I’ve decided I’m an antennae-unfurled-and-radar-screen-watching-nit-picker. (I know. Sounds either prehistoric or technologically dangerous.) Someone who is “out there” with the radar going all the time, but also dissects and evaluates the readings with surgical precision. Sometimes in the process I can end up being waaaay too distracted and/or self-absorbed.
As I review the sermon at church this morning (on Luke 12:16-21), I thought it might be therapeutic to record some gems that seem to make sense as focal points and mind-trainers, things that cut away the fat and leave only lean-and-mean nuggets. I like them because the dissecting has already been done. Nice, clean, edited mindset blinders, helpful aids for maintaining a straight-ahead focus.
+ When I have something (on loan from God), it is an opportunity to give it away.
+ Every day is a chance to break down greed/possession and simplify.
+ Physical, relational, and emotional addictions have to GO.
+ I can enjoy things without owning them.
+ Speech should be plain, honest, and optimistic.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Non-Existent Organic Chicken, and Other Things
This morning I decided it’s time to settle myself down and concentrate on writing something about Kairos (God-time intersecting with earth-time), since after all, Kairos IS what inspired this blog into existence in the first place. And so I’m ending up rewinding my mind so it could gawk for a while at a memory from yesterday afternoon.
Here it is.
I was driving home after shopping for the rest of the paint I’ll need for the upstairs walls – a time-intensive errand since the rebate offer expires TOMORROW and I wanted to save $28 on the remaining 7 gallons. That $28 could fund a $25 cash gift for a friend’s kid who just graduated from high school, with $3 left over for me to secretly buy some jelly beans (sssshhhh, don’t tell anyone) – an opportunity not to be wasted, according to my frugal mindset.
After getting the paint, I stopped at Meijer to grab a green pepper, head of broccoli, a few ears of corn, and 4 pork chops that had been marked down to 40% off - and ended up talking with the butcher. He appeared to be in his late 60’s or early 70’s, a wizened-looking fellow with smudgy trifocals, deep facial-wrinkles reminiscent of bottomless glacial cracks, and very little white hair under his obligatory red visor. He’d obviously been around the block, and I figured he surely knew his stuff.
Me: “Hi – I have a quick question for you.”
Him: “Sure – what is it?”
Me: “Do you have any organic meat in the store anywhere? Fresh or frozen?”
He seemed to suddenly stiffen, as if poked on the back of the neck with the bonfire-heated tip of a metal hot dog stick. He gazed into space and squinted with watery eyes at the fluorescent lights, presumably in an attempt to focus. I honestly wondered if he was having a stroke or something. But eventually he turned back to me with a look on his face bordering on defeat and/or disgust, and gestured with a floppy wave of one arm toward the front of the store.
Him: “You could look down by produce in that special case they have down there.”
Me: “By produce?”
Him: “Yes, they have soy burgers down there.”
I tried not to sneer, even thought I felt a hybrid of disappointment and sarcasm rise in my throat. It was as if he’d waved me on toward Antarctica – a place he’d never been, and didn’t ever intend to visit. But he would send ME there…to this foreign-country-of-a-refrigerated-case where they kept the too-expensive, nutritionally questionable FAKE MEAT. I kept my composure and replied with a blank face, holding in the snarl I felt rising inside.
Me: “No, I’m looking for ORGANICALLY GROWN MEAT. Not artificial meat.”
Him: “All our meat is labeled ‘natural’ – does that help you?”
Me: “Ummmmm, no.”
His ego went limp, right there in front of me, like a deflated balloon. He simply didn’t know what I was talking about, but of course couldn’t admit it. That would be unmanly and disgraceful, and he’d lived way too long to dethrone his manhood over some stupid question about organic meat.
I walked away saddened by the fact that such a large grocery with so much stuff lacked Real Meat without added hormones or antibiotics – meat that had not been fed with genetically engineered grain covered with pesticides and fertilizers. But then again, I figured the butcher-man could be wrong. Perhaps he just didn’t know. There could be an organic chicken roosting somewhere, a fugitive hiding behind those frozen chicken dinners with their stilbestrol-shot-up birds fried in high-temperature hydrogenated fat and seasoned with MSG. That would be just like an ingenious organic chicken, to play hide-and-seek behind the enemy lines.
So I decided to check for myself, and began wandering with a dementia-stricken gaze up and down aisles beside various meat counters and freezer cases, glaring this way and that, peering with investigative eyes for that slyly hidden ORGANIC chicken. A pasture-fed cow would have been fine, too, or at least part of one – like a rump roast. I would even have settled for the organs – a heart or liver – or the tail, the lowliest, fattest, toughest member of all. About 15 minutes later I decided the old butcher-geezer was right. There was no organic meat anywhere. Just soy burgers – bah!
On the way home after this rather intense screening of the entire meat department, at an intersection on 450 North (Buck Creek Road, for those of you who know), I encountered the remains of a horrible accident that had occurred about 15 minutes earlier. Several volunteer EMT’s, four police cars, and two ambulances had barely arrived, and attendants were trying to pry a body out of a very crumpled, hardly recognizable car that had evidently been broadsided before spinning into a field where it sat, all in a heap, looking like an asteroid. I didn’t know if the body was dead or alive, but things looked grim, or maybe a few steps down from grim – tragic.
Then, in a moment that could well have originated with God Himself. I realized I could have been tangled up in this accident if I’d not spent 15 minutes wandering around searching for organic meat that didn’t exist. This reality slapped me down internally, reminding me of times as a child when my dad lost it with uncontrolled anger and left me feeling prickly all over and emotionally flattened. I suppose such gut-level steam-roller-ing can be beneficial when it leaves you so stunned that you have no choice but to pay attention and learn from what is going on.
As I turned the car around to find another way home, rain started pattering. These raindrops weren’t anything unusual, they were just ordinary blip-blip-blops on the windshield for goodness sake, but in the context of the last couple of days, and now in light of my near-miss with this accident, I felt the hand of God on my heart. “Rest. Know that I am God. Your life belongs to Me. I give and maintain life, and I take it away. You’re thirsty; I will water your heart and soul. Lean on Me.”
All evening that message sunk deeper and deeper, as if I’d become a very dry sponge soaking up His grace. First I felt humbled, then strangely encouraged, as if fleshed out from the flattened position to become stronger and more submitted to Him than before the flattening. Finally, I meditated on God’s ongoing faithfulness to His people. I am alive because He has ordained that I live, because He wants a relationship with me, and has things for me to do – a slot to fill.
I praise You, Lord Jesus – forgive my weakness. "I do believe; (Lord) help me overcome my unbelief!" Mark 9:24 NIV
Here it is.
I was driving home after shopping for the rest of the paint I’ll need for the upstairs walls – a time-intensive errand since the rebate offer expires TOMORROW and I wanted to save $28 on the remaining 7 gallons. That $28 could fund a $25 cash gift for a friend’s kid who just graduated from high school, with $3 left over for me to secretly buy some jelly beans (sssshhhh, don’t tell anyone) – an opportunity not to be wasted, according to my frugal mindset.
After getting the paint, I stopped at Meijer to grab a green pepper, head of broccoli, a few ears of corn, and 4 pork chops that had been marked down to 40% off - and ended up talking with the butcher. He appeared to be in his late 60’s or early 70’s, a wizened-looking fellow with smudgy trifocals, deep facial-wrinkles reminiscent of bottomless glacial cracks, and very little white hair under his obligatory red visor. He’d obviously been around the block, and I figured he surely knew his stuff.
Me: “Hi – I have a quick question for you.”
Him: “Sure – what is it?”
Me: “Do you have any organic meat in the store anywhere? Fresh or frozen?”
He seemed to suddenly stiffen, as if poked on the back of the neck with the bonfire-heated tip of a metal hot dog stick. He gazed into space and squinted with watery eyes at the fluorescent lights, presumably in an attempt to focus. I honestly wondered if he was having a stroke or something. But eventually he turned back to me with a look on his face bordering on defeat and/or disgust, and gestured with a floppy wave of one arm toward the front of the store.
Him: “You could look down by produce in that special case they have down there.”
Me: “By produce?”
Him: “Yes, they have soy burgers down there.”
I tried not to sneer, even thought I felt a hybrid of disappointment and sarcasm rise in my throat. It was as if he’d waved me on toward Antarctica – a place he’d never been, and didn’t ever intend to visit. But he would send ME there…to this foreign-country-of-a-refrigerated-case where they kept the too-expensive, nutritionally questionable FAKE MEAT. I kept my composure and replied with a blank face, holding in the snarl I felt rising inside.
Me: “No, I’m looking for ORGANICALLY GROWN MEAT. Not artificial meat.”
Him: “All our meat is labeled ‘natural’ – does that help you?”
Me: “Ummmmm, no.”
His ego went limp, right there in front of me, like a deflated balloon. He simply didn’t know what I was talking about, but of course couldn’t admit it. That would be unmanly and disgraceful, and he’d lived way too long to dethrone his manhood over some stupid question about organic meat.
I walked away saddened by the fact that such a large grocery with so much stuff lacked Real Meat without added hormones or antibiotics – meat that had not been fed with genetically engineered grain covered with pesticides and fertilizers. But then again, I figured the butcher-man could be wrong. Perhaps he just didn’t know. There could be an organic chicken roosting somewhere, a fugitive hiding behind those frozen chicken dinners with their stilbestrol-shot-up birds fried in high-temperature hydrogenated fat and seasoned with MSG. That would be just like an ingenious organic chicken, to play hide-and-seek behind the enemy lines.
So I decided to check for myself, and began wandering with a dementia-stricken gaze up and down aisles beside various meat counters and freezer cases, glaring this way and that, peering with investigative eyes for that slyly hidden ORGANIC chicken. A pasture-fed cow would have been fine, too, or at least part of one – like a rump roast. I would even have settled for the organs – a heart or liver – or the tail, the lowliest, fattest, toughest member of all. About 15 minutes later I decided the old butcher-geezer was right. There was no organic meat anywhere. Just soy burgers – bah!
On the way home after this rather intense screening of the entire meat department, at an intersection on 450 North (Buck Creek Road, for those of you who know), I encountered the remains of a horrible accident that had occurred about 15 minutes earlier. Several volunteer EMT’s, four police cars, and two ambulances had barely arrived, and attendants were trying to pry a body out of a very crumpled, hardly recognizable car that had evidently been broadsided before spinning into a field where it sat, all in a heap, looking like an asteroid. I didn’t know if the body was dead or alive, but things looked grim, or maybe a few steps down from grim – tragic.
Then, in a moment that could well have originated with God Himself. I realized I could have been tangled up in this accident if I’d not spent 15 minutes wandering around searching for organic meat that didn’t exist. This reality slapped me down internally, reminding me of times as a child when my dad lost it with uncontrolled anger and left me feeling prickly all over and emotionally flattened. I suppose such gut-level steam-roller-ing can be beneficial when it leaves you so stunned that you have no choice but to pay attention and learn from what is going on.
As I turned the car around to find another way home, rain started pattering. These raindrops weren’t anything unusual, they were just ordinary blip-blip-blops on the windshield for goodness sake, but in the context of the last couple of days, and now in light of my near-miss with this accident, I felt the hand of God on my heart. “Rest. Know that I am God. Your life belongs to Me. I give and maintain life, and I take it away. You’re thirsty; I will water your heart and soul. Lean on Me.”
All evening that message sunk deeper and deeper, as if I’d become a very dry sponge soaking up His grace. First I felt humbled, then strangely encouraged, as if fleshed out from the flattened position to become stronger and more submitted to Him than before the flattening. Finally, I meditated on God’s ongoing faithfulness to His people. I am alive because He has ordained that I live, because He wants a relationship with me, and has things for me to do – a slot to fill.
I praise You, Lord Jesus – forgive my weakness. "I do believe; (Lord) help me overcome my unbelief!" Mark 9:24 NIV
Friday, May 29, 2009
Frog Reflections (NOT in the water)
This morning I was excited to unveil the room I’ve been painting and pull off the last of the tape around the trim. Alas! The tape began pulling off the paint here and there…not just the new paint, but old layers, right down to the original varnish! I just about CROAKED! So, out came the sandpaper and paint can AGAIN. But it’s almost noon now and I think I’m finally finished in there, touch-ups and all.
So here’s what’s REALLY on my mind.
Yesterday evening I had a strange experience; I felt a different awareness of myself, which is an odd twist for someone of my age who, you’d think, should have pretty decent self-awareness. Maybe I’d been chasing my own tail like a puppy who has no clue where his own body starts-and-stops but finally figures out that wagging thing is really HIS TAIL, or a child who views his/her image in the mirror for the up-teenth time but finally realizes that “other” person is actually him/herself. In any event, something clicked.
I’ve been sold out to being a nurturer my whole life – first my parents, God bless their souls, those self-destructive and pain-ridden folks who needed help from SOMEONE. I was the only one around, and so I got the job, as inept, scared, panic-attack-ridden, and worried as I was. They simply could not seem to ever make lasting peace with life. Then along came my steal-the-show husband, the guy who sold out to me 100% at first sight and somehow required/needed/deserved my attentions. Finally the kids showed up, four little bundles of hope expectantly waiting for dreams to unfold as I held their hands and tried to steady their wobbly steps toward adulthood.
A pastor once told me I’d nurture a frog if it jumped in front of me, meaning I was vulnerable to “taking care of” just about anything that looked a little greenish-around-the-edges (needy). I suppose he was at least partially correct, although I can be fairly selective when it comes to frogs. I actually prefer toads since they’re less slimy – and no, they won’t give you warts. Tree toads are the cutest, by far.
Anyway, I’m getting off track. Last night I felt this tug – a strange mix of being pulled from the inside-out and the outside-in – to nurture MYSELF. To really, truly, respond to my needs as God would have me do, not in a selfish and grabby way, but rather a gentle, careful, and intentional, healthy way. I’ve never felt this exact same thing before. Ever.
Maybe He gave me permission to nurture myself, I don’t know, or maybe it was just an attitude shift from “shoulds” and “have-tos” and “excuses-to-do-less-than-helpful-things” to something more voluntarily good, less demanding or harmful, and hopefully God-honoring.
From another perspective, maybe I am supposed to be the needy FROG, and my job is to sit like a little green Budda on my rock (circumstances) and practice my tongue-flicks; to thrive on whatever flies and gnats come buzzing by and be content in that. Maybe that’s what nurturing myself means. Maybe I’ve worked too blessedly hard at everything, or else have neglected the real point (cultivating the measure of faith given to me), and have ended up a split personality: legalist and goof-off.
Anyway, my initial response last night was to put aside the editing I’d intended to do for Fritz after dinner (which is not urgently time-intensive right now, although it needs to be done soon) and allow myself to read my new book. That felt really good – a renewing thing.
I think it comes down to focusing on “the right thing” vs. letting God lead; letting Him show me how to care for my own sanctified-and-being-sanctified human heart.
So here’s what’s REALLY on my mind.
Yesterday evening I had a strange experience; I felt a different awareness of myself, which is an odd twist for someone of my age who, you’d think, should have pretty decent self-awareness. Maybe I’d been chasing my own tail like a puppy who has no clue where his own body starts-and-stops but finally figures out that wagging thing is really HIS TAIL, or a child who views his/her image in the mirror for the up-teenth time but finally realizes that “other” person is actually him/herself. In any event, something clicked.
I’ve been sold out to being a nurturer my whole life – first my parents, God bless their souls, those self-destructive and pain-ridden folks who needed help from SOMEONE. I was the only one around, and so I got the job, as inept, scared, panic-attack-ridden, and worried as I was. They simply could not seem to ever make lasting peace with life. Then along came my steal-the-show husband, the guy who sold out to me 100% at first sight and somehow required/needed/deserved my attentions. Finally the kids showed up, four little bundles of hope expectantly waiting for dreams to unfold as I held their hands and tried to steady their wobbly steps toward adulthood.
A pastor once told me I’d nurture a frog if it jumped in front of me, meaning I was vulnerable to “taking care of” just about anything that looked a little greenish-around-the-edges (needy). I suppose he was at least partially correct, although I can be fairly selective when it comes to frogs. I actually prefer toads since they’re less slimy – and no, they won’t give you warts. Tree toads are the cutest, by far.
Anyway, I’m getting off track. Last night I felt this tug – a strange mix of being pulled from the inside-out and the outside-in – to nurture MYSELF. To really, truly, respond to my needs as God would have me do, not in a selfish and grabby way, but rather a gentle, careful, and intentional, healthy way. I’ve never felt this exact same thing before. Ever.
Maybe He gave me permission to nurture myself, I don’t know, or maybe it was just an attitude shift from “shoulds” and “have-tos” and “excuses-to-do-less-than-helpful-things” to something more voluntarily good, less demanding or harmful, and hopefully God-honoring.
From another perspective, maybe I am supposed to be the needy FROG, and my job is to sit like a little green Budda on my rock (circumstances) and practice my tongue-flicks; to thrive on whatever flies and gnats come buzzing by and be content in that. Maybe that’s what nurturing myself means. Maybe I’ve worked too blessedly hard at everything, or else have neglected the real point (cultivating the measure of faith given to me), and have ended up a split personality: legalist and goof-off.
Anyway, my initial response last night was to put aside the editing I’d intended to do for Fritz after dinner (which is not urgently time-intensive right now, although it needs to be done soon) and allow myself to read my new book. That felt really good – a renewing thing.
I think it comes down to focusing on “the right thing” vs. letting God lead; letting Him show me how to care for my own sanctified-and-being-sanctified human heart.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
A Really Gutsy Rant
WARNING: Some material in this blog requires parental discretion and may not be appropriate for children…OR impatient, insensitive, or emotionally on-the-edge adults who would rather not “go there” when the bottom of the barrel looks pretty dark.
______________________________________
As I left the doctor’s office today after an appointment, I had to heave-ho with extra effort to push open the door. The problem wasn’t the door – it was ME. I sort of floated out onto the sidewalk, but not with the euphoric kind of wafting that usually defines floating - oh no. Rather, maybe the wooziness resulted from so many stifled sighs finally escaping from the depths of my soul in those last few minutes, and the consequent light-headedness hit me all at once. In any case, my sandaled feet became these strange vehicles – as if they weren’t mine at all, but some stumpy clods banging the pavement, taking me somewhere else, anywhere else, away from the realities back behind me.
It’s not that I don’t like Dr. Turner. I actually worship the man on some level, since he’s been the only medical person on the face of the planet to respect and respond to my unusual needs. It’s just that I put him in a compromised position every time I’m there, and he finally said it: “I’d really like you to work with someone else.” He’s not kicking me out the door, but is being honest. He says, and I believe him, that he really wants the best for me, and yet he finally just plopped the full deck on the table.
I don’t blame him one bit. The AMA (bless their grimy little hearts) would love to kick his butt because of me, and the fact that, in my case, he’s not following their rules. Not that their rules work for me, because they don’t. I gave them 7 years of my life to figure out my thyroid replacement (after cancer in 1996) and they blew it. So I went someplace else. I’m glad there was a someplace else to go.
Something occurred to me as I fumbled my keys around the edge of the car door’s illusive-and-ragged keyhole. (My wooden hands, like my feet, refused to work normally). I certainly would have been dead long before now if there’d been no intervention. Might that not have been better all the way around? Fritz could have found another wife - we were both 46 then - and life would have gone on for all of us, only without the hype. In 1996 my cancer was almost ready to explode beyond the thyroid gland, in which case every organ of my body would have been fair game and it surely would have eaten me alive fairly quickly. If it had not been discovered when it was, I’d not be fumbling those car keys or feeling like I was about to pass out, but rather would be safe, secure, and whole - at Home.
The autonomic system must have some override for times like this, because somehow, despite the surreal feeling of something close to levitation, I started the car and drove from the parking lot into 4 lanes of traffic and to the bookstore.
Why the BOOKSTORE?
Well, as a holistic numbness settled over me, I kept my wits enough to knew I was supposed to buy a certain book and educate myself as to the reason for purchasing yet another expensive supplement (this time adrenal) to gird up my disappointed and confused endocrine system which is sadly missing a major player (thyroid gland). So I drove straight to Barnes and Noble, all the while trying to breathe, breathe, breathe deeply. I had to get the tight kinks out of my heart and soul (and body).
Unfortunately, the deep breathing didn’t work.
I walked into the bookstore on those same stumpy feet. The book wasn’t there, so I figured I’d just order it online when I got home. But I continued to glide up and down the aisles anyway, on auto-pilot like one of those slippery ghosts in Ghost Busters, looking FOR nothing but AT everything, just trying to get past the feeling that I was supposed to be dead…a long time ago. And yet honestly, the thought of passing on 13 years ago felt so right looking back, as if it would have been so SIMPLE compared to the ongoing drama.
After pacing the aisles for maybe an hour, I got back in the car and drove home, opened up my computer, and started this blog. So you see, this IS late-breaking news, hot off the press, straight from the horse’s mouth – that toothy mouth that knows how to snip and bite with force.
To cut to the chase, it looks like I have some new assignments before me. I need to write a thank-you to Dr. Turner, letting him know I appreciate his willingness to stick his neck out before the evil axe of the dicto-doctors. Then if they should give him some grief, he could pull my letter out and presto-chango their minds for them with words written by my own hand, or at least back them up a little bit and make them think outside their convenient little box. Aha, that would be quite the accomplishment.
Then I need to copy that same letter for my new doctor in Michigan and write a cover letter explaining that it would be lovely, just lovely, if he’d be willing to ramp me up on Armour thyroid (he’s a D.O. who IS willing to use Armour rather than Synthroid, which is why I chose him to be my general practitioner in the first place) to the point that I could leave Dr. Turner and his incredibly expensive, controversial, but EFFECTIVE time-released-T3 behind me. However, the new doc would have to be willing to do this without confirmation from blood work since my blood readings evidently do not accurately convey what’s going on at the cellular level of my freaky body. Dr. Turner says the dicto-docs in Michigan are even MORE ornery than down here in central Indiana. So, fat chance.
It’s back to that spot between the rock and the hard spot. It’s so ridiculously tight in there, sort of like an emotional version of one of those crates used to torture POW’s in Vietnam.
As it is, for now (however long NOW lasts) Dr. Turner put me back on a higher dose of T3, praise God (I mean that), after my dose was cut back by his nurse last October. The results of that 6-month experiment (which would make my records look at least a teeny bit less weird for anyone looking over his shoulder) were significant weight gain, fuzzy-headedness and emotional and physical exhaustion. All that has been great timing, just great, in the midst of all the back-and-forth-ness of living in two houses and remodeling and etc. etc. Of course I’m paying out the wazoo for this version of T3 which is not available through pharmacies and is not covered by insurance, and Dr. Turner could get in trouble for dispensing so much to me, but what to do when you’re the “atypical case?” You do whatever works.
Dying might have actually “worked” best, but evidently God had something else in mind – if I believe He was the One who plopped me on that surgical table. Was that the case? WAS IT? Well, I’m here.
Another issue that came forth today is the fact that in the last several years there’s been more bone loss in my old skeleton, something that can also be connected with (caused by) “unregulated” thyroid replacement. But maybe not; maybe it’s just coincidence and aging and all the typical things that cause old women to get osteoporosis. In any event, I’m not thrilled that my bones are thinning out. Maybe I should just go back on traditional thyroid replacement and feel crappy? And save the bones?
It all boils down to mourning, once again, the loss of a body part. I hate the fact that I didn’t know, at the time of the surgery, to question the removal of my entire thyroid gland. I hate the fact that I’m dependent on something man-made, and don’t fit the typical mold as far as replacement.
Meanwhile I sit here and listen to my chirpy, maddening tinnitus and gain some quirky consolation from the normalcy of such raucous NOISE that threatens to drive me insane. At least it is predictable. Very predictable.
So after such a blatant rant, what else do I have to say? What nice, neat, theologically correct gem can I pluck and tape here to bring positive closure? Only this. The Lord is here with me. This I know. Without Him I’d be toast. Literally. Black toast. Like charred too far beyond scraping. As it is, His presence is my hope.
As far as tangible solace, I did do something nice for myself at the bookstore. On the discount rack there was an Anne Lamotte book I haven’t read yet, so I bought it (dirt cheap, 1/4 the original price). She’s an incredibly talented writer, someone who tells it like it is from the gut and heart and head all at once so you feel like ALL OF YOU merges with ALL OF HER (and maybe ALL OF HUMANITY) in the crappy-but-funny-and-surrendered-life. I can drown in her words and emerge on the other side gasping and yet strangely refreshed. When I finish one of her books I feel like I’ve been through one of those old clothes-washer-wringers and then shaken out and hung up to dry, all clean and smooth and straightened out. So I guess I’ll read a chapter, or maybe two, and then will get back to painting the room I’m currently re-doing, and then will start scraping the wallpaper off the room-in-waiting: my next victim. At least I’m occupied with projects that have to do with restoration. Maybe there are some good lessons there, if I have eyes to see them.
______________________________________
As I left the doctor’s office today after an appointment, I had to heave-ho with extra effort to push open the door. The problem wasn’t the door – it was ME. I sort of floated out onto the sidewalk, but not with the euphoric kind of wafting that usually defines floating - oh no. Rather, maybe the wooziness resulted from so many stifled sighs finally escaping from the depths of my soul in those last few minutes, and the consequent light-headedness hit me all at once. In any case, my sandaled feet became these strange vehicles – as if they weren’t mine at all, but some stumpy clods banging the pavement, taking me somewhere else, anywhere else, away from the realities back behind me.
It’s not that I don’t like Dr. Turner. I actually worship the man on some level, since he’s been the only medical person on the face of the planet to respect and respond to my unusual needs. It’s just that I put him in a compromised position every time I’m there, and he finally said it: “I’d really like you to work with someone else.” He’s not kicking me out the door, but is being honest. He says, and I believe him, that he really wants the best for me, and yet he finally just plopped the full deck on the table.
I don’t blame him one bit. The AMA (bless their grimy little hearts) would love to kick his butt because of me, and the fact that, in my case, he’s not following their rules. Not that their rules work for me, because they don’t. I gave them 7 years of my life to figure out my thyroid replacement (after cancer in 1996) and they blew it. So I went someplace else. I’m glad there was a someplace else to go.
Something occurred to me as I fumbled my keys around the edge of the car door’s illusive-and-ragged keyhole. (My wooden hands, like my feet, refused to work normally). I certainly would have been dead long before now if there’d been no intervention. Might that not have been better all the way around? Fritz could have found another wife - we were both 46 then - and life would have gone on for all of us, only without the hype. In 1996 my cancer was almost ready to explode beyond the thyroid gland, in which case every organ of my body would have been fair game and it surely would have eaten me alive fairly quickly. If it had not been discovered when it was, I’d not be fumbling those car keys or feeling like I was about to pass out, but rather would be safe, secure, and whole - at Home.
The autonomic system must have some override for times like this, because somehow, despite the surreal feeling of something close to levitation, I started the car and drove from the parking lot into 4 lanes of traffic and to the bookstore.
Why the BOOKSTORE?
Well, as a holistic numbness settled over me, I kept my wits enough to knew I was supposed to buy a certain book and educate myself as to the reason for purchasing yet another expensive supplement (this time adrenal) to gird up my disappointed and confused endocrine system which is sadly missing a major player (thyroid gland). So I drove straight to Barnes and Noble, all the while trying to breathe, breathe, breathe deeply. I had to get the tight kinks out of my heart and soul (and body).
Unfortunately, the deep breathing didn’t work.
I walked into the bookstore on those same stumpy feet. The book wasn’t there, so I figured I’d just order it online when I got home. But I continued to glide up and down the aisles anyway, on auto-pilot like one of those slippery ghosts in Ghost Busters, looking FOR nothing but AT everything, just trying to get past the feeling that I was supposed to be dead…a long time ago. And yet honestly, the thought of passing on 13 years ago felt so right looking back, as if it would have been so SIMPLE compared to the ongoing drama.
After pacing the aisles for maybe an hour, I got back in the car and drove home, opened up my computer, and started this blog. So you see, this IS late-breaking news, hot off the press, straight from the horse’s mouth – that toothy mouth that knows how to snip and bite with force.
To cut to the chase, it looks like I have some new assignments before me. I need to write a thank-you to Dr. Turner, letting him know I appreciate his willingness to stick his neck out before the evil axe of the dicto-doctors. Then if they should give him some grief, he could pull my letter out and presto-chango their minds for them with words written by my own hand, or at least back them up a little bit and make them think outside their convenient little box. Aha, that would be quite the accomplishment.
Then I need to copy that same letter for my new doctor in Michigan and write a cover letter explaining that it would be lovely, just lovely, if he’d be willing to ramp me up on Armour thyroid (he’s a D.O. who IS willing to use Armour rather than Synthroid, which is why I chose him to be my general practitioner in the first place) to the point that I could leave Dr. Turner and his incredibly expensive, controversial, but EFFECTIVE time-released-T3 behind me. However, the new doc would have to be willing to do this without confirmation from blood work since my blood readings evidently do not accurately convey what’s going on at the cellular level of my freaky body. Dr. Turner says the dicto-docs in Michigan are even MORE ornery than down here in central Indiana. So, fat chance.
It’s back to that spot between the rock and the hard spot. It’s so ridiculously tight in there, sort of like an emotional version of one of those crates used to torture POW’s in Vietnam.
As it is, for now (however long NOW lasts) Dr. Turner put me back on a higher dose of T3, praise God (I mean that), after my dose was cut back by his nurse last October. The results of that 6-month experiment (which would make my records look at least a teeny bit less weird for anyone looking over his shoulder) were significant weight gain, fuzzy-headedness and emotional and physical exhaustion. All that has been great timing, just great, in the midst of all the back-and-forth-ness of living in two houses and remodeling and etc. etc. Of course I’m paying out the wazoo for this version of T3 which is not available through pharmacies and is not covered by insurance, and Dr. Turner could get in trouble for dispensing so much to me, but what to do when you’re the “atypical case?” You do whatever works.
Dying might have actually “worked” best, but evidently God had something else in mind – if I believe He was the One who plopped me on that surgical table. Was that the case? WAS IT? Well, I’m here.
Another issue that came forth today is the fact that in the last several years there’s been more bone loss in my old skeleton, something that can also be connected with (caused by) “unregulated” thyroid replacement. But maybe not; maybe it’s just coincidence and aging and all the typical things that cause old women to get osteoporosis. In any event, I’m not thrilled that my bones are thinning out. Maybe I should just go back on traditional thyroid replacement and feel crappy? And save the bones?
It all boils down to mourning, once again, the loss of a body part. I hate the fact that I didn’t know, at the time of the surgery, to question the removal of my entire thyroid gland. I hate the fact that I’m dependent on something man-made, and don’t fit the typical mold as far as replacement.
Meanwhile I sit here and listen to my chirpy, maddening tinnitus and gain some quirky consolation from the normalcy of such raucous NOISE that threatens to drive me insane. At least it is predictable. Very predictable.
So after such a blatant rant, what else do I have to say? What nice, neat, theologically correct gem can I pluck and tape here to bring positive closure? Only this. The Lord is here with me. This I know. Without Him I’d be toast. Literally. Black toast. Like charred too far beyond scraping. As it is, His presence is my hope.
As far as tangible solace, I did do something nice for myself at the bookstore. On the discount rack there was an Anne Lamotte book I haven’t read yet, so I bought it (dirt cheap, 1/4 the original price). She’s an incredibly talented writer, someone who tells it like it is from the gut and heart and head all at once so you feel like ALL OF YOU merges with ALL OF HER (and maybe ALL OF HUMANITY) in the crappy-but-funny-and-surrendered-life. I can drown in her words and emerge on the other side gasping and yet strangely refreshed. When I finish one of her books I feel like I’ve been through one of those old clothes-washer-wringers and then shaken out and hung up to dry, all clean and smooth and straightened out. So I guess I’ll read a chapter, or maybe two, and then will get back to painting the room I’m currently re-doing, and then will start scraping the wallpaper off the room-in-waiting: my next victim. At least I’m occupied with projects that have to do with restoration. Maybe there are some good lessons there, if I have eyes to see them.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Oomph Health
I’ve decided it is time for consumer demand to speak up, and so have my megaphone in hand BECAUSE I’d like a new product to show up on a shelf somewhere – a packaged, nutritional supplement called “oomph.” I mean, well, I just need a little more-than-usual oomph today (I’m playing golf for the first time in 35 years).
This is true for most days, actually, for one reason or another. So here goes the megaphone. “Hey all you marketing dudes, where’s the OOMPH? Can’t you formulate a little and get it out there for a reasonable price?”
(silence – of course…they weren’t ready for me)
Okay, so if anyone is reading this blog, I’ll just ask YOU something. Now really, doesn’t that name – Oomph - sound like a great marketing ploy? If I go to the health food store (I love Nature’s Pharm in Lafayette) and am about to choose between identical products - one called something generic like “Vita-Min” (which is, by the way, what I’m currently taking) and the other “Oomph,” I ‘d go for the “Oomph.” It just has a lot more creative appeal, not to mention classiness. Sounds convincing. Clinical white coats brew up stuff in test tubes; I actually like a little a something representing the human psyche thrown in there for good measure. And I REALLY like buying things from people who are Real and provide Real goods and then call a spade a spade. I personally think “Oomph” could cover all the bases as long as it really IS a quality product, of course.
I also think just taking oomph - even a placebo - would give you oomph. Call it psychosomatic if you like, but I say there’s nothing wrong with the power of suggestion.
Sadly, there is no product called “oomph” and I don’t see any on the horizon. However, there IS an oomph resource in Australia if I ever want a place to visit. (Yeah, right, me the non-traveler.) Too bad it’s so far away…and medicine in our great U S of A is so slanted and pro-pharmaceutical that a resource like this would be dubbed quackery in this country in no time flat.
Anyway, take a look at this site – Oomph Health - it’s inspiring to me! I want an appointment! Should I get a flight to Australia??
http://www.oomphhealth.co.nz/
This is true for most days, actually, for one reason or another. So here goes the megaphone. “Hey all you marketing dudes, where’s the OOMPH? Can’t you formulate a little and get it out there for a reasonable price?”
(silence – of course…they weren’t ready for me)
Okay, so if anyone is reading this blog, I’ll just ask YOU something. Now really, doesn’t that name – Oomph - sound like a great marketing ploy? If I go to the health food store (I love Nature’s Pharm in Lafayette) and am about to choose between identical products - one called something generic like “Vita-Min” (which is, by the way, what I’m currently taking) and the other “Oomph,” I ‘d go for the “Oomph.” It just has a lot more creative appeal, not to mention classiness. Sounds convincing. Clinical white coats brew up stuff in test tubes; I actually like a little a something representing the human psyche thrown in there for good measure. And I REALLY like buying things from people who are Real and provide Real goods and then call a spade a spade. I personally think “Oomph” could cover all the bases as long as it really IS a quality product, of course.
I also think just taking oomph - even a placebo - would give you oomph. Call it psychosomatic if you like, but I say there’s nothing wrong with the power of suggestion.
Sadly, there is no product called “oomph” and I don’t see any on the horizon. However, there IS an oomph resource in Australia if I ever want a place to visit. (Yeah, right, me the non-traveler.) Too bad it’s so far away…and medicine in our great U S of A is so slanted and pro-pharmaceutical that a resource like this would be dubbed quackery in this country in no time flat.
Anyway, take a look at this site – Oomph Health - it’s inspiring to me! I want an appointment! Should I get a flight to Australia??
http://www.oomphhealth.co.nz/
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Rabbits and Bears - Oh My!
I know way-down-deep I’d rather be a rabbit than a bear - a Velveteen Rabbit with fraying corners where cushy innards continually tumble out, in lieu of a stuffy-tight-skinned teddy bear complete with a burgundy bow around the neck sitting in a static position, untouched and uninvolved, on a high shelf.
Sometimes, however, the Velveteen Rabbit needs major patching, some tender wiping away of dirt (and tears), and careful conversation laced with understanding. AND time alone, precious time to hear from God and get ready for the next round of pouring-out. Much of the time these recovery-and-preparatory-times are cut short, which is understandable, since Velveteen Rabbits exist for the sole purpose of actively loving and being loved. Even more specifically, they’re supposed to love HARD…and be loved HARD in return. Sacrifice and depth are built into hard-core Velveteen-Rabbit-style love. That’s how it should be.
Still, every now and then I sneak a peek at the smooth coat of the unruffled teddy bear with his head neatly cocked – and the shiny red bow tied just-so under his chin - and wonder if it might be all right to trade places for the short-term. Just long enough to regroup and gear up for the next round of love.
This desire might have quite a bit to do with the fact that the Rabbit’s oversized, floppy ears - his crown and glory - are almost completely ripped off. They’re becoming more and more non-functional, and yet are the target of the lovers. Jabber-jabber-jabber, noise-noise-noise! How can a Rabbit be a Rabbit, and how can that Rabbit LOVE, with malfunctioning EARS? The bear, conversely, sits there with his perky little ears all set to hear even the tiniest little snap of a twig. How nice that must be, to not have to strain to hear; to be above disability; to truly be separated from chronic auditory annoyance and pain.
Someday the Rabbit will know that kind of wholeness again. In the meantime, perhaps the falling-apart-ness will serve some greater purpose in the Big Scheme, and ongoing redemption THROUGH suffering (in the midst of it) will become the primary focus.
And right now, this Rabbit thinks it’s time for a nice tall glass of freshly extracted carrot juice…mmmmmm….
Sometimes, however, the Velveteen Rabbit needs major patching, some tender wiping away of dirt (and tears), and careful conversation laced with understanding. AND time alone, precious time to hear from God and get ready for the next round of pouring-out. Much of the time these recovery-and-preparatory-times are cut short, which is understandable, since Velveteen Rabbits exist for the sole purpose of actively loving and being loved. Even more specifically, they’re supposed to love HARD…and be loved HARD in return. Sacrifice and depth are built into hard-core Velveteen-Rabbit-style love. That’s how it should be.
Still, every now and then I sneak a peek at the smooth coat of the unruffled teddy bear with his head neatly cocked – and the shiny red bow tied just-so under his chin - and wonder if it might be all right to trade places for the short-term. Just long enough to regroup and gear up for the next round of love.
This desire might have quite a bit to do with the fact that the Rabbit’s oversized, floppy ears - his crown and glory - are almost completely ripped off. They’re becoming more and more non-functional, and yet are the target of the lovers. Jabber-jabber-jabber, noise-noise-noise! How can a Rabbit be a Rabbit, and how can that Rabbit LOVE, with malfunctioning EARS? The bear, conversely, sits there with his perky little ears all set to hear even the tiniest little snap of a twig. How nice that must be, to not have to strain to hear; to be above disability; to truly be separated from chronic auditory annoyance and pain.
Someday the Rabbit will know that kind of wholeness again. In the meantime, perhaps the falling-apart-ness will serve some greater purpose in the Big Scheme, and ongoing redemption THROUGH suffering (in the midst of it) will become the primary focus.
And right now, this Rabbit thinks it’s time for a nice tall glass of freshly extracted carrot juice…mmmmmm….
Monday, May 25, 2009
Hand-Me-Down
I’ve got the best deal on the planet going on when it comes to being taken care of technologically. When our oldest son purchases a new laptop, his used one goes to his younger brother…and HIS goes to ME! I’ve never bought a laptop, ever, and yet the “upgrades” keep coming!
This redefines the definition of hand-me-downs from rather sad and droopy to swank. New computers sure beat the old stuff I got from my much-older sisters: rusty bicycles, ice skates that didn’t fit, discarded half-empty bottles of stinky toiletries, and horrible formal dresses made of scratchy netting that my mother re-designed at her sewing machine to fit me. Blah.
So anyway, I’m typing this on my “new” computer tonight, grateful for super-techno-weenie-boys who are willing to share with their ole’ ma.
This redefines the definition of hand-me-downs from rather sad and droopy to swank. New computers sure beat the old stuff I got from my much-older sisters: rusty bicycles, ice skates that didn’t fit, discarded half-empty bottles of stinky toiletries, and horrible formal dresses made of scratchy netting that my mother re-designed at her sewing machine to fit me. Blah.
So anyway, I’m typing this on my “new” computer tonight, grateful for super-techno-weenie-boys who are willing to share with their ole’ ma.
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