June 30, 2009
I just can't help but wonder what the future holds. I think I'm doing a really good job of living in the moment these days, without getting myself all worked up about what I should be doing. I just don't worry any more about if I'm doing the right thing with my life or not. It sounds all cliche, I know, but it really isn't what I'm doing so much as how I'm doing it that I'm concerned with any more. So long as I know that I am living a life full of love, that's all that really matters to me. (Sappy right? I know, gag me with a spoon as we used to say. Smile.)
Okay, I take that back. Or at least maybe I should clarify a little. I'm not anxious about my future any more. I still think about it. I definitely dream about it. In fact, I have a very solid picture in my mind of what I want for my future, and my present for that matter. I feel like I have more direction now than I have ever had. I used to talk with my sister-in-law Heather about feeling lost because I didn't have some thing that I was passionate about the way Jeremy was with music. I just hadn't found it. While I loved writing and had the hopes of one day writing a book, I had said to a few people over the years, "I just don't have anything important enough to write about yet."
But now I feel like I do. And the desire to use writing to share with other people and possibly even help them through tough times is so exciting to me I can hardly stand it! The encouragement and feedback I've gotten from so many people about my blog has gone a long way to fuel that fire too. With a sincere heart I want to thank you. I'm continuing to see how the love and good will of others is manifesting itself and its energy in me and my life. It's an amazing thing. I hope you can feel it too.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Nothing's coming
June 29, 2009
I've sat down to blog several times the last couple of days, but nothing's coming to me. Quite honestly, I've been a little sick of hearing my own voice. So I decided I'm not going to force it if it's not there. And it's so funny, because usually when this happens to me a day or two later something significant happens that I just feel like I have to write about. You don't have to preach to me on the virtues of patience. Smile.
I've sat down to blog several times the last couple of days, but nothing's coming to me. Quite honestly, I've been a little sick of hearing my own voice. So I decided I'm not going to force it if it's not there. And it's so funny, because usually when this happens to me a day or two later something significant happens that I just feel like I have to write about. You don't have to preach to me on the virtues of patience. Smile.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Frasier and Niles
June 27, 2009
I enjoyed the deliciousness of falling asleep last night without planning my slumber. I was tired. Jeremy and I were stretched out on the couches watching Frasier on DVD, and I felt the sleepiness curl up with me. I have a bedtime routine that I usually follow in order to ensure proper treatment of my ulcerative colitis. The routine includes doing my nightly enema and taking my sleeping meds now. But last night, I decided to just enjoy the relaxation I was feeling and I drifted off.
Around 11:45 p.m. I woke up on the couch and realized that I hadn't yet done my enema and I needed to, so I crept in the bedroom, careful not to wake Jeremy, and proceeded to medicate myself (aren't I being delicate?). Of course, after doing the enema, you can imagine that falling back to sleep did not come so easy. And so I lay awake in bed, alone with my thoughts. And this is where they took me:
I thought about all the thinking I've been doing about faith lately. And why, really does any of it matter? Would I be living my life any differently if I understood why it's necessary to have evil in the world in order to have good? And then I started thinking about my Psychology of Religion class I took my freshman year (I'm pretty sure it was my freshman year). Actually there were two classes I started thinking about: Psychology of Religion and Christianity 101. Both of those classes taught theory about faith. That was the first time I was introduced to there actually being theories about faith. And in both of those classes, they talked about the "born again" Christian faith as a theory.
I was thoroughly confused. I'm embarrassed to admit it now, because it just shows how naive or sheltered or something that I was, but I found myself feeling almost angry at the professors for talking about the faith I had been raised with like it was a theory. I remember trying to point out to the professor that what he meant to say was this one was the truth. And he kept answering me with explaining that it was a theory. It may have been a theory I believed in, but it was still a theory nonetheless.
So last night as I laid there trying to fight the urge to go to the bathroom and rid myself of the enema I had just used, I started thinking, As a child, did I feel like I had a choice? I don't think I did. The gospel was presented to me as the truth. And of course it would be, right? Don't most parents present their beliefs to their children as the truth? As a parent you want your child to follow what you believe. Of course.
The choice that I remember having the evening I said a prayer and asked Jesus into my heart was the choice of heaven or hell, not the choice of Christianity or some other faith. And last night I wondered, isn't freedom and choosing Christ an essential part of the faith? It wasn't till I was 17 that I even started understanding what the choices out there were.
I could remember pretty clearly the evening I "accepted Christ." I remember parts of the conversations that I had with my parents that evening. And last night I wondered, what were they thinking and feeling about their little daughter saying that prayer? I'm sure they were excited. What conversations did they have with each other afterward?
I realized that I was not going to be able to fall back asleep if I continued to think these thoughts, and my opportunity for night-time slumber was slipping away from me with each passing minute. So I went back to the living room to find that Jeremy had woken up and turned Frasier back on. I settled into my spot on the couch and fell back asleep, Frasier and Niles distracting my mind.
I'm sure I'll be pondering these thoughts for many nights to come . . .
I enjoyed the deliciousness of falling asleep last night without planning my slumber. I was tired. Jeremy and I were stretched out on the couches watching Frasier on DVD, and I felt the sleepiness curl up with me. I have a bedtime routine that I usually follow in order to ensure proper treatment of my ulcerative colitis. The routine includes doing my nightly enema and taking my sleeping meds now. But last night, I decided to just enjoy the relaxation I was feeling and I drifted off.
Around 11:45 p.m. I woke up on the couch and realized that I hadn't yet done my enema and I needed to, so I crept in the bedroom, careful not to wake Jeremy, and proceeded to medicate myself (aren't I being delicate?). Of course, after doing the enema, you can imagine that falling back to sleep did not come so easy. And so I lay awake in bed, alone with my thoughts. And this is where they took me:
I thought about all the thinking I've been doing about faith lately. And why, really does any of it matter? Would I be living my life any differently if I understood why it's necessary to have evil in the world in order to have good? And then I started thinking about my Psychology of Religion class I took my freshman year (I'm pretty sure it was my freshman year). Actually there were two classes I started thinking about: Psychology of Religion and Christianity 101. Both of those classes taught theory about faith. That was the first time I was introduced to there actually being theories about faith. And in both of those classes, they talked about the "born again" Christian faith as a theory.
I was thoroughly confused. I'm embarrassed to admit it now, because it just shows how naive or sheltered or something that I was, but I found myself feeling almost angry at the professors for talking about the faith I had been raised with like it was a theory. I remember trying to point out to the professor that what he meant to say was this one was the truth. And he kept answering me with explaining that it was a theory. It may have been a theory I believed in, but it was still a theory nonetheless.
So last night as I laid there trying to fight the urge to go to the bathroom and rid myself of the enema I had just used, I started thinking, As a child, did I feel like I had a choice? I don't think I did. The gospel was presented to me as the truth. And of course it would be, right? Don't most parents present their beliefs to their children as the truth? As a parent you want your child to follow what you believe. Of course.
The choice that I remember having the evening I said a prayer and asked Jesus into my heart was the choice of heaven or hell, not the choice of Christianity or some other faith. And last night I wondered, isn't freedom and choosing Christ an essential part of the faith? It wasn't till I was 17 that I even started understanding what the choices out there were.
I could remember pretty clearly the evening I "accepted Christ." I remember parts of the conversations that I had with my parents that evening. And last night I wondered, what were they thinking and feeling about their little daughter saying that prayer? I'm sure they were excited. What conversations did they have with each other afterward?
I realized that I was not going to be able to fall back asleep if I continued to think these thoughts, and my opportunity for night-time slumber was slipping away from me with each passing minute. So I went back to the living room to find that Jeremy had woken up and turned Frasier back on. I settled into my spot on the couch and fell back asleep, Frasier and Niles distracting my mind.
I'm sure I'll be pondering these thoughts for many nights to come . . .
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wailing at me
June 25, 2009
Bob was wailing at me this morning, "No woman no cry!" Boy did that song take me back. But first, a little background. (Stay with me here. I'm gonna jump around a little).
When I was a little girl, I was given a pair of white roller skates for my birthday or Christmas, or some such special occasion. They came up over my ankles, the kind that looked like ice skates. And I'll tell you what, I LIVED in those roller skates. I remember my mom laying down the law, "Abby, you cannot roller skate in the house."
"But I can in the basement, right?" I asked, desperate to claim that smooth area of cement for my own. Yes, the basement was allowed. Whew.
Outside the world was mine when I was in my roller skates. Tremble (our family dog who was named Tremble because she was trembling the night we got her) would be lassoed into my shenanigans and have to pull me with the blue mesh leash up and down the street we lived on. I wore the skates to the park at the church up the street. I wore them when I was on the swings. I would pump my legs till I was swinging as high as I could get and then at the peak I would jump off my swing and see how far I would roll.
We played a game at the park called Over My Dead Body (I know, strange). We climbed up the grassy hill at the back of the church parking lot and those of us who were wearing our roller skates would say, "Over my dead body!" and then proceeded to skate down the bumpy, grassy hill with all the speed we could muster. It was a rush! It was a thrill! Oh how I loved those roller skates!
But often during the day as is wont to happen, nature would call. (Didn't you just hate it when nature interrupted a good run of playing?) I knew I had to follow the rules, but I did not want to take off my roller skates just to use the bathroom. So I would get down on my hands and knees and crawl through the house to the bathroom, sure to hold my feet up off the ground behind me so I wasn't scuffing the floor at all. I would stand up just to plop down on the toilet, forgetting that the roller skates gave me extra height and that the toilet seat was further down than I was anticipating.
This was how much I loved my roller skates.
So fast forward to college. I think it was my freshman year at Bethel. The school had rented out a roller rink and we were all going. I could hardly contain my excitement. I hadn't been skating in years, but it all came back to me. If you have rollerskating in your soul, you know what I'm talking about. I didn't want to take any breaks while I was out there. Forget the blister that was forming on the inside of the leg I leaned on as I turned the corners. Bob Marley was singing "No Woman No Cry," and I cruised around the rink. My legs were strong. The weight of the skates was nothing to me. It was just that added friction that I pushed out from under me with each swift movement. I felt like I was floating as I glided smoothly around and around in circles, turning in little circles or to skate backwards from time to time (oh yeah, I was that good!).
Fast forward again to this morning and Bob wailing the same song at me again. It's one of those powerful song/memory connections. I was right back there with my Bethel friends, cruising the rink. Oh my gosh! That feeling! That feeling is what I dream about. All those dreams of flying, and gliding, and lifting my arms open to feel the speed full on!
(Now stay with me here. I don't mean to be jerking you around, but it is all connected, I promise.) In December I was hospitalized because my ostomy bags had been leaking so much that the skin around my stoma had gotten infected. To say I was at my wits end then would be an understatement. I was seriously to the point that if they couldn't help me, I didn't know if there was any other alternative but to kill myself. It wasn't that I wanted to die, but the pain was so bad, the situation so horrible, and I was so helpless, I didn't know what else I could do.
So I sat in the hospital bed, afraid to move because it seemed every time I did the makeshift seal we had managed to come up with for my ostomy bag would break free from my skin and I would spring a leak, which basically turned into stomach acid running down the open sore on my stomach. Dr. T had just signed on to be the new colo-rectal surgeon that very week. She came in with Dr. V to see me. It was a month sooner than they normally did the ostomy takedowns, but she was willing to do it on me then because of the problems I had been having (there were more problems than just the skin infection at the time; problems with dehydration, my PIC line getting infected, etc.) and because the barium x-ray they had done of my j-pouch showed it had already healed really well.
Kelly was our ostomy nurse at the time. She was so helpful. Prior to my hospitalization she was taking phone calls and e-mails from us at all hours, trying to help us figure out what to do about all the leakages. She met with Jeremy and I numerous times on the fly to try to help us figure out if we were doing something wrong or to try something different. She came into my hospital room to check on me. She told Jeremy and I that there was this convex type of ostomy "appliance" that had a rubber belt that you wore with it to hold the bag more securely in place that might work for me. She was doing her best to get one for me. And then we found out Dr. T was going to do the surgery on me in just a couple of days, so all of this frustration with the ostomy and stoma would no longer be an issue. I would be free of my "appliance!" (Oh sweet relief. Seriously. You have no idea . . .)
Kelly started telling us how she and her husband had just been rollerskating and how they had so much fun doing it. She made Jeremy and I promise that we would go rollerskating when I got better. We promised. Hmmm . . .maybe I need to remind Jeremy of that promise now.
And then this morning I listened to Bob tell me not to worry about a thing because every little thing was going to be alright. Well of course it is! And he told me about three little birds. I smiled to myself. When I was pregnant with Harper, I had a dream that there were three hummingbirds in my womb. Oh sweet Harper. My little bird.
Thanks for the good morning Bob. You can wail at me any time.
Bob was wailing at me this morning, "No woman no cry!" Boy did that song take me back. But first, a little background. (Stay with me here. I'm gonna jump around a little).
When I was a little girl, I was given a pair of white roller skates for my birthday or Christmas, or some such special occasion. They came up over my ankles, the kind that looked like ice skates. And I'll tell you what, I LIVED in those roller skates. I remember my mom laying down the law, "Abby, you cannot roller skate in the house."
"But I can in the basement, right?" I asked, desperate to claim that smooth area of cement for my own. Yes, the basement was allowed. Whew.
Outside the world was mine when I was in my roller skates. Tremble (our family dog who was named Tremble because she was trembling the night we got her) would be lassoed into my shenanigans and have to pull me with the blue mesh leash up and down the street we lived on. I wore the skates to the park at the church up the street. I wore them when I was on the swings. I would pump my legs till I was swinging as high as I could get and then at the peak I would jump off my swing and see how far I would roll.
We played a game at the park called Over My Dead Body (I know, strange). We climbed up the grassy hill at the back of the church parking lot and those of us who were wearing our roller skates would say, "Over my dead body!" and then proceeded to skate down the bumpy, grassy hill with all the speed we could muster. It was a rush! It was a thrill! Oh how I loved those roller skates!
But often during the day as is wont to happen, nature would call. (Didn't you just hate it when nature interrupted a good run of playing?) I knew I had to follow the rules, but I did not want to take off my roller skates just to use the bathroom. So I would get down on my hands and knees and crawl through the house to the bathroom, sure to hold my feet up off the ground behind me so I wasn't scuffing the floor at all. I would stand up just to plop down on the toilet, forgetting that the roller skates gave me extra height and that the toilet seat was further down than I was anticipating.
This was how much I loved my roller skates.
So fast forward to college. I think it was my freshman year at Bethel. The school had rented out a roller rink and we were all going. I could hardly contain my excitement. I hadn't been skating in years, but it all came back to me. If you have rollerskating in your soul, you know what I'm talking about. I didn't want to take any breaks while I was out there. Forget the blister that was forming on the inside of the leg I leaned on as I turned the corners. Bob Marley was singing "No Woman No Cry," and I cruised around the rink. My legs were strong. The weight of the skates was nothing to me. It was just that added friction that I pushed out from under me with each swift movement. I felt like I was floating as I glided smoothly around and around in circles, turning in little circles or to skate backwards from time to time (oh yeah, I was that good!).
Fast forward again to this morning and Bob wailing the same song at me again. It's one of those powerful song/memory connections. I was right back there with my Bethel friends, cruising the rink. Oh my gosh! That feeling! That feeling is what I dream about. All those dreams of flying, and gliding, and lifting my arms open to feel the speed full on!
(Now stay with me here. I don't mean to be jerking you around, but it is all connected, I promise.) In December I was hospitalized because my ostomy bags had been leaking so much that the skin around my stoma had gotten infected. To say I was at my wits end then would be an understatement. I was seriously to the point that if they couldn't help me, I didn't know if there was any other alternative but to kill myself. It wasn't that I wanted to die, but the pain was so bad, the situation so horrible, and I was so helpless, I didn't know what else I could do.
So I sat in the hospital bed, afraid to move because it seemed every time I did the makeshift seal we had managed to come up with for my ostomy bag would break free from my skin and I would spring a leak, which basically turned into stomach acid running down the open sore on my stomach. Dr. T had just signed on to be the new colo-rectal surgeon that very week. She came in with Dr. V to see me. It was a month sooner than they normally did the ostomy takedowns, but she was willing to do it on me then because of the problems I had been having (there were more problems than just the skin infection at the time; problems with dehydration, my PIC line getting infected, etc.) and because the barium x-ray they had done of my j-pouch showed it had already healed really well.
Kelly was our ostomy nurse at the time. She was so helpful. Prior to my hospitalization she was taking phone calls and e-mails from us at all hours, trying to help us figure out what to do about all the leakages. She met with Jeremy and I numerous times on the fly to try to help us figure out if we were doing something wrong or to try something different. She came into my hospital room to check on me. She told Jeremy and I that there was this convex type of ostomy "appliance" that had a rubber belt that you wore with it to hold the bag more securely in place that might work for me. She was doing her best to get one for me. And then we found out Dr. T was going to do the surgery on me in just a couple of days, so all of this frustration with the ostomy and stoma would no longer be an issue. I would be free of my "appliance!" (Oh sweet relief. Seriously. You have no idea . . .)
Kelly started telling us how she and her husband had just been rollerskating and how they had so much fun doing it. She made Jeremy and I promise that we would go rollerskating when I got better. We promised. Hmmm . . .maybe I need to remind Jeremy of that promise now.
And then this morning I listened to Bob tell me not to worry about a thing because every little thing was going to be alright. Well of course it is! And he told me about three little birds. I smiled to myself. When I was pregnant with Harper, I had a dream that there were three hummingbirds in my womb. Oh sweet Harper. My little bird.
Thanks for the good morning Bob. You can wail at me any time.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Ob-La-Di
June 24, 2009
They sat at a school-cafeteria table, the two of them, faces from my past. There were four huge pizzas in front of them; the stone-oven baked kind with air pockets bubbling up on the edges of the dusty crust, giant pieces of pepperoni on a couple of them. I sat down across the table from them. They looked at each other with mischievous, excited grins on their faces. "Should we tell her why I'm eating so much now?" the one asked the other. "I'm pregnant!" she said as she stood up and showed me how big she had gotten. I smiled.
"Oh I'm so happy for you. That is such exciting news." I was there with them both emotionally. I really was. I was happy with them, without faking it.
But then she started talking. She showed me the soft pink yarn that she was using to make tiny little baby booties for the little girl growing inside her. And I started sobbing. "No! I can't listen to this! I can't!" I didn't even try to explain my outburst. I didn't know if they knew what I had been through, and I didn't care. I just needed to get out of there, so I took off. Someone will just have to explain it to them, I thought.
As I was remembering it all Paul was singing "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da."
Yeah Paul, it does go on. And Jeremy and Abby jones . . .
They sat at a school-cafeteria table, the two of them, faces from my past. There were four huge pizzas in front of them; the stone-oven baked kind with air pockets bubbling up on the edges of the dusty crust, giant pieces of pepperoni on a couple of them. I sat down across the table from them. They looked at each other with mischievous, excited grins on their faces. "Should we tell her why I'm eating so much now?" the one asked the other. "I'm pregnant!" she said as she stood up and showed me how big she had gotten. I smiled.
"Oh I'm so happy for you. That is such exciting news." I was there with them both emotionally. I really was. I was happy with them, without faking it.
But then she started talking. She showed me the soft pink yarn that she was using to make tiny little baby booties for the little girl growing inside her. And I started sobbing. "No! I can't listen to this! I can't!" I didn't even try to explain my outburst. I didn't know if they knew what I had been through, and I didn't care. I just needed to get out of there, so I took off. Someone will just have to explain it to them, I thought.
As I was remembering it all Paul was singing "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da."
Yeah Paul, it does go on. And Jeremy and Abby jones . . .
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