Please Forgive

I’ve had a bit of a health set back. Not too big, but enough of one. It is taking me longer to recover from my normal rounds of treatment. Four or five days has stretched to six or seven days at a time when I am incapable of doing much at all. This past week I spent four days in bed because of my pain, and then I forced myself to be a little active and ended up back in bed again.

Having a chronic illness, complete with pain 24/7, is a full-time job. After I complete the must-do chores, such as tending to the bills and reordering our prescriptions, I plumb run out of steam.

So, please forgive the lapses in my writing. If my better days outnumbered the bad ones, I would be writing more often. You are all so wonderful for hanging in there with me. Thank you.

Love,

Jenni and Ken

You are Nuts

Before we left Snowflower, I forgot to share a most humorous story.

Our family from Sacramento visited us the weekend we stayed in that gloriously beautiful forested preserve. Being in a forested area, it was rather natural that the wildlife was quite abundant.

We saw animal tracks and scat everywhere (not literally, yuck), including raccoon, deer, coyote, and maybe even bear. Ooooh, scary. They are known to be in the area, you know. Don’t leave your ice chest unattended overnight or you may find your hotdogs and Hersey’s bars munched and your root beer guzzled. They like root beer. Just ask the A&W bear.

As we relaxed, only 20 yards from the lake, all of a sudden we heard a loud bang. It sounded like some prankster had thrown a rock at our roof. Then a few minutes later, boom! again. And again and again and again every few minutes. There really wasn’t much we could do, once we spotted the culprit.

It was a squirrel, and the “rocks” were pinecones. He was busily chewing at the base of each pinecone, releasing it from the tree and dropping it, quite literally in one case, on our heads.

He was relentless in his pursuit to destroy our vehicle rooftops. And his shenanigans cut our evening short, after one of his missiles landed directly on our son-in-law’s new car.

Oh my, if Dale and Ken could have gotten ahold of that squirrel, Tinker might have gotten a real squirrel to add to her squirrel obsession, er, collection of toys, I mean.

Not to be beat by a mere rodent, as the pinecones hit the ground, Ken scurried to collect each one he saw drop—six in all. Needless to say, the squirrel saw his hard work being stolen, and he gave Ken the worst scolding I have ever heard from such a little creature.

Over the past few weeks, those heavy, metal denting, sap-laden pinecones have been drying out, under Ken’s careful watch. They are now giving up their prize—gloriously tasty pine nuts.

Oh, the pesto we can make. Dale, I’ll have to save you some, for the trouble you have endured because of one pesky little squirrel and trying to get that dent fully out of your roof. We love you, and honest, we aren’t laughing at you. We are laughing with you. If it helps, you can show these pictures to the insurance company!

Love and hugs,

Jenni

Beautiful People

Morning finally came after a fitful night of sleep, dry camping at the rest stop where the Raven had broken down. My nights are especially fitful when we dry camp because, without power, I am without my CPAP. I have a very bad case of sleep apnea, which includes episodes when my brain forgets to tell my body to breathe.

The AAA tow truck towed us ten miles into Yreka to a garage called A1 Auto. Their first assessment of the situation was as we had feared—the starter and solenoid needed to be replaced. Didn’t we just have our regular garage overhaul the starting and charging systems? Yes. Yes, we did.

We signed off on their estimate, but after they began the work, they found the real problem. Now, I’m not a mechanic, so I don’t know the proper terminology. Just bear with me. The last person who replaced the ignition module thingy did not do the most crucial step of smearing grease or goo or insulation gel under it. Without the goo, it shorted out the whole system. We were not happy, and needless to say, we have to go back on the first guys for financial resolve on a few matters.

My stress level and lack of quality sleep were eating away at the last little bit of fortitude I had remaining. When they said our rig would not be completed that night, well I was very near tears.

We (including Tinker Belle) parked ourselves in the coolness of their waiting area for the duration of their open hours. I found a bible amongst their reading material and read a bit. People came and went. A nice Hispanic family joined us for a short while. They had picked up a few peaches at a stand down the street, and she gave me one. It was a sweet blessing.

All the people we had dealt with up to this point in Yreka have all been beautiful people. When I say beautiful, I am not talking about outward appearances. I mean the beauty from within, the beauty God sees. The glow of a kind and generous soul. The bubbliness of a joyous spirit.

Then a very beautiful woman and her son came into our little sanctuary from the outside world. We had such wonderful, beautiful conversations, and if we had not been traveling in different directions, I venture that we could easily have become fast friends. Her name is Willow, and I believe her mother named her correctly, as I can see the grace and beauty of a magnificent willow tree in her actions and words, the way she so openly cares and gives of herself, joyously.

Willow told us a bit of wisdom from her grandmother, which is that “Breakdowns lead to breakthroughs.” We’ve yet to encounter that breakthrough, though.

The guys at A1, by all rights, could have told us to go find a motel for the night, but they allowed us to sleep in our rig, inside their locked fence. (Yes, we had the  lock combination in case of emergency.)

All of the staff there was so wonderful to us that Ken had to bring them a box of donuts from Raley’s to say thank you.

By noon the next day, we were all fixed and settled up with them, and ready to hit the road again, but we no longer had a destination.

You will have to tune in tomorrow to see what happened next!

Love and blessings,

Jenni

This Is The Day

“This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Psalm 118:24

The above psalm is one of my favorites. In fact, it is one of my life verses, those few verses that really resonate in my soul and that I strive the most to live by.

July 27th was the day we chose to set out again, after spending a week at home with the boys. After a long, grueling week, finishing all the things we had left undone a month ago, we set out. Since our reservations were for Bushytail Campground in the Shasta-Trinity National Forest (and that’s such a long way from Portland), we decided to spend one night dry camping at a random rest stop along the way.

We tried to sleep, but sleep would not come easily, and we ended up leaving the rest stop early the next morning. We were both so full of excitement about our upcoming adventures. Crossing the Oregon/California border, in my mind, was the point where there was no turning back. We were actually on our journey.

Portland is no longer our home. It is where we hail from.

This realization came with many more realizations and with many tears last week as I said goodbye to Portland and all I love who live there.

When we finally crossed the California border, we sailed right through. The mountainous highway was heating up the Raven, but she was hanging in there. We stopped at the rest stop just inside California, to let her cool and also so that we could take a break and regroup. We still had too many miles left to go without a decent rest first.

Up to this point, I had been having much trepidation about the long drive to Bushytail, but I could not put my finger on any specific reason. I chalked it up to general anxiety about having to drive the truck by myself, following Ken in the Raven, the whole way. I do have the pleasure of Tinker Belle’s Company in the truck with me, and she is a great comfort, but she’s not a relief driver.

Concerning me driving: I am a perfectly capable driver, but I have these pain issues. Ken and I had many long talks about the need for me to drive. We also agreed that how far, or even whether, we drive would be dependent on me and how I felt that day. If I need to stop, we stop. No questions, arguments, or cajoling. We simply stop when I say stop. We carry walkie talkies to communicate as we drive. This is much better than trying to call him on the cell phone, which is illegal, as we all know. A walkie talkie is so much easier to use, anyway. When I need to say something, all I have to do is push a button and talk. If that fails, I flash my high beams.

After two hours of rest, we got back into our rigs and prepared to hit the road again. Click click. Click click. The Raven would not start.

My anxieties grew. Had we made the right decision? Five surgeries (Ken three, Trevor two) and a stint in the ICU (Ken) had kept us tied to Portland for the past three years. Was God telling us, again, that this wasn’t the time? Lord, please tell me what to do next.

We decided to let the Raven  have a few more hours to cool off, thinking that was the problem, and I resolved to live the psalm I quoted earlier. No matter what, I had to find the joy in even this situation, because whether I became angry or happy, it was all a choice within my power. We took the camp chairs, a blanket, some food and drinks, and a toy for Tink, and we settled ourselves beneath a large maple. And we laughed. We people watched. We saw deer as they came down out of the hills for water, as evening approached. We took a nice walk along the river. We played fetch with Tink. We had a wonderful evening.

All this joyousness despite the situation, yet I still had this underlying anxiety about Bushytail I could not shake.

We tried to start the Raven again. Nothing. We tried cross jumping from the house batteries. Nothing. We tried jumping from the truck. Still nothing. So we gave up, resolved to call AAA in the morning, preferring not to spoil any more of the Lord’s day (as it happened to be a Sunday) with any more of this trouble. Out of necessity, there would be a second night of dry camping.

But there was still our reservations to deal with. If we didn’t make it to Bushytail by evening, we would lose our space and the money we already shelled out for it. The decision was made to try to cancel. I called, and luckily, we were able to get most of our money back. They kept the first night’s charge, plus a cancelation fee.

I cannot explain it, but my anxiety evaporated after canceling our plans. Was this God’s way of saying He didn’t want us to go to Bushytail? I may never know. What I do know is that after the Raven was fixed, we had an equally long drive ahead of us, and I hadn’t an ounce of anxiety in my whole body.

Love and blessings,

Jenni

PRIORITIZE

If you only had twenty eight days until "hit-the-road" day, and you knew that at least half those days would be stolen by pain, how would you prioritize your time?

I have a house to go through, making decisions on what to keep, take, store, sell, or donate. Ah, but the good thing is, if we leave stuff behind, the boys (son Trevor and his best bud William) will say, “Score!” They will be taking over the lease on the duplex.

I have friends to say goodbye to, at least for a year, though we will still have email (though sporadic at times) and the good ole tellie.

I have financial and medical/medication issues to magically make "transportable."

I have a neighbor who wants me to finish up our cooking lessons before I jet out of here. She still needs my secrets on lemon meringue pie, yeast dough, and pad Thai.

I have two boys I worry about. I pray we have raised them well enough, Ken and I with Trevor, and William’s parents, that is. I know they are both 21 and I had a kid on the hip by that age, but they are boys and I worry. I pray I’ve imparted enough of my hard knocks wisdom (ha ha) to them to keep them out of trouble, to keep them in their jobs and in this duplex. They do listen. I will give them that. I will miss them dearly when we go. I cannot seem to convince them to move south with us. But I think mama is having trouble cutting the apron strings.

I have my doctor, finally, wanting to send me to a pain specialist, finally. Did I say finally? Only in order to see a pain specialist, I have to be physically available in one area for months, until we find resolve. Finally, he makes this decision, but I only have 28 days left in Portland, and we won’t make it to New Mexico until October.

Winter was not kind to me. Winters never are. I joked often that the week wasn’t complete until I had fallen. Then it was fallen twice in a week. Then it was daily falls. It isn’t funny any longer. I now walk fulltime with a cane.

I’ve added another diagnosis to my list, and we are contemplating yet another, if we can figure it out. Yipee. But if we do figure it out, maybe we could finally get a handle on why my pain has gotten so out of control this past year. It has been far worse than in a long time.

My father passed away on the first of Spring. With the passing of my father, it has been like a major chapter in my life closing. Emotionally painful, yes, and yet there is a release. Maybe this is why God kept us here in Portland for so very long. That and all the surgeries my guys went through. Ken three and Trevor two in the span of two years. It has been a very tough three years we’ve spent in a duplex only slated for one year.

When God closes a door, He opens a window. For a breath of fresh air? A change of scenery? Or to at least have an opportunity to empty the chamber pot. Excuse the humor being a bit crass. It has been a very tough few years, frankly. And a very tough day, to boot.

We will be leaving Portland, Oregon, on June 30, 2013, whether we are ready or not.

Ken has been feverishly remodeling the Raven to accommodate my needs and so that we have the most economical use of space possible. After travelling some over the past few summers, we really found out what would work best for us.

I am sorry I have not been around lately. As I mentioned, winter was very hard on me. The pain and the migraines were too much. I’m trying to find the quality in a life so full of pain, but it is difficult. Life goes on, even with the pain, and so we must get on the road. We must get on the road, especially if we plan on wintering down south this year.

It may be a month before I write again, but I will be back. Thank you for hanging in there. Thank you for all your prayers. I know there must be many souls out there praying for me, because I experience God’s miracles every day. Even in this life so full of pain. I am so grateful for all of you.

Our first destination is actually only about 50 miles away from home, but what a sendoff—spending the Fourth of July at the rodeo in St. Paul! Next will be Neskowin, to say goodbye to some friends. And then we travel in a generally southerly direction until we reach Mexico (at which time we will bounce off the border and stay put in New Mexico or Arizona for the winter).

The St. Paul Rodeo in St. Paul, Oregon, July 2-6, 2013.

See you then!

But I Digress

There have been two times in my life that a form of entertainment had moved me to yearn for it not to end.

One of Ken’s favorite movies is Fiddler On The Roof. Early in our marriage, he suggested we watch it. I was resistant at first. It is such a long movie. And it is a musical. I just wasn’t in the mood for all that singing.

But Ken persisted and finally won.

Once the movie began, I became glued to the screen.

And when it ended, I cried. “That can’t be all there is.”

The second time this phenomenon happened, I was the one who had to be persistent. I had long dreamed of seeing The Nutcracker Ballet live.

Ken was less than enthusiastic, but for me, he caved, and in December 2007, the 21st to be exact, we saw The Nutcracker Ballet from the best seats. We were in the second row, directly behind the orchestra box. We could see clearly that the conductor was balding, but I digress.

We could also see every muscle ripple as true artists floated across the stage.

Then it ended. I was perched on the edge of my seat, clinging to the backrest of the one in front of me. Tears streamed from my eyes. It could not be over. They surely had to come back and do an encore number.

Alas, it was over. I dried my tears and walked away.

And here we have an excellent example of why I have not been writing lately. I am clueless as to where I was headed. Yes, things end, but what specifically now?

I’ve had a bit of a relapse because of all the stress in my life. My pain is greater. My dyslexia worse. And my memory is once again Swiss cheese. I can remember things past as clear as day, as above, but I cannot remember spit about what Ken asked me two minutes ago. I have the feeling it was important, too.

Some time has passed, and I still cannot remember where this post was originally headed. If I ever do remember, I’ll get back to you.

Dammit Anyway!

I picked up this cute Dammit Doll last weekend from a church rummage sale just down the street from our home. In fact I found a lot of cool stuff and books, but I won’t bore you with what I am reading these days (Hunger Games trilogy) (True Faced) (The Bible).

Maybe I could do a few book  and web reviews in another post, but not today.

The note around her neck reads,

When you want to climb the walls

or stand right up and shout

Here’s a little dammit doll

you cannot do without.

Just grab it firmly by the legs

and find a place to slam it

And as you whack the stuffing out,

yell DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT!

It would come in really handy right about now, if only I had the strength to wield such a tool today.

This past week held several doctor’s appointments, and more than several medication changes. And if you know me personally or know Lyme disease in general, then you realize that medication changes bring a worsening of symptoms before things start to improve. Dammit, anyway. For the Lymie, the saying, “It is darkest before the dawn,” is lived out every time we make strives toward a healthier life. Even increasing activity/exercise in the Lymie’s life can cause an undue amount of pain and fatigue, until the Lymie’s body adjusts to the new level of activity, or totally craps out. It is no fun having your legs give out beneath you and being unable to get back up, until strength and control returns to you. Very frightening, indeed.

It becomes more and more difficult to push through these dark, painful times, even though I know the improvement will come. No matter how slowly the improvement seems to come, and it does seem to be at a snail’s pace, I can see the improvement, over the larger picture.

And now I find myself getting deeper and more philosophical than I had wanted to be this morning. (I need to save that for this afternoon, when I finish my study of Micah.) So, in getting back to a lighthearted mood, here’s my dammit list, plain and simple:

• Dammit. The basement flooded again. That’s what we get for living in a really old house with really old plumbing.
• Dammit. We cannot winter in Arizona with the other snowbirds. I believe the change of climate would do my SAD (seasonal affective disorder) great wonders, maybe even eradicate it.
• Dammit. I have so much to do, but I must take care of myself during this time, first and foremost, and either place all else on hold or delegate.
• Dammit. I didn’t lose more than four pounds over the last several months. Only four. I guess that little bit of walking I was doing every day did make a difference.
• Dammit. Finances.
• Dammit space issues/cramped quarters.
• Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
• Dammit anyway.

So, since I cannot swing the Dammit Doll without hurting myself worse, I shall have to let it all go. Let God take it and let God love me through this.

Lord, I release all my troubles to Your capable hands. Thank You for loving me even when I least deserve it, even when I say dammit. Thank You, Lord, for being my Savior. Amen.

P.S. To our beloveds in California: We may just have to fly down this year, maybe even for the holidays. How does that sound?

These Hands

A few days ago, these hands fed me Chinese food, with only the use of chopsticks.

Since my early years, these hands have been able to draw and paint and create. Their abilities have always amazed me.

Through these fingers, my words flow into the computer.

These hands have held and caressed and cherished and loved many babies and wonderful people throughout my lifetime.

Yet today, these hands struggle with holding a spoon.

These hands cannot grasp a pencil, let alone a paint brush.

And every reach for a letter on this keyboard sends shooting pain through my hands and wrists.

The above words bring tears to my eyes and frustration to my heart, when I think about all I could do, if God would just release me from this pain.

Yet if I think about it, again referencing the above list, maybe my pain serves the purpose of allowing me more time to carry out the most important thing on the list, for these hands can still hold and love others, even in their current state of pain.

Thank you, Lord, for enlightening me. For, I sat down here at this computer keyboard to whine and moan about my troubles, and You showed me Your goodness and guided my hands to type what I really needed to hear this morning. I love You and how You weave Your amazing truths into my small life. Amen.

Before a Blank Canvas

I find myself standing before the blank canvas of my future once again. Our plans have been erased, and the starkness, the emptiness stares back at me, mocking me. Bright and fresh, yet painful to look at, for how easily my colorful strokes were washed from its surface.

God must find our plans rather humorous, especially since He keeps allowing obstacles to get in our way.

We have set departure date after departure date, and things keep going awry. It has been an awful health year, with both my guys having surgeries in the past several months. Plus Ken’s diabetic crisis last winter. And then there’s the effect all this stress has had on my own health. It has definitely not been a good year for us in the health department.

And all the other stressors: Too many to number.

In the financial department, it’s pretty dismal as well. Cost of living goes up. Rent goes up. Live-in son loses job because of needing time off for surgery. And yet, being retired means Ken cannot just go work a few extra hours a week to help make ends meet. Fixed income really means fixed, unless we scramble in other ways. More to come on that subject in a later post.

Things are bound to improve. I must hope. I must remain in faith that God will bring about only good for us, even from the bad.

Being visual, I made up a calendar showing that there’s only about seven weeks until our most recent deadline would come to pass. And there is way more work to do than that short seven weeks will hold. Sure, two or three able-bodied adults could handle it all in short order, but we are a chronic chick and two dudes recovering from shoulder surgeries.

So, here is the new “plan” and please don’t let that be laughter I hear off in the distance.

We will be stuck here in damp, dismal Portland for yet another winter. Fun stuff. Not! Tentatively speaking, we will make a go of it again next spring. It cannot be helped, unless we suddenly win the lottery, but then again, we would actually have to play the lottery in  order to win it, wouldn’t we? There are no rich old spinster aunts hiding in our closets just waiting to leave us a bundle, either.

My son asked me a question this morning, “What is it you don’t like about winter here?”

It is not that I don’t “like” winter here in the Northwest, but winter does not “like” me. My  arthritis flares up something fierce. And my depression also worsens, with the lessening of the sunshine. Heck, we barely have enough sunshine in the summer to keep me afloat and depression-free, in this Great Northwest. But I am now taking mega-doses of vitamin D weekly and taking measures to ensure an easier, if not less painful winter, joint-wise.

There’s not much else I can do at this point.

Except keep asking God why He has us tied here, for so long. There must be something He wants us to accomplish before we hit the road. I just need to figure out what that is.

Lord, with my faith, I place our future plans in Your hands. I wait upon You, with patience, yet an eagerness to carry out Your works. Lord, please instill in me what it is You want me to do.

Amen.

I Haven’t Got Time For The Pain

All those crazy nights when I cried myself to sleep
Now melodrama never makes me weep anymore
'Cause I haven't got time for the pain
I haven't got room for the pain
I haven't the need for the pain
Not since I've known you
You showed me how, how to leave myself behind
How to turn down the noise in my mind
Now I haven't got time for the pain
I haven't got room for the pain
I haven't the need for the pain
Not since I've known you
Suffering was the only thing that made me feel I was alive
Thought that's just how much it cost to survive in this world
'Til you showed me how, how to fill my heart with love
How to open up and drink in all that white love
Pouring down from the heaven
I haven't got time for the pain
I haven't got room for the pain
I haven't the need for the pain
Not since I've known you

Carly Simon

 

I really haven’t got time for all this pain. It needs to go away so I can get on with my life. It is exhausting, simply wears me out, body and soul.

Who needs it? Pain which warns of injury is one thing, but years and years of endless physical pain? I question why must I go through it? And the overwhelming mental anguish that the very real physical pain causes? There’s just not enough meditation in the world to deal with it. I can only say “ohm” so many times. And so far the medications I have tried don’t work, short of becoming hooked on narcotics and stoned the rest of my life.

There must be an answer out there somewhere. I just haven’t found it yet. Any suggestions?

Wha?! Why?

So, for the past four nights, I have had very disturbing dreams. They are full of anger and full of people disappointing me. Three of them seemed to be continuations of the night before, as they all involved this basement we were moving into and how there was no food and no money for food, yet there was this amazing gourmet kitchen and plenty of fruit punch and ice (maybe I was thirsty?). And all these people from my past kept coming out of the woodwork and just moving in with us. By the end of the third night, there were at least twenty people in all living in this little basement, and I could not get rid of them. Nor could I get them off their butts to go get jobs or help buy food.

It is very disconcerting (and so not like me) to wake up wanting to beat the living tar out of somebody. With my habit of sleep walking, I told Ken he had better sleep with one eye open.

My dreams are usually very telling of some problem I am having in my awake world, but all this anger? I just don’t know where it is coming from. I used to have anger issues, but I worked through all that a while back. Yes, I do get angry, as anyone does, but the major issues are gone.

So, what to do with this dream-state anger? Its not like I’m angry while awake, though being angry in my sleep does affect the quality of my sleep.

Maybe its just that our plans have changed, and yes, I am upset about that a bit. But in a way it is a good thing because it gives us more time to get everything done here.

Maybe it is just my frustration rearing it’s ugly head about all that needs to be done and all that I cannot do myself because of this stupid illness. Who knows?

Maybe I should just do what I told my hubby I was going to do after watching Ingrid Bergman in “Goodbye, Again.”

Ingrid Bergman’s character was being used by her philandering lover and she just kept taking it and taking it. Then I thought she had wised up because she left him, but he came crawling back, saying that he could not live without her. They married and she thought with those vows would come his fidelity. But he immediately started his old tricks again, and she looked so dejected in the end as she applied face cream. I just wanted to scream at her. But then I told Ken that I was going to go take a shower and have a good cry, because the movie had really gotten to me.

So maybe I should just go have a good cry about our changed plans and quit being so stubborn and stoic about it all.

What’s That Sound?

If you have ever wondered what that far off, distant rumble is, when there’s no foul weather system in sight, well, that sound is God laughing. I heard that all too familiar sound today. You see, I told God what plans I had for our future. Then He, in his omnipotent way, compared my plans to his scrolls, and immediately began laughing.

If you will notice to the right, the Wagon’s Ho counter is missing. I could not continue counting down when our departure date is once again up in the air.

Ken needs surgery on his right shoulder, to take place in about three weeks. After that, he will be in a sling for six weeks, and then physical therapy for several months.

It seems I just had the “what if” conversation yesterday with a friend, and I came to the conclusion (well, it is the only conclusion where God doesn’t laugh at me) that it all must be turned over to God: the surgery, the completion of our downsizing and elimination, and our departure date.

I did tell Ken that we could take mini trips instead of leaving on our extended journey. One caveat, there will be a crazy mamma driver behind the wheel. Look out world, here I come!

Two Words . . .

 

 

 

 

 

There were two words that, growing up, I learned never to let roll off my tongue, no matter how true I thought they might be.

I’m bored.

But there they are. And, yes, darn it, I am bored. I have just spent the last two weeks nursing a whopper of a migraine, plus achy joints and back, and now I am itching to do something more than bury my head under the covers. Two weeks lost. It is frustrating, this whole chronic illness gig I got going on here.

But I am bored. Silly. Bored silly. I just want to escape.

As I intimated earlier, those be deadly words. If Mom heard us say the “B” word, she would sentence us to chores, chores, and even more chores. Most of the time Mom left us alone, and we had our ways of getting away with things, like pretending we had worked all day long in the garden while she was at work. Obviously she should have been able to tell how much work we did by the amount of dirt we rubbed into our jeans, and not by the number of weeds yet to be pulled. Silly us for trying to get away with laziness on top of admitted boredom.

So, I guess my only recourse is to give myself a to-do list. After all there is plenty to do around here, and there are only 67 days left until May first, according to the counter.

Let’s see, there’s finishing the Roman shades, reorganizing the cabinets in the Raven, going through my wardrobe again, getting things ready for another yard sale and deciding on a date for it, and, and, and.

But for now, maybe something simple, then a shower, and then take Ken to his orthopedic appointment for his shoulder. I pray it is an easy fix, but I fear he will need major surgery for his torn tendon and arthritis. Pray for Ken today, please.

Oh, and since I am bored, I thought I would finally get around to the Multnomah Falls pics from last month. Enjoy! (Besides, these little day trips are what I really like to do when I am bored.)

Life’s Little Obstacles

“Whether we’re prepared or not, life has a habit of thrusting situations upon us.”

Lucille Ball

 

So, it is probably no big news that someone who suffers from depression, anxiety, and a major illness (not that depression and anxiety aren’t major illnesses) would seek out counseling services. I am not ashamed to say that I need help from time to time. We should never be ashamed to ask for help when we need it.

We should also never be ashamed to take time for ourselves, to carve out of our day whatever it is we need to not only survive, but thrive.

Each one of us is valuable and deserving of our own compassion, our own goodness. I am worth the effort it will take to get my own “stuff” taken care of. And part of that “stuff” is getting my book finished.

My main excuses have been that I don’t have space. I don’t have the freedom, with Ken home all the time now, wanting my attention. I don’t have the time, with all the other things that need to be done so that we can get on the road. I don’t feel good. I am tired. Blah, blah, blah.

Yesterday, I confessed to my counselor my real reason for not finishing my book, which is so close to being finished. I fear it will fail. I fear no one will read it. I fear my message will not be heard, despite all my efforts.

My wise counselor asked one simple question, which put everything in perspective. (He has that habit.) If you could help just one person with your story, would it be worth it?

Yes, of course. If I could save one person from suffering the torture and abuse I have been through. If I could help one woman to find the courage to love herself enough to walk away. If I could help one person, of course it would be worth all my effort and all my tears bringing this book to fruition.

Yes, I need to finish my book. Now. Not someday.

So, I need to tackle some of those obstacles that are currently standing in my way.

Today, I took step one to create my own workspace in this small home of ours. The living room is not a viable work area for me because of the television. There isn’t an adequate space available in the tiny bedroom to set up a desk and chair, and I cannot comfortably work on the bed.

And of course, the Raven isn’t back yet. So I cannot work in it. I did talk to Trent today, though. It is going to cost more than I had hoped, but less than I had feared. So, I guess we will be okay, so long as there are no more surprises, like the catalytic converter I found out about today.

I have chosen the utility room in the basement. It may seem like an odd choice, being in the “dungeon” without windows, but it will give me a quiet space of my own. Since Trevor works during the afternoon, it is perfect because he won’t be making noise down there either. His bedroom is right next to the utility, after all. If I really want daylight, I can just open his door, and peek through to his window. There is a way to get around everything, if you try hard enough, even sharing space with the food larder and the washer and dryer.

My furry family album had to be put on hold for a while, too, because of my lack of space. I realized after starting that line of posts that the majority of pictures taken during Suzie’s younger years are not digitized yet. For some reason, when the stores started offering CDs when you got your pictures developed, I forgot to check that box at least half the time.

But never fear, I bought myself a Christmas gift to take care of such a problem: A negative scanner.

And as soon as Trevor gets the power cord for me and takes the scanner and a few boxes of photos downstairs, we will be back in business!

And look here, he did it already! What a sweetheart.

Patience . . .

 

So, patience seems to be a virtue needed in every walk (or roll) of life, and my patience is wearing thin. When Ken took the Raven to be repaired, I was feeling too ill to go with him. Big mistake number one. I also assumed it would not take seemingly forever to fix her. That was big mistake number two.

Normally, I can be a rather patient person.

I prefer my meals home cooked instead of micro-zapped.

I actually like the chilliness on winter mornings, when the furnace is turned way down and a fire has yet to be built. Then, I like to slowly thaw out in front of a blazing fire and later feel that robust warmth as it penetrates the entire house. (Unfortunately, we don’t have a woodstove any longer.)

I like the scratchy feel of graphite on paper. It is a tactile thing, an almost earthy sensation and an ever so slow process that typing at break-neck speeds cannot give the writer. It allows me to think about each word choice as I form my thoughts.

But then, I also like drawing with graphite. All that smudging and the emotional nuances one can add with deliberate fingers that she cannot get with keystrokes and CGI.

I prefer making things myself, rather than buying mass-produced junk. But if I do need to purchase something, I can be patient enough to wait for just the right one.

Surprises make me anxious, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t fun. I prefer to give rather than receive, but if I do receive, I like it to be on Christmas Morning, not on the Eve. And I enjoy watching others open their gifts before I even touch mine. That is where the joy is, in seeing the excitement of others.

Even though I can be patient in many aspects of my life, not having the Raven home is driving me crazy. I feel naked, or rather, the driveway looks naked without her. But the worst part is big mistake number three. I forgot to get some very important things out of the Raven before she left to be repaired. It seems every day I am saying, “oops, it’s in the RV,” about one thing or another.

My good fabric scissors are in the RV so I cannot finish the Roman shades. Besides, I forgot one vital measurement, so I cannot get any farther anyway.

A few weeks ago, I had a cup of hot tea explode on my belly. Unfortunately both the aloe gel and the big first aid kit were in the RV. Luckily the neighbor was there to help out.

On Thanksgiving, we were short a few of our usual serving bowls because I had needed them on our last trip and they never came back inside.

The list goes on and on.

And so does this waiting game.

Patience, darling, is all Ken can say for now. The Raven will be home soon.

Such Is Life

 

My back has been up in a tizzy this week. I haven’t a clue what I did to deserve this, other than, maybe just maybe, I was starting to feel better, putting my episode of depression behind me, and so my body decided that I just could not have a moment of peace. Either that or it was our two-day shopping spree to find our Roman shade supplies. Of course it was that and not my body conspiring against me. That would just be silly. But when you wake up in severe pain, you have to ask, “what did I do to deserve this?” In Lyme, most of the time the answer is, “not a damn thing.” It just happens. I try to look at these times as God telling me to slow down and be patient and appreciate what I can do even when in pain, like breathe.

I really wanted to get my bedroom furniture to it’s new owner. I hated selling my armoire. I dreamt about having a cherry-stained armoire for years before Ken bought it for me. I struggled with whether to sell my set or store it. In the end, I decided that I could always buy another one. And so now, my friend has finished paying for it, and I have yet to get it to her. I feel guilty, but she understands. My desire had been to gut our bedroom, and being me, it would have been with or without help. So, maybe this back pain is God’s way of also telling me that I need others. I am not meant to be a one-woman show, no matter what I have had to do in the past, or what I was able to do in the past. We all need people, good people in our lives. And life is a give and take. So many times I gave until it hurt in the past. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed giving all that help and love. I still do enjoy giving more than receiving, but as life would have it, I now have to receive more often than give these days.

Such is life.

So, as the pain killers began to kick in today, I decided the best use of my time would be recovering the now naked box valances. The leather had already been measured and cut. The large table was already crowding the living room (an obvious deterrent to moving the bedroom furniture, anyway). So why not just jump in? Simple answer: No staples.

I grabbed the glue instead and set to recovering the fabric buttons, those silly little things that will cover the screws, which hold the door casing in place. You wouldn’t think that nine little buttons would take so long, but they did.

In the meantime, Ken stopped by the store to pick up some staples and arrived home to me getting frustrated with my sticky fingers. He doesn’t like me being cranky very much. I really don’t blame him, but I detest sticky fingers. Don’t you? Here, I think he is pondering whether to leave again or whether to help me.

I switched tasks and tried stapling, but the staple gun takes more hand strength than I currently possess. I think I managed two staples before giving up. Luckily my hero forgave me and took over the box valance job, and he did a beautiful job at that. Thanks again, honey. I don’t know what I would do without you.

My girl Suzie. Tink was suppose to be beside her in this picture, but she was too excited by all the camera flashes and would not hold still. Oh well. Its not like we don’t have plenty of pictures of Tink on this blog already . . .

Winter Blues Come Early

 

Ken and I returned home a few days ago. We will be home for the entire winter, my worst season. We talked briefly about getting the Raven winterized, and my depression escalated even more than in the few days before we came home, as I dreaded returning home.

One of the fulltimers we met in Neskowin asked when we would be back. I wanted to say, “real soon,” but I know differently. She said that they were staying the winter in Neskowin, and I so longed to just hunker down, even though it was bracingly chilly, and the only thing I fear worse than drowning is the wind—and being so close to the ocean that you can hear the waves means you will get quite a bit of wind. I did not want to go home. I do not want to be home.

There is too much to do here. Too much stuff left undone, stuff left un-gone-through. There are too many bad memories here. Too much pain, emotional pain, family pain. It is too cold here. Too dark. This is not my home.

This is no longer my home, though my stuff is here. The Raven is my home. I know that now. I feel safe there. I feel welcome there. I feel happy there.

I entered in the front door of our duplex, and my only source of solace, other than my bed, is the light coming in the front door’s etched window. It beckons me to leave again, but I cannot.

I must deal with all that is left to do before Spring arrives.

But I must first deal with this nagging depression. I must find a way to make it through the winter with my sanity intact. I must find a way to continue to be me even though I cannot be free.

Comfort Foods

 

The other day, I talked to my Dad again. We’ve been talking often lately, which is a good thing. Only this time he had bad news. It did not catch me completely off guard, however, because when he was in the hospital a few weeks ago, I half expected a diagnosis of lung cancer to be the end result. What took me by surprise is that the doctor believes that it has already metastasized. This I was not ready for. It complicates matters more than he needs them to be.

When I am upset, I can tend to be destructive. I used to throw things, scream, and pitch fits like any overgrown two-year-old. In my maturity, I have learned to channel my frustration, my bitterness and tears, into cooking or cleaning or something along those lines. Loud music when I know I can get away with it. Crying in the shower when I cannot.

For dinner that evening, I took my aggression out on the poor chicken breasts which I had thawed earlier. And I made a huge mess of potatoes to go with. Starches, no matter their origin, seem to be universal in their comforting ability. Potatoes. Rice. Pasta. Bread. Pastries. My all-time favorite comfort food is mashed potatoes with white sauce. If I happen to have some frozen peas that I can throw in the sauce as I am making it, all the better. That night, however, I did not make mashed potatoes, though I could have easily taken more of my frustration out on mashing them to bits, that is, if I had a masher in the rig.

RECIPE: Pounded Chicken Breasts

This is the simplest way I know to make chicken breasts. And the best part is that they come out moist and tender, instead of dry as chicken breasts have a tendency to be.

Hold the chicken breast so that you can easily cut it in half, making two thin filets from each breast. Next, lay a piece of plastic wrap on your cutting board. Place one filet on top and fold the plastic over it. Take your handy dandy meat tenderizer (something no kitchen should be without) and whack the heck out of the filet until it is thinner. Turn it over and do it again. Pound each breast filet in the same manner, and feel your pent up anxieties as they leave your body.

Heat up a skillet, and add a few tablespoons of oil to the hot pan. Dredge the pounded breast filets in flour (I used rice flour to make then gluten free) and place them in the pan. It only takes about two minutes or so on each side for the filets to cook. Salt and pepper to taste.

Fixing them this way makes them about as low in fat as you can get, and still be flavorful. It is quick and simple, and there isn’t a lot of extra calories from sauces or dips to moisten the chicken after it is cooked (unless, of course, you want to add a sauce).

I served them with red potatoes prepared with bell peppers, mushrooms, and onions. Wild rice is also a good choice. We also had a green salad on the side, with home-grown tomatoes. (What would life be without home-grown tomatoes?)

Once I was finished cooking and eating, I wasn’t as upset about my father’s health situation.

A warning, be careful not to turn your back when you make such wonderful smelling food, or you may return to find your plate has been sampled already.