in continuing this blog or in which form, tonight -  I felt compelled to put digital ink to an illuminated screen.

My heart is held together by Elmer's glue, and little scraps of embroidery thread, it beats with a broken rhythm - I think they call it depression- and it feels - literally, not figuratively- like a heavy weight in the middle of my chest.

For four months I have wrote thousands of words. Thousands of words that were actually read by ten of thousands of people. An accomplishment I never thought I would see.

I wrote about food and I interviewed a finalist from the CBS reality show Survivor. I talked to pastors and chefs, and master gardeners.

I talked to professionals and your average joe. I was given mugs of steaming coffee and warmly invited to sit in their living rooms. One photographer I interviewed I had admired his work since I moved out here, years ago- never imagining I would have a chance to meet with him.

I offered people a chance to talk and sometimes the stories I heard never made it on newsprint, but I learned further about fragile hearts and sensitive souls and came away realizing that there's not enough hugs in the world and we are all so imperfectly human - each with our own story, shaped by tears and laughter and heartbreak.

One article I wrote was about how the non-profit social organizations in my Western small town had set themselves on a new path to change poverty. How instead of throwing more services and financial assistance at the needy, they were going to teach real skills- tech school or college - instead.

Instead of handing them fishes - they were going to teach them to fish.

One day, if I continue with this blog, I will write about how writing about interviewing people who deal and help people with poverty made me realize they can't feel it. Empathy- yes.  But to understand poverty you have to experience it. Pawn off useless crap to feed your kids. Or visit a food pantry.

Feel it. In the rumble of your belly. And the red stain of shame flushed cheeks when you're three dollars short for hot dogs and the small business owners sells it to you for the dollars and quarters and pennies in your pocket.

For four months I have avoided this space. I have filled my head and my fingers with words about my community and other people's stories and I have avoided my own.

My grandparents died and then I was thrown away by a loved one who never in her life has thrown anything away, but she could toss me and the rest of the family away like an old box of cereal. 

Nah, she keeps old boxes of cereal.

And I have to admit it hurts like hell to not even be as valuable as an old box of cereal. And I have to admit in my imperfectly humanness, I hope the holidays are just lonely enough to hurt. And then I try to remember love, but anger can be louder sometimes.

For my friends and families who have lost dear, dear loved ones this year, I worry and pray for you. And my heart swells with tears that I don't know how to express- because despite being a writer, I can be pretty lousy with spoken words.

But I have a wonderful friend who has taught me to say something anyway. So I stumble, stutter, but I speak clumsily and I have found that my far from graceful offerings of comfort aren't as rejected as I feared.

And I have seen the light, and I know even in our darkest hour we are never, ever alone. And of course, Bean reminds me how do you know it's your darkest hour...

 Ah, shit. I was trying for something hopeful and poetic and worthy of a life coach. But freaking me, truthfully that's not me.

Let me speak frank and with the anger I keep carefully contained under lock and key.

 Life can fucking suck and we don't always understand the reasoning behind what happens.

 It can be tough and fill us with hard words.

It can drag us down into the murky water to drown. And we do. We try to drown it with drugs, drink, food, and reckless sex. We numb ourselves and medicate ourselves and we turn away from the Divine.

And we forget to breath.

WE FORGET TO LIVE. And then Bean reminds me that she doesn't understand why people keep telling everyone to live - do more than survive. Aren't we living?

Are you? Am I?
 .

 And in the meantime, the world shifts in imbalance - back and forth along the broken edge of a cliff, dividing people and we can feel it in our collective emotions. And if a hashtag could fix the world, then things wouldn't be falling apart like a snowman in summer.

And it's not that I'm writing about anything that hasn't been discussed since humans made a written language, and our ancestors understood hardship and death.

It's just us in the Western world we have been coddled and lived within an illusion, shopping while we sip lattes (and I do enjoy a good latte)  and now I realize that one of my main jobs of being a parent was not just to teach them compassion and empathy, but strength.

Because this world will kick you in the ass. 

And since us imperfect humans love to find solace in words - words from songs like the Beatles, and quotes from deeply spiritual people like Mother Teresa and from words handed down through centuries like the Holy Bible - one theme remains clear -

The world may kick you in the ass but

Love kicks back.

And that's how I am going to finish this utterly too depressing narrative about ass kickings, old cereal boxes, and how cancer is pretty much the most shitty deal ever.

We always find love words to give us strength.

Time Out- I'm on Base and You Can't Get Me

I officially declare a time out from life. Temporary, mind you. I'm not sure how long I'll need, but if I'm to prevent part of my heart from growing cold and hard, I need some time. - I really don't know how much more strength I can find- at this point I am digging deep.

And damn it, my shovel was smashed to pieces yesterday by someone I love dearly.

This is the part in the story where I start digging with my hands, on my knees in the mud, having a Captain Dan moment.

Except I don't have a shrimping boat to tie myself too and scream at the heavens for a few hours.

Although, if God can hear my screaming thoughts inside my head, then I don't need a shrimping boat and a storm to communicate.

I listened to Abu cry herself to sleep last night,  because she couldn't believe that someone she cared about with all the graciousness of her heart would choose an inanimate object over her. She would give the shirt off her back for this person- had nothing but nice things to say, and the hurt she feels cuts me to the core of my mommy heart.

The Vikings were brilliant- burn the shit with the owner. I told my girls- when I die- burn all my shit with my body- I don't want any fighting over scraps of my life.
Bean pointed out she might be arrested for doing that, but she would do it for me anyways.

And the ironic part of the matter, is this person was getting the items, there was no question -  but for whatever reason she freaked out, acted in such a way that even I with my big, sensitive heart can not excuse with grief- and tore my family apart. And destroyed her relationships with my girls.

I hope it was worth it.

As Doc said in Back to the Future 3- Shot in the back over a matter of 80 bucks.

That line has bugged me since I first watched the movie, because what sort of person would shoot a person over something as tiny as 80 bucks?

And then I found out. Unfortunately it wasn't a nemesis, but blood. And I have to admit that hurts in ways that are crushing.

Betrayal. It stings. That's why it plays such a big part in books. We hate what we can not fight, the stab in the back.

On top of that - Hero Hottie had a doctor's appointment and was told he is really sick, as we knew, but they don't know what's wrong with him. More tests are ordered.

More. tests. are. ordered. - Translation: we don't know what the hell is wrong with your husband.

As a child I loved to read mysteries...

As an adult they are starting to lose their appeal.


My Grandpa died last week. He lived 54 days after Grandma. He would be so disappointed to know what has happened this week.

Knowing my Grandpa, he would have burnt his shit, rather than have things transpire the way they have.

My Mom asked a nurse how could she work at the hospice house, working with people when they're at their worse.

A few days later she came back and said she had thought about Mom's comment.

"I don't work with people at their worse. I work with them at their best. This is who they are."

Because dying strips us of all our facades and walls we have built around ourselves, exposing our true, naked selves.

Media has it wrong- we don't live like we're dying. We die the way we lived.

Hospice House

Details of a Short Stay at the Hospice House

       Two years ago when my Grandma had surgery for colon cancer, she could see the hospice house from her hospital room. During her two week stay in one of the tallest buildings in our small town, she could peer over the parking lot, the drainage field and the row of pine trees, to the hospice house. And for two weeks she watched people go in and out, visiting their dying loved ones, and she decided that she didn't want to die there. She wanted to be at home. 

     Unfortunately, life doesn't  never goes as planned. I'm starting to believe that you need some sort of plan - like a goal- so you don't wander aimlessly around waiting for life to happen to you, but plans are more like suggestions. 

  One time I toured a college, and the college mentor was explaining to me that she had been there for seven years and just couldn't leave because she didn't know what to do with her life when she left. 

     Completely forgetting the fact that she was in fact living her life at that moment she was wasting it, while she decided she had to 'be something' in order to live life. -

   But back to Grandma- not even two weeks after we sorted shoes, water retention in her body made her limbs too heavy for family members to care for her at home. And when my sister pulled her shoulder trying to help her- she knew she had to make a decision and she entered hospice house via ambulance and being lifted down her porch stairs in her kitchen chair by two strapping EMTs.

And that image of her sitting- all frail and both bones and skin from wasting away from cancer and swollen and puffy tissues from water retention- wearing a nightgown and robe- knowing she would never return to her home- in her own kitchen chair- makes me cry. I wasn't there when she left for the hospice house, but I came that night to see her. 

I had never been in the hospice house before. I'd heard excellent things about it.- My Mom and I went together, quiet in our thoughts. The building is right behind the hospital and off a main road, but they designed it in such a way that you feel like you're in the woods. It's an illusion- but it's peaceful and relaxing, and one can pretend that death is a quiet, separate affair from the busyness of life. 

The interior is designed like a lodge, floor to ceiling windows allow you to peer into the strip of pine trees, concealing the hospital tower just on the other side. A stone fireplace, and comfortable chairs fill the lobby, like you've just come in from skiing. Books, a television, a piano, and a kids area invite family members to stay. The next room is a large dining room, with enough chairs to seat large families. And a kitchen is open for anyone to use. 

Laminate floors that look like polished wood floors, dim lighting, and exposed beams with plenty of natural light, make the surroundings seem less like a hospital and more like a home, except for the nurses station in the middle, the beeps and rings that accompany any medical setting, and the harsh cleaner smell in the air. 

Grandma looks so small and vulnerable in her bed. A bed that is rumored to cost $50,000 and can take her vitals, and will sound an alarm if she gets or falls off it. 

The bed - For being a fancy example of medical genius and technology, Grandma complains and says the bed is stiff and uncomfortable. The nurses agree, and say they have heard that from other patients. One sassy nurse says maybe admin should have to sleep on the beds before they buy them. -

I'm at a lost of what to say- shouldn't you have the most comfortable bed when you're dying?

The room is beautifully decorated- with exposed beams, triangle shaped windows above the doors leading onto a balcony, which has a bird bath and bird feeders on it. Perfect for my Grandma who used to feed the birds, until health and budget prevented her. 

Grandma is a little lost, confused- her wrinkled brow scrunched together, my Mom having to remind her how she arrived there. Which Grandma recalled quickly, once we starting talking about it.

And my Grandma being my Grandma, notices the tiny smidgen of dust collected above the Cove Heaters.

No one knows it at the time, but in less than two weeks, Grandma will be gone and Grandpa will occupy the room across the way. 

I visit the next day and Grandma is sitting up in her rocking chair, watching the birds eat at the birdseed. My Mom had tracked down a volunteer to fill it up so Grandma can enjoy birdwatching. She never turns on the television, once while she's there, using her time to read a bit, watch the birds, and visit. She is rarely without someone there with her.

My great Aunt D, who is Grandma's big sister by eleven years, is constantly by her side, and she doesn't say it, but no big sister thinks they're going to help their baby sister onto the next path. Every time she brushes Grandma's forehead, or grabs her hand, or tries to make sure she has everything she needs, she is smiling and encouraging. But occasionally, you can see the pain when she loses control for just a nano second, and the heaviness of her heart dampens her eyes. 

And then it's gone, and she smiles and tries to chat. 

I ask if Grandma needs something else to read, but she says she has plenty of magazines at home that she hasn't had time to read, plus a couple of books she's in the middle of reading, so when she's done with the two magazines she has brought, she'll have me go get them.

She doesn't even finish the magazines she brought, and later when I read them, I find her blue post it note, holding her place, stuck in the middle of a story. 

For the book lover in me, the child who would sneak out of bed to finish a book by nightlight- I'm having trouble with imagining what it must feel like to leave this physical world without finishing the book you are reading. I think it might drive me nuts on the other side. I'm afraid I will not be able to die without all books finished- or I will end up haunting a library. 

It's amazing how much life less than two weeks can contain when you realize that time's almost up- and so I will have to finish the rest of Grandma's hospice stay in the next blog or two. 

I'm still trying to figure things out. But I do know Tim McGraw is wrong. Riding a bull and jumping out of a airplane isn't what makes your life worth living. 

And a bucket list is only as good as the love it contains. And perhaps just a little bit of the meaning of life- comes back to the hand that is holding yours when you journey into the next world.

Grandma's Shoes

 Life in the State of Dying

            I kneel on the carpet, in front of the carefully lined up rows of plastic shoe containers. Each one labeled with the style and color of the shoes inside. In some styles of shoes my Grandma had bought five different colors, so she could properly match her shoes with her outfits.
      Most of the shoes won't ever enclose her feet again- the cancer has started to effect every aspect of her bodily functions and her legs and feet are painfully swelling up. Slippers still fit- barely.
     
        The day is late and cold. Although it is May and everyone should be out in their yards planting and weeding- people are preparing for a blizzard. So buckets cover delicate new plants and sheets are spread across flowers beds -- a sheet won't keep the cold, wet snow from damaging the plants- but the hopeful gardeners crosses their fingers and hope that Mother Nature isn't too brutal.
   
      My Grandma, who suddenly went from walking with a cane last week, to needing a wheelchair this week- sits in her pajamas- everyday she is less likely to dress, which for a woman who was always dressed in carefully pressed skirts and blouses- and the collar carefully adorned with one of her pins- it is an unsettling sight.

     She sits in her wheelchair next to me- holding one of Grandpa's shirts, an equally pressed long sleeved buttoned down Western shirt in white with a small floral print on it- but a masculine floral print- the colors in orange and yellow and red.
      Her fingers, which have become quite gnarly and slender in just the past weeks, plays with the fabric.
     "I should throw this out," she says, as her fingers tangle tighter in the fabric. "It's so thin bare, he can't wear it anymore."
    I wait, knowing from the far off look in her eyes that she wants to say more. Bean, who is helping me sort shoes and clothes, is patiently waiting, shifting back and forth on her feet, obviously in her teenage hood not sure what to say and for being Bean and having a habit of always saying the wrong thing- is practicing her nodding a lot this afternoon. She knows her great-grandma is dying- she knows we're helping her sort her material life from the journey she is embarking on- and she doesn't have the experience to say anything that makes this task even easier.

     And so she nods and without complaining- has been helping me vacuum my grandparent's house, and even scrubbing their bathrooms. There are very few words I can say to her, except, "good job kid."

   Grandma knots her fingers in the fabric. "I can't throw it away yet."
   I look up into her face. "Grandma, you don't have to. We'll put it on the shelf."
   "There's a story to it. When your Grandpa used to work at the church doing the lawn mowing, he would sometimes get attacked by bees. We finally figured it out it was only when he was wearing this shirt. They liked it."
    I chuckle along with her, remembering a time when my Grandpa wasn't bound by an oxygen cord and giant tanks of oxygen- when he could walk without taking deep breaths of air because otherwise he wasn't taking in enough breath to make his legs function. The deep guttural sounds he has to make to force enough air into lungs as he shuffles across the floor startled Abu at first- she thought he was going to die right then and there. Now I notices she discreetly watches him- ready to help if he should need it.
    
   I take the shirt and gently place it on the shelf. When they are gone, I'm not sure if I'll be able to toss the shirt- she has given it life, attaching a story to it. A memory. Meaning.
   Damn it. I didn't think helping Grandma sort her closet and drawers would be so difficult, but a few times I have to take a deep breath and force the tears back.
 
  "I can't believe it's going to snow," she says. "I didn't need to see snow one more time."

     Before she goes.

      "Now you get to see Grandma's secret." She says with a huge grin.
      I chuckle. "All your shoes?" It's no secret- I know she has a love of shoes and the dozen upon dozen of pairs attest to it.
     "Now I know where Bean gets her love of shoes from. Do you know when she was two I could keep her busy for hours if I gave her a shoe catalog?"
   Bean wrinkles her nose and then she laughs. She can't deny her love of shoes either. If she didn't have giant feet, she wouldn't mind trying on some of Grandma's shoes. They aren't old lady styles- they are fashionable and elegant and classy.

       Just classic.
   
     Bean helps me sort. We have a pile to try to sell to the consignment store, a pile for donation, and a trash pile.
   Only one pair of shoes goes into the trash pile- the others have been so well taken care of- they can be shared. If we had the same foot size, she would have given them to me- for interviews at my paper job. The pride I hear in her voice when she mentions my paper job. She has read every article I have written and saved all of them.
   "Front page, huh?" She smiles. My latest article actually made the front page just the day before and she mentions that when we sort her clothes she's hoping that there are some items I can wear for my professional career.

     
      Grandma is tired after we finish sorting the shoes, so the clothes will have to wait until after the weekend. Sunday is Mother's Day and I know my Mom plans on bringing her some wonderfully beautiful flowers in a pretty vase.
     Grandma's last Mother's Day. My Mom's last chance to give her mother something for Mother's Day. The day will be bittersweet.
     I know my Mom will not say what she really wants to say- sharing emotions doesn't come easy for her and I'm hoping that the flowers speak volumes to my Grandma.
   Mom has been going over there every day, cooking meals and tending to them.

Her chronic pain condition makes it difficult- love makes it happen. 

    When we go to leave, Baby Blueberry skips over to my Grandma and gives her a huge hug, she skips over oxygen cords and gives my Grandpa an equally big hug with tiny pudgy arms. She doesn't understand, but there is an understanding in her eyes that seems so wise for a two year old. She knows they need the love and in her generous spirit she gives it.
   Her easily given hugs thrill them and they talk about it with my Mom, who is staying to serve them the spaghetti she made, after we leave.

   In the car I tell the girls thank you for the help. Thanks to Bean for helping make their bed, to the extreme specific way my Grandma wanted it and for helping sort her shoes. She nods, and says, "the old people need help." A typical teenage nonchalant statement, but her patience and compassion she displays with them shows me so much more.
   Abu says she doesn't mind playing with Baby Blueberry while I do stuff and asks wasn't I proud of her for watching her for so long.
   Yes, I answer, thinking of their sweetness as they played together, but then my thoughts drift to the boxes of shoes in my car. I wish I didn't have to drop them off. To separate this material life from what comes next.
   But it comes.

  When I arrive home, I look around at the stuff that surrounds me and realize I don't own any of it. I'm borrowing it, using it, enjoying it, but one day- it gets sorted and divided- some kept- some tossed-
     and so I spend the evening dancing and being goofy with my girls and then get down on the floor and play unicorns and princesses with Blueberry.

   And I realize as I pen this blog, that for the rest of my life when I think about the process of dying- I will think about boxes of shoes, a certain teenager helping me put freshly laundered bedsheets on my grandparent's bed, well-loved shirts that aren't meant for the trash, skipping toddlers with pudgy little arms full of love, and a tired Mom cooking her parents spaghetti. 

   

Living Without Sugar Has Killed Me- Just kidding - Sorta

Week 2 -4 Without Sugar

Day 14 without sugar and I was hoping to be super skinny with fabulous skin by now. Hey, what's a blog if not a place for absolute honesty? And I know the current line of thinking is to love ourselves in our own skin no matter what, but steroids have given me a moonface, acne, puffy eyes and hair that goes between thinning and greasy- the person staring back at me in the mirror is not me. And the depressed person living inside this bloated version of me is not me either. So love is a little short around here at the moment.

I'm trying desperately to hide the way I feel about myself too, because I have a teenager and a preteen in the house- listening to every word I direct at myself. And their comments about body image are a mirror reflection of my comments- good or bad.

 Society, and media may play a big part in our children's idea of body image- but I'm afraid that Mom's view plays a even bigger part in her daughter's ideas of self.

So right now I feel like Crohn's has scored a few points and I'm at the end of the field, stuck in the mud, with a head trauma and no points to show for the pain. And the doctors have started to call, - twice now- bugging me about taking the Humira. 

I know they're just worried about my health. They don't make money off this, right? 

I still haven't figured out insurance. So even if I wanted to risk my health and take the Humira- I lack the financial resources to pay for it. The doctors will have to have a bit of patience for their difficult patient.

I am definitely in an Eeyore sort of mood. 

Day 21 without sugar- or mostly without sugar. It's so easy to cheat. Just one latte. Just one little cookie. But now I feel blah when I drink that much sugar or eat that much sugar. And pasta and bread has lost all appeal. There is no Italian in my veins because I don't even miss the pasta at this point. I've consumed one sandwich with bread in the last three weeks.  I'm starting to love Paleo 'sandwiches'- which are made with huge leaves of greenery. I know, it's just salad in more salad, but it's fricking good and crunchy and my stomach loves it. 

Day 28 without sugar. I was super depressed today and made a big bowl of comfort food- spaghetti with pizza sauce. A childhood favorite. There is something warm and comforting about slurping the long, tomato coated noodles, soaked in butter and sprinkled with black pepper. 

And nothing...

No emotional comfort...

No release of dopamine in the brain.

Just a heavy gut and a feeling of disappointment.

I have noticed immense improvement in my Crohn's, but I still have two areas in my gut that pain me- so I know they're still swollen slightly and that scares me. If I keep fine tuning the paleo, add the bone broth, which is suppose to be a liquid form of much needed minerals and nutrients for the human body- and if I finally figure out how to make a regular schedule of exercise work - than perhaps it will be enough. 

And perhaps it won't and that uncertainty is hard to deal with. 

So something that I thought would be relatively easy- giving up sugar- has became a inner look into my weaknesses- like a walkabout, but without the cool, travel across Australia story to go with it.  Hence, this flare up of my Crohn's has sent me on a spiritual journey of some sort and I am kicking and fighting it the whole way. While I struggle to find meaning and reason behind pain and suffering and poor health- both in my own life and the people I know around me suffering from worse things like cancer- I know that Crohn's is a formidable foe...

but I can be my worse enemy. Because there is no critic with a louder voice than the one in my own head. And she's not always nice. 

I think I'm going to ground her- to her room until she realizes that failure is more perfectly normal than trying to be perfect.

Crohn's, Sugar Addiction and Avoiding Humira

Week One without Sugar

 

Day Before the Grand Sugar Give-up: I indulge in not one - but two large coconut milk French vanilla lattes. This is on top of baked goods and a decent size serving of pasta.  There's nothing like overindulging before denying yourself. Hmmm, I have a feeling I'm setting myself up for failure if I have to consume vast qualities of carbs and sugar before giving them up. Am I too attached?

So in the last three weeks I have had the pleasure of undergoing another colonoscopy, more bloodwork, and an appointment with my regular GI doctor, who I had piled expectations onto, only to come out of the clinic feeling hopelessly depressed and unheard. 

The scope showed that inflammation was down considerably- due to the steroids. Which I'm about done with prednisone, I wanted Entocort because it has way less side effects for me and for whatever reason Dr. V, we'll call her, would not prescribe them for me. She was willing to write a prescription for everything and anything else but not what I asked for. I'm not sure why. But the side effects are driving me insane. My face is so puffy and moon faced, I don't even want to leave the house.

The scope also showed I had a mass of gross looking tissue all piled up in the area between my large and small intestine, which she snipped for a biopsy. This caused quite a bit of bleeding and I was about ready to go back into the doctor that night, but luckily it stopped. But the procedure this time wore me out and my body felt exhausted- on the inside. Deep inside. 

My blood work was showing improvements in hormone levels, iron levels, and inflammation markers were vastly improved- almost normal. But again, due to the steroids- what happens when I go off the prednisone? 

I had my appointment with Dr. M, we'll call him, and right away I knew he had talked to the other doctor and had already agreed on a plan for care, forget what I want. He wants me on the biologics, - end of story. I mentioned all my concerns and this is how the conversation went. 

"What about the side effects? Cancer?" I asked. 

"We've only seen cancer in a certain age bracket, young men between 20-30, also taking another immunosuppressant. Doesn't effect other age groups." He said.

What? "Well, I've been on Crohn's forums, chat rooms. And there are a lot of complaints about biologics. Concerns like allergic reactions?"

"Oh, yes that. Well, here's the deal. Once you're on it, you can't go off. If you go off, your body will form antibodies against it and yes, you'll be allergic to it and won't be able to take it." 

Mmm, so my body will hate this drug so much, it wants to reject it as soon as it can? I'm feeling better already.

"What about the other side effects people complain about?" I ask, listing them- cancer, fatal fungal infections, an inability to fight infections, even just colds and flus. 

"You shouldn't be on the forums. They're just full of desperate people that the drug hasn't worked for- the people it does work for aren't on there." 

So ignore other people's experiences with it. Don't address my concerns.

"What about liver damage?" I ask, even though he's getting annoyed at my questions.

"Only a hand full of patients had died from liver damage while taking it." He assures me. 

I sigh. Aloud. Staring at him. I'm not feeling any more confident about taking these medications. It's my past history. I react to everything. My grandma reacts to everything. It's in the genes. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it has to do with my messed up immune system. 

"In your professional experience, how many of your patients do you feel like benefit from this medication?" I ask.

He pauses for a second and then answers. "I would say 7 out of 10 see good results."

I nod, it's not perfect odds but better than I thought. Then he keeps talking. "Well, at least 6 out of 10 of my patients benefit from it."

All right, my odds just went down. To almost 50 percent. And why is he changing his statistics? 

Then we start talking cost. How much is this ghastly drug?

Only around $12000 a year. For the rest of your life. 

I think I would have swoon right there if I wasn't feeling so numb by this point. I certainty was biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. 

"How much?" I choke out. 

"Well, it's a shot at home, twice a month and each shot is at least $500." This is for Humira. Since I lost disability, I have no insurance. If I get on Hero Hottie's plan, this is the drug I am required by the insurance to try first out of all the biologics. So now my drug choices are being dictated to me by a paper pusher. 

"I have a $5000 deductible with my husband's insurance." I said, trying to wrap my mind around such an expensive medication. 

"Well, that's better than $12000." The doctor assures me with a smile. 

No, it's not. Not in my financial world. 

I agree to  blood work to make sure I don't have TB or hepatitis, because apparently if I do and I take a biologic, it can kill me. And in a month the nurse is going to call me and see what I've decided. This gives me time to figure out insurance, finances and such. I can also apply for the financial aid from the drug company.

But how can I commit to a drug for a lifetime? At that expense. Damn colon. It needs to behave.

So I think. And I ponder. And I cry. I cry in lattes, and glasses of wine, and I scream at God for a burning bush. 

And then I come upon the autoimmune paleo diet, that has been used successfully by some patients with Crohn's. No potatoes, no tomatoes, no sugar, no artificial anything, no grains and no lattes. 

And I think WHAT THE HELL, WHY NOT? 

The odds have to be just as good as the 6ish patients out of 10 or so, I'm the doctor making statistics up on the spot, chances anyway. I go to the forums again, sorry doc, and people's reactions to the diet are mixed. Some are on it and no drugs. Some have mixed it with drugs and find both work really well for them. And some said they couldn't stay away from the no-no list and the diet didn't work. 

Day One: I have bought garden worth of groceries for the week. Salad, veggies, some fruit, and sweet potatoes. When I bake potatoes for the family, I'll just throw a sweet potato in there for me. I'm ready to go. And the meals are delicious. 

Day Two: I dream about coffee and creamer, and wake up with a furious urge to drive to the store and buy some almond milk French vanilla creamer and drink it straight from the carton. Never mind it has 4 tsp of sugar for every serving. I NEED some sugar. I make some peppermint tea instead, say some prayers, and remind myself that I'm trying to find a more natural way to treat the Crohn's before I commit to, what I feel like is a drug of last resort. 

I start really reading labels. Calculating the amount of sugar in what I'm eating. What I'm feeding my family and I'm shocked. No wonder the sugar content is hidden in plain sight by listing it as grams instead of teaspoons or tablespoons. 4 grams of sugar is equal to 1 tsp.

The bottle of BBQ sauce I was using in the sloppy joes meal- I end up feeding my family 52 tsps. - yes, 52 teaspoons of sugar in one meal.

Yogurt: 4 -6 teaspoons of sugar per container

ketchup: 1 tsp sugar per 1 tablespoon

Wow, the sugar was adding up fast. No wonder I was addicted. No wonder my family was addicted to cookies and ice cream. Sugar just feeds on more sugar. 

Day Three: I'm taking a shower and using my pomegranate face scrub and it smells so sweet I start to think about eating it. Yes, eating my face scrub- in the shower. Okay, I just might be going crazy.

But not to get too personal, the bathroom part of the Crohn's is almost normal. What? I don't even know what this is suppose to be- but I don't run to the bathroom ten times a day and even the kids notice that I'm not desperately hurrying off to the bathroom in a madness of worry and frustration.

The doctor writes that "patient seems to understand" what he is telling her, in my medical records. I feel vaguely insulted, because I do understand- I'm just not happy with my options. I decide a third opinion in a big city might be worth the money and start to research for a doctor with a holistic approach to treating the Crohn's. 

Day Four: Baby Blueberry has kept me up and I have to function without coffee. But I can't, so I drink some. My Mom bakes cookies and I have three. But I pay later for my cheating. Perhaps the diet is working. I find some paleo cookies in the store made with almond flour and very, very little sugar. I buy one because they have chocolate in them. They're surprisingly good, if not overly sweet. And they settle well on the gut.

Day Five: Still find myself thinking about coffee creamer and lattes at odd points during the day. Suddenly I'm having trouble with my emotions. There is a lot of stress going on in my life at the moment, and without even realizing it- before I was handling my emotions by drinking more sugary creamer. Now I couldn't, and the emotions were much sharper, more painful, like barbs on a wire. I knew I had a habit to eat my emotions but I didn't realize it was this bad. 

I doubt my plan. What if I'm wrong and the doctor is right? What if what I need to do is take the medication and call it good. I have a dream that I'm looking at things from the wrong perceptive, but that doesn't tell me what is the wrong way. 

Day 6: I have never had this much control, even when I was in remissions. I'm starting to lose weight, which I desperately needed to do. The steroids had messed with my appetite and I had gained 5 pounds from taking them, except I was already overweight to begin with. Pasta and rice is starting to lose their loudness. I'm not even missing them. The lattes, well, that's another story. Even Baby Blueberry isn't consuming too many cookies.

I firmly decide that I'm experiencing something totally different in the state of my Crohn's on this diet and decide that I will continue with it, until either it's not working, or I get a third opinion and they can reassure me why taking the biologics would be my best bet. So I haven't decided against any drugs- I just going to try something else first. Besides, there is the fiancial aspect of the drugs, which I haven't figured out yet anyway. 

Day 7: The week was worse than I thought and better than I thought. I wonder how I can be so addicted to a food product. Because sugar is addicting. I'm still craving creamer- for the sweetness. But perhaps sugar is bad for you- it is processed and bleached. How can putting a bleached product in your body be good for you?

I decide to give it another week and see what happens. And I buy a bouquet of flowers for the kitchen instead of something sugary to snack on as a treat after grocery shopping.They are bright and beautiful and haven't gone to my thighs.

Do Dogs Remember Yesterday?

Heck, do I remember yesterday? I can't even find my car keys.

In an article in Psychology Today, the author, Ira Hyman, Jr., Ph.D wrote about a lack of episodic memory in dogs and other animals. The article, Dogs Don't Remember: Episodic Memory May Distinguish Humans, was published back in 2010 but for some reason was circling around the Internet yesterday- someone must have forgot this was old news.

I found the article interesting, just because I had to disagree with everything he had to say about dogs. And perhaps that comes from the fact that I blog about a dog, so I'm a bit biased.

 Of course Gibson can remember yesterday- he wakes up every morning knowing who I am.

I know Gibson remembers yesterday. I will conduct my own scientific experiment involving
Mr. Gibson to prove it.

First: Take him to the dog park. Now, as soon as we start driving down the road, towards this heavenly place, his body language changes. He starts to frantically sniff out the window, his drooling increases, he starts whining, he lacks self control. Now of course, for disbelievers, you might say he just smells the dog park and his actions are simply a response to the olfactory stimulus that he is receiving-  I know I act the same way when I get to close to a chocolate shop.

But I think he is recalling the smells, remembering the times before that we were there. Experiencing memory.

Second: Let him run around the dog park. Do his doggy thing. The dog park: where the dogs all smell each other's butts- and then your toddler goes home and makes all her toys sniff each other's butts before they play. Oh, boy.

Third: Drag him kicking and pulling away from the car. (Actually, Gibson is fairly good about returning to the car if you start walking towards it- he doesn't want to be left. Hmmm, he is remembering home?)

Fourth: The next morning Mr. Gibson will beg you to take him to the park again. He will run around you in circles, lick your face, whine at the door, and grab his leash. Viola! He remembers yesterday!

Of course, the experiment is hard to prove because when I ask him if he remembers yesterday all he says is, "bark, bark," which translates to "take me to the dog park."

This photo is Gibson after a couple of weeks of bad weather: which means no dog park, no walks, very little outside and yet, he dreams and plans about going to the dog park.  And gets depressed.

The author also goes on to say that dogs don't have memory because when he goes into the yard to play with his dogs they are super excited to see him.Then they get bored. He leaves, returns 10-15 minutes later and they greet him with excitement and joy, like they haven't seen him in forever. His conclusion: they don't remember that he was just in the yard with them.

Mmm, no they remember. They're dogs, which means they experience joy and happiness on levels that we used to when we were little children and it didn't take much for us to experience simple but all encompassing levels of "I'm happy to see you."

What if we all started to greet each other like that, even if we had only been gone for 10-15 minutes? Mmm, okay perhaps not. Business meetings might become awkward with such displays of affections and possible butt sniffing.

 But we could keep the idea in mind- warm smiles of joy really, truly make another person's day.


The other part of the article furthers states that dogs also can't plan particular future events. Dogs can look forward to general future events, like my people should fill my food bowl for dinner but nothing special.

I know this is wrong. Because one day I told Gibson that later we would go to the dog park and then we didn't.

And he didn't let me forget all day. Or the next day. Or the day after that. I had stated a 'particular future event' and he was looking forward to. Planning for it. Probably thinking about all the butts he would sniff. And the squirrels he would chase. And hoping for other dogs to play with.

Maybe I'm just reading human traits into his beastly actions...or maybe he remembers yesterday.

It's a mystery we may never know. But I do know this...he probably knows what the fox says. And that is the question psychologists should be more focused on.


(For readers who don't know, I'm referring to the song, The Fox (What Does the Fox Say) by the band Ylvis. Apparently, they play this song everywhere, including Abu's school dances. I only discovered it today- I know, so far behind on my Internet knowledge. Word of advice though, watch the other videos first before showing to kids. Their song Stonehedge has some suggestive content.

Ode to The Dress, the Internet and DC Toy Collector

Or Why I'm going to Start a youtube about wrapping 

Toys Back Up in Their Boxes

 

Yeah.  The big debate. Is it blue and black? Is it white and gold? Why the hell am I even writing about this?? 

What is wrong with me? 

What is wrong with people? 

Never has there been a time in known, recorded history that the entire world could communicate one-on-one with each other in real, actual time. No pony express. No long trips over the ocean. No pigeons delivering messages on their legs. No fire signals. No morse code. No message in a bottle.

Nope, real time. Instant.

And what do we discuss?

The perceived color of an ugly ass dress. 

But atlas, we have more important things to discuss...

like why and how the hell did DC Toy Collector from youtube make $4.9 million dollars last year unwrapping toys! 

Seriously. Have you watched? 

Umm, well... I have, because I have a confession to make...

Baby Blueberry LOVES her. She loves to watch the pretty fingernails unwrap the toys and play with the toys. 

And at first I thought it was weird that I was allowing my baby to watch some grown woman play with toys on the Internet. (Like really, what am I teaching her?) 

But then I realized that this woman was teaching Baby Blueberry her colors. Because as DC Toy Collector plays with the play-dough and makes the creations, she names the colors. 

And pretty soon, Baby Blueberry is saying the colors out loud along with the mysterious millionaire with the ever-changing fingernails. I'm sure she has them done in a salon- she has the money for it. 

And so this week, we find out that some of the highest paid channels on the Internet are of people unwrapping toys...and playing with them.

Mmmm...now, what does that say about us as a society? But who am I to say anything...because when Baby Blueberry is really fussy and demanding and I'm trying to cook dinner...I let her watch someone else play with toys on the Internet. 

Oh, and one of the other highest paid channels on youtube....stampylonghead  ----which for a while Abu couldn't get enough of. Damn you Minecraft and your league of minions. Now I know how to mine diamonds and avoid creepers. 

I also watched the episode where stampy met Amy- sorry, I can't recall her gamer name. It was a touching video. 

Of course, you have to be proud of stampy- with the money he made- he's definitely not living in his parents' basement- which I always wondered. 

And just to be fair--I'm not putting any youtube channel host down. I'm actually pretty jealous of them. Making that kind of money with their creativity and fearlessness to be different. 

In fact, I think I should start a youtube channel. Bean thinks I should make a channel titled, "crazy middle-aged woman does stupid shit" - So like all teenagers she doesn't mind the parents humiliating themselves- she just rather we filmed it and got rich off it. 

I was leaning towards the channel where I do my nails and wrap toys back up into their packaging. Cool idea, huh? 

But I distract you from what's important...what's the color this puppy?

When Life Kicks You in the Butt- Run and Hide

4 Tips to A Better State of Gratitude - 

What? Me? Give Tips? Ha! You're on the Wrong Blog :-)

Baby Blueberry and Oscar

Meet Oscar. He's a friendship turtle. Actually, I think he's a Western painted turtle. Here is a photo of his colorful underside. Tattoo lovers be like jelly- this guy is born with ink. 

He came to us from some very dear friends that were moving overseas and couldn't take him. So one crisp autumn night, they bring him over, along with his tank, and some containers full of misc. turtle requirements. I did not know one small reptile needed so much stuff. How would I ever remember the instructions on how to care for him?

But for being simply a turtle- ha, he's more than a turtle, this guy has personality, as my friend says, "like a t-rex with a shell"- he has his way of communicating. Like when he's hungry- he does this when I get close to his tank.

Back and forth he swims in his tank until we pay attention to him. My friend fed him in a dog dish, so his tank would stay cleaner - longer, and so since I'm all for time-saving cleaning ideas- I kept up with the idea. We put him in a dog dish- ahh, a turtle feeding dish- and give him shrimp. We also bought night crawlers for him, which he thinks are the tastiest critters to feast on. The worms disagree with his opinion. Greatly disagree and it's difficult for this soft-hearted gal to feed him living worms.

 Later this week I will write a blog about how the cute and ahh- not cuddly- but friendly Oscar  turns into a cold-blooded killer turtle when fed a worm. 

But for right now, I did promise 4 tips, so I've better write some sappy stuff this morning. 

1. God has a tendency to speak to us, even if it's not through a burning bush. Although, a talking, burning bush would be cool- I would probably grab the hose and dose the flames before listening to any message. It's a safety thing. But here's the story...next month I lose disability, which cuts our income by quite a bit. Perhaps our house payment. Ouch. I was feeling a bit upset by this and worried and generally just stressed beyond belief. When Hero Hottie reminded me I should be feeling grateful.

       "Uhh, how much wine have you been drinking, honey?" I was getting ready to take Bean to her early morning dance class, so of course Hero Hottie had not been drinking but still I had to wonder.

       "None. No, we should feel grateful." He looked dead serious. My honey, who is more cynic than positive, more bitter than sweet, more doubting than faithful- was telling me to be grateful over a significant lost of income. 

       "Okay, I give up. Please explain." Where was that wine? 

        "We found out before I get my yearly bonus. Now we have a plan. We use the yearly bonus to pay most of the house payment for the year. If we had found out after my bonus, we probably would have spent it and then we wouldn't have that money for the house payment. God let us know in perfect timing to save our asses." 

       Simple. (And also, this plan allows the girls to keep their dance classes, which is so important to them.)

       I know we would have spent it. I had plans to find myself a beach and camp out for two weeks. Without moving. Except maybe my toes in the sand. 

Alright, I probably wouldn't even had done that- I would have paid off Abu's braces. But still, we would have spent it.

    

        Instead we had money for our house payment without me having to rush out and trying to work full-time, even though my Crohn's is seriously screwed up right now. 

     But just to drive the point home, when I stopped at the store after dropping Bean after and my mind was still trying to wrap itself around the concept of gratitude, the car in front of me had a speciality license plate- and it read 'gratful'   Good one, God. - good one.

    

2. I just found out my Grandma's cancer has spread and she has limited time. Months. And there is unfairness to that. I can't be grateful for such limited time left, because it's not enough time. - I will never feel like it's enough time. -  But knowing time is precious, that can be viewed as a gift and one I don't plan on wasting. Other things will wait, time with Grandma won't.

3. So the basement is desperately trying to kick Hero Hottie and me in the ass. Seriously. If you knew us and our record for completing house repair projects. Well, lets say we're really good at having BIG IDEAS and DREAMS and not so good at knowing how to implement the plan. The beginning is easy- the end will look great and somehow we don't know how to travel the journey. So when the basement was destroyed and Hero Hottie decided to take on most of the work himself, I was filled with misgivings. Serious misgivings. But being the supportive wife that I am, and knowing it would look AWESOME if we finished, I jumped in. (That and I have a tendency to dream big too, it's why Hero Hottie and I get along so well.) Plus, we eventually finished our kitchen (over a year) and it was AWESOME. 

     "Honey, we need to think like our old neighbor, "Finish it like P." I said, referring to an old neighbor that seem to finish projects like magic. That guy knew what he was doing and accomplished it, in half the time a normal human being would take. I admired him greatly. 

     He laughed, as he measured the torn apart bathroom. "Okay." 

     Hero Hottie had taken a week off to get ahead of the projects looming downstairs and it was day one.

   And we accomplished...nearly nothing. 

   Why couldn't we be like P? We had gone downstairs with a lot of energy, plans and a gung-ho attitude and every time we turned around something wasn't measuring right, or we didn't have the correct tool, or we didn't know what the next step should be. 

   We should have just hired someone. 

   The next day, I told Hero Hottie again. "We need to approach this like P. If we do that we'll be done by the end of the week." 

   He frowned at me. Yesterday had not gone well and I don't think my cheerleading comments were helping. 

    I started painting, trying to go as quick as I could, which resulted in a bunch of spilled paint- on the floor, on me- drips down the side of the wall. This was stressful trying to be like P. 

   I felt my jaw clenched, as I looked at the time every half an hour, trying to push myself. Spilling more paint.

   Finally, it hit me. 

   What was I doing? 

   I wasn't P. I was me. Which meant, I was not going to succeed at this basement if I kept trying to do things like someone else. And perhaps, Hero Hottie was seeing my comments, which were meant to be encouraging and 'you can do it' as a comparison. And he wasn't P either. 

   If we were going to finish this basement, we would have to do in our own way. Carefully. Perhaps slowly because we were learning as we went, but we could finish it and before our girls moved out. 

    We just had to be ourselves. Or at least better versions of ourselves. 

   The rest of the week went much better. We had the plumber in to fix the shower drain, something we couldn't do. Hero Hottie framed the new shower stall. And with help from my mother in law, we painted until our fingers were numb. 

     Not completed, but we accomplished a lot. So be grateful for yourself, it doesn't mean you can't improve yourself- be a better version of who you are- but don't try to be someone else. It just results in spilled paint and frowns from your honey. 

4. Friends. I can't say enough about great friends. And technology, because right now without technology my great and wonderful friends would seem so far away. But with the magic of floating, invisible bits of info, I can communicate with them in an instant. (Perhaps I'm crazy but has anyone sent a text message and then stared at the air, wondering how your thoughts looked when they were being sent to the next tower of communication? And how many thoughts do we walk through every day?)

How cool is that? Because I'm starting to realize that with faith we're suppose to depend on God, but I think he blessed us with friends to make that journey easier.

Gibson and Blueberry know the value of true friendship

Happy Tuesday to my readers. Now go out and find your gratitude. Because it's somewhere between lessons learned hard and our messy mistakes of human-ness. And it can usually be found hanging out with grace and forgiveness.

My Crohn's is Out to Kill Me

And I'm sure my Doctor is in on the Plot

Gibson knows exactly how I feel right now about my Crohn's and the doctor visits that result from flares up.  Actually he probably doesn't, but this photo of him represents how I feel on the inside about the Crohn's flaring up.

Depressed. (and just to clarify, should my readers start to worry about Gibson's sad state of affairs, he wants to live in the dog park. I think if we bought a house next door with a puppy gate and allowed him to come and go as he pleased- he would not be so pitiful appearing.)

Last summer or so the Crohn's started to flare. I wasn't completely surprised, as it seems like after my hormones settle back from my pregnancies and breastfeeding, the Crohn's decides to raise it's ugly head. But since I did so well with the Crohn's during my most recent pregnancy and I had over a year after birth without any major issues I was hoping that it wouldn't change. 

And then we started some serious weaning and I think the resulting hormones changes screwed me. That and I think my sugar addiction really plays a bigger part in the Crohn's than I realized, but more on that in a later blog.

For months I tried to get things under control, to no avail. My trips to the bathroom became more frequent, more painful, and more uncontrollable. There is nothing like being in your thirties and having little or no control over bodily functions. 

Since I didn't want a repeat of my last flare up, which nearly killed me. And when I say, nearly killed me, I seriously mean I almost DIED. I was dying. And dying is not a state of being I wish to be in anytime soon.

I decided it was time to see a GI doctor. 

And because there is only one small clinic of GI doctors for the entire Western half of our state, there was nearly a three month wait to get in and see...

the PA? 

All right. I will take whatever appointment I can get and in the meanwhile, I will watch my flare up get worse.

A long wait later...I finally had my first appointment with a PA that I had before in their urgent care. Great PA in urgent care. Had just moved to the GI department and had spent the night reading my case file. Also did not know a lot about Crohn's yet.

I have to give her credit there, learning about my case before the appt. I'm sure I didn't make interesting reading. Anyone want help getting to sleep, read my tome of medical records. It's a dry and boring read, except for the parts where patient tends to not listen to the doctors.Those parts are exciting. 

Anyway, I wanted some steroids. Entocort. To be exact. 

But first, we have to run tests.

And tests. And more tests. Did I tell you that doctors like to order tests? 

Bloodwork. Colonscopy. And MRI with barium. (Mmm, two containers of barium please. Can I take that shit home and drink it for fun? It's just so good and tasty. Oh, and I hope I don't glow in the dark afterwards.) 

So two weeks to wait for a scope. If you haven't had a camera stuck up your ass before, you should definitely try it. First the process of having to empty your bowels by drinking a gallon of chemicals- which will plug up your kitchen sink should you spit it out) and then having to spend hours and hours on the toilet- is an experience no one should miss. 

And then having to go to the clinic with a raw and sore ass and allowing complete strangers to run a camera up your intestines is worthy of a blog. Just kidding, I will not go into details and I have to say all my nurses were caring and compassionate, but there is a vulnerability to having medical procedures done, regardless of how well taken care of you are. Obviously, nurses with empathy make the experience bearable. 

And Hero Hottie was waiting to bust me out of there as soon as I was awake.

The colonscopy did not go well. The doctor couldn't get pass a section of intestine because of how swollen it was. 

Bummer. 

Can I put my clothes on now? Hospital gowns just aren't stylish. 

Now, you need a MRI with barium so we can see the rest of your intestines. 

Another two weeks of waiting for an appointment. 

Then another two weeks waiting for a follow up appointment with the...PA?

With the PA again? Not even the doctor? 

And the paperwork the one doctor sent me said something totally different than what the other doctor told the PA was wrong with my large intestine. Off the same MRI results. Really? 

So here I am weeks and months into a flare without medication and I'm finally at the appointment where I should get something. 

And the doctor and I have a mild disagreement, through the PA, over how to treat the Crohn's. She wants me to go right onto biologics and I'm saying...

NO. 

But there are limited options on how to treat Crohn's. The best we can offer you are drugs with a list of side effects that include but aren't limited to...

deadly allergic reactions

cancer

fatal fungal infections

TB

fatal brain infections

suppressed immune system

Mmm. Death and cancer. Plus thousands a dollars a treatment.

I don't know if I ever mentioned this but I hate Crohn's. 

And of course I have to ask myself, perhaps these are my best options. Perhaps I just need to do the biologics and hope for the best. I certainty don't need the Crohn's flaring into complications like I had last time.

Fistulas. Hell. Massive infection. Hell. 

But I don't react well to most medicines, do I really think I'm going to respond well to a class of medications that have more people complaining on Crohn's forums than touting praises? No. 

So I state that I want steroids, since that has worked in the past. If those don't work, than we can discuss other options.

The doctor has told the PA to say NO to everything except the biologics. She wants me on biologics. The PA can't just prescribe me the steroids, she has to have permission and so she will have to talk to the doctor when she's back in the clinic and call me.

Another two days and I still can't have anything to treat the Crohn's. There is nothing like waiting months to treat a flare up.

Two days later, and the PA is on the phone. The doctor will agree to prednisone if I agree to another scope in three months, followed by biologics. 

I want Entocort. It worked so well for me during my last flare up.

The PA puts me on hold to talk to the doctor who is in the same room, gets back on the phone, "Nope, she won't give you the Entocort." 

A mild disagreement occurs, in which the PA is working the middle, instead of the doctor getting on the phone with me and discussing the issues with me. 

But the doctor wouldn't bulge. A huge dose of prednisone with all it's glorious side effects. 

Crap. 

Why wouldn't the doctor prescribe me a drug that has worked for me in the past? Wouldn't you give a patient something that has worked? That has put their Crohn's in remission before? Wouldn't you at least try it? 

Instead, because I'm desperate for something to treat the flare, I start the heavy doses of steroids, watching my weight balloon, my face turn into a fat, jelly mess of water retention and puffiness, and noticing that it isn't doing much for the Crohn's symptoms. 

In the meantime I make an appointment with a different GI doctor that I have had in the past and tends to listen to my concerns better. It will only take three months to see him.

In the meantime, I have another scope and more bloodwork and a flare up that isn't correcting itself. 

All before I run out of insurance at the end of the month, because I also found out I no longer qualify for disability, even though I'm in a major flare-up. That seems ironic. 

That also means a huge cut in income every month.

Nothing like stress to make Crohn's worse. 

I'm pretty sure a beach in New Zealand would be the perfect cure. Or at least it should be. 

But because I can't end on such a note of negativity and doom- it's a fault of mine to be positive most of the time. On the outside. We can hide sadness on the inside- I think I hide my sadness in my gut.

Let's talk about what toddlers do? Hide their clay covered lizards under their crackers on their dinner plate. I nearly threw them out because I didn't see them at first. What thoughts go through a toddler's head as they hide toys under their food? I wish I knew.

When You Don't Even Have Time For Your Life to Flash Before Your Eyes

Or How Many Thoughts Can Actually Occur in the 

Time It Takes for Your Minivan to be Totaled

Gratitude. Yep, that's the emotion I feel when I look at this mangled mess of my minivan. And not just a light dusting of the stuff - of gratitude. No, I feel a deep expansion of it in my chest, pressing on my breath and forcing me to take a deep breath- of gratitude. 

Not for the wrecked vehicle. The amount of problems that has caused me is just one more headache in my life lately, especially when I'm down to half a house still, I'm experiencing a major Crohn's flare-up and my income is wacky.

Being down half a house can be frustrating like the girls are living in the 'dorm room'- which is all their mattresses on the bedroom floor. Half the time they hate it- no privacy, their personal items packed in boxes and stored in the garage, no where to escape from the Baby Blueberry who thinks that sisters should play with her all the time. And forget the state of the mattresses, they seem to think that the mattresses are giant trampolines.  

      But they have gratitude too. They realize that they still have a house. They have heat. A roof over their head. So these things are inconvenient- and frustrating. And Baby Blueberry still hasn't potty trained- it stopped the day she watched the toilet explode with poopy water but it will happen. 

But I don't hear a lot of complaints from them. 

But onto the minivan. 

I was driving Bean to dance. Abu was already at dance and Blueberry was in the back in her car seat. The roads were nasty that night but let me back up a little bit further... 

The night before I had the weirdest dream.  This old woman gave me three silver charm bracelets that had been blessed to protect my girls. I woke up feeling a bit unnerved. What did my girls need protection from? And does a bracelet given in a dream really provide any sort of blessing?

That morning my father-in-law worried about the state of the tires on the van, called and said he was going to take the minivan that night after dance and have snow tires put on it. Since the bald tires weren't working great on ice and snow, I agreed gratefully with his suggestion. But in a few hours, I think bald tires actually worked in our favor...

On the way home from dropping off Abu to dance all I could think about was being in a car accident. My thoughts were getting quite chaotic with what am I going to do tomorrow without a car and I have interviews to get too and kids to drop off to dance. The thoughts of having a car accident were heavy but I assumed it was because the roads were nasty and people were driving stupid. - no, seriously, people if the roads are icy, slow the hell down. But I swear, people really don't understand physics. If that is one subject we need to spend more time on in school- it's physics. Not crazy, abstract, concepts they refer to on The Big Bang Theory physics- but simple laws of motions. 

Back to the story....I told Bean we needed to leave a bit early for dance, I didn't want to be in a hurry. And while I drove I was super aware, trying to avoid the sinking we're-going-to-get-a-car-accident- feeling. 

We stopped at one of the main intersections, in the turning lane, waiting our turn. As we have done a million times before, as we have done since. 

When this oncoming truck decides to run the red and plow into the oncoming car...right in front of us. In less than a second, the pick up truck hits the oncoming car- no breaks applied- ricochets off of them, and hits us head-on in the turning lane. 

There is no time to do anything except realize that we are going to be hit and hopefully it doesn't hurt too much. I let my foot off the brake, I wasn't going to fight against the force of that beast coming at us, and with bare tires, when the pick-up hit us, it slams us back into our seats and we slid about 10 feet back and six feet to the right, luckily into a buffer lane between the turning lane and the other lanes. So we avoid hitting anyone behind us. 

There is nothing like the image of a huge ass truck bumper coming right for your vehicle, aimed towards the passenger side with one of your babies in the passenger seat, knowing it's going to hit and there's nothing you can do. 

NOTHING. There wasn't time to move the vehicle. There wasn't time to throw it in reverse, which wasn't much of an option, because there was cars behind us. 

In less than 2 seconds you just have time to know. To know that events put into place are about to happen and you hope or PRAY that it will all be okay when that 2 seconds is over. 

Abu asked Bean later, "Did your life flash before your lives, like in the movies?" 

Bean answered, "No, there wasn't even time." 

Luckily, when she realized we were going to be hit, she took a deep breath, relaxed and allowed the motion of the crash to move through her. She didn't brace, she didn't tense and all those talks of physics I had with her and car accidents and explaining that sometimes bracing can be the worse thing you can do, actually clicked and she was fine.

The first thing I did was check my girls. Bean was okay. Blueberry was okay. Quiet, not even crying.

 But in a few moments she says from the backseat,  "That was scary. Oh, my God." 

And then after I realized my girls were okay. I was okay. We walked away without even whiplash. And even though I realized too that my minivan was totaled. Front frame bent into the engine, radiator destroyed, bumper damaged, alignment screwy...all I could feel was gratitude. 

My girls were okay. 

The minivan I can replace. I miss my minivan but it's totally, completely 100 percent replaceable. 

My girls were okay though. More than okay, they weren't even hurt. 

So yes, losing our main car has been a pain in the ass. Especially when the other driver didn't have insurance and due to my own dumb ass I only had liability on my van. (When we were first married we could only afford liability on our vehicles and our vehicles weren't worth much. When we got the van, I should have switched it but I didn't even think about it. Lesson learned.)

But if the other driver had insurance, than I would at least be getting a check to help replace my vehicle from their insurance company instead I have to take them to small claims court. Which seems like a waste of time, because if they weren't paying insurance...

But with all that being said...gratitude.