How to Become a Rockstar

I have a pile of partially written posts that never made it to the main page. This is one from before Covid. Maybe someone out there needs it now more than before. 

*****
I replaced a GFI outlet the other day.  I know that's not a big deal for most.  It wouldn't really be for me either (except for a slight fear of death by electrocution), but I have had to really lower my expectations lately, and I'm (trying to be) okay with that.  

Not long ago, I responded to a woman's post on the Hashimoto's Facebook page.  She was so sad, was just barely diagnosed, and feeling guilty about not being enough for her children, not being well enough to take her daughter to the doctor when she got sick, etc.  After I read my response back to myself, I decided I should keep my own copy to read on some future day when I need to hear the same words.  Here they are...

“Sweet, sweet, darling mama. You’re going to be OK. This is hard, no doubt about it. But you can do it.  Don’t  feel guilty for putting yourself first, and taking care of yourself. Try not to use the words like “failure”, or “terrible mom” when describing yourself, because your heart is listening. 

If your sweetest, dearest friend was going through this right now, how would you talk to her? What words would you use? Would you give her permission to be sad? Would you tell her she just got this diagnosis, and it will take time to adjust? Would you tell her that she has to give the medicine time to work, the information time to sink in?  Would you tell her that she is strong, and good, and capable, and that she will get through this?

I promise you will have better days. You will have bad ones too, but not all of them will be bad. One of the things that Hashimoto’s has given me that is really a gift, is to tell me to slow down, bring my babies up onto my lap and snuggle with them.  On days when I feel bad, we read. If I don’t feel up to reading, we watch a nature show together and talk about it. We play little games, sometimes with me laying down and the game resting on my tummy. My daughter has officially labeled me, “the best pony mom in the world” because I play ponies with her. A world title... not so shabby for a sick lady.

Here are my new rules:

If I’m tired I sit down.

If I am sleepy, I cancel plans and take a nap.

I don’t schedule more than one "outside" activity a day if I can help it.

As far as housework goes, if I get ONE thing done a day, I am a rockstar! And if I don’t, I have grace for myself for taking the day to rest.

Three months ago, I spent every waking minute on the couch or in bed. Unless I was absolutely forced to go get groceries or to take a child somewhere, I was on the couch laying down.  I now take two naps a week, instead of two a day. I’m getting my house tidied up little by little. I’m doing more things with my kids outside of the house. I’m starting to work on projects again. I am more cheerful and my anxiety is decreasing. My Hashimoto’s symptoms are less intense, and I’m feeling more hopeful. 

You’re going to be okay.  It’s going to be hard, 

but you’re good at doing hard things!"

*****

I can't think of anyone to whom this simple note does not apply.  We all need to take better care of ourselves.  This world we live in, with it's schedules and expectations, is so hard on us.  We are all suffering from being overbooked, undernourished, sleep-deprived, toxicified and spiritually drained.  If we don't care for ourselves, who will?

So, I am proud of the day I put in the GFI.  It took a long time, in an awkward spot in the hot garage.  I have about twenty more outlets to change out, but hey, one down!

That makes me a Rockstar, baby.

July 2019

Tidbits

I miss writing.  I am not sure how on earth I can fit it in.  Days blur by.  We homeschool.  We cook and clean.  We tend Grandpa.  We deal with the forest and it's surprises.  I try "to Art" (as my secret brain calls it), but am usually too tired.  So, blog-schmog.

But there are a few things happening that should really be recorded.

Jonah has begun reading.  Really, really reading.  Last year at this time he was agonizing through, "Pat can tap the map.  Tap, Pat, tap!"  One year later, and he is reading a 5th grade chapter book called  Because of Winn-Dixie (which he prounounces WINN-dixie, like Windex).  It is still a struggle.  He still gets stuck on words with b's and d's (bdbdbdbdbdb...wouldn't you?), and we bumble along together slowly, but HE chose the book, and he chooses it again and again every day at reading time.  And he choses every day to try, very, very hard.  I am in awe of him.  And because he loves being read to, he pays me for “extra chapters” in the books I read aloud to him, by reading TO ME for five extra minutes per mom-read chapter.  Deliciously, the author we are currently reading is the master of chapter cliff hangers, always leaving him wanting.

Tessa has begun high school.  It has been a brutal transition.  Tessa was a "casual" student in middle school, not worried or terribly serious.  Very chill.  But she is our first child to hold any interest in College, with its high degree of scholarly expectation.  Her online high school is full of teachers to hold her accountable that don't share her DNA.  She is newly motivated to succeed, and has already been heard to say, "But I'm ALMOST down to a B!!!"  It's uncharted territory for me as a parent.

Ellie is transitioning.  Adulthood is around the very near corner, and she is making plans.  She talks about moving out, and job plans.  She got her covid-belated driver's license today. She suddenly cares about school.  I hear the rustling from within her cocoon.

Adam is thriving in Utah.  He is learning to balance life.  Adam never learned to "hang out with friends" until the last two months of his senior year.  While the sudden joy of that discovery was really a relief to me (isolated and introverted teenagers worry mamas), there was a learning curve that took it's toll on his savings.  He has struck a lovely balance now between work and play, and is expanding his social circle, which was tiny for too long.  He has found a real  love-of-learning about all things Viking, which has expanded to history, archeology, ancient languages and even his own genealogy.  It's a glorious thing to watch, and I have been learning along side him so that I can understand all that he is absorbing.  This week I found myself touring an online Norwegian Viking museum, and attempting tablet weaving.  I failed, but I will keep trying.  I have a goal to make Adam a gift for Christmas; a woven Viking belt, a replica of the one found on the Oseberg Burial Ship.  Yep, I'm geeking out.

Ethan's not very vocal about his world, but work seems good, and he is coping well with lame car disappointments.  Between work and his own personal study, he has piled more skills onto his already broad knowledge of all things mechanical and electrical.  I'm so proud of him.

The sea-sickness Guy was suffering from the wildly rolling waves of his new principal job seems to be subsiding.  He is learning which wheels are truly in need of aid, and which will continue to squeak unappreciative to any amount of oil given.  We are finding a rhythm, which includes some later nights, and my learning an all-new jargon.  There should be an "Orientation for Spouses of New Admins", including a dictionary, program flow charts, and a little training on grief counseling.  The first two months were very hard.  Hard, plus covid.  Everybody is mad at school administrators, as though they knew this was coming and hadn't bothered to plan for it.  "Fair" has lost all meaning in a world where there simply are not answers, where need and demand outnumber available manhours threefold, and where people are screaming to get their never-again "normal" back, and they are screaming it at YOU.  Try stepping into that chaos on your first day.  Hard.  Really hard.

One more thing... I found a new doctor.  It's just the very beginning of what will likely become a long and difficult process.  But I am hopeful that by this time next year, I will show as much improvement in my health as Jonah has in his reading. 

Oh!  And Natalie lost her first two teeth, and one more is starting the dangle-dance.  There is a comfortable, if not slightly sad, predictability in that little detail.  I don't know what the future holds, but I do know that tooth isn't going to be there come Thanksgiving.  

Another Day of Rest

Some days

are working days.

Some days are playing days.

And some days are resting days.

Today was a resting day.  Sometimes my body just... won't.  Last night, I woke a dozen times or so in pain.  Who knows why.  By morning, I knew I wouldn't be able to drive, so Guy shuttled Ellie to seminary and back, and took care of Grandpa before leaving for work.  Bless him.

Resting days are hard when you have things to do, and don't want to rest.  The mind gets busy running on hamster wheels; loops of thought with no resolution, that of course never get you anywhere.  To-Do lists nag.  Children seem lazier as you notice each time they stop their tasks (since you have none of your own).  Dust bunnies dance, dirty dishes taunt, and laundry lingers.

Tomorrow will not be a resting day...

7:30 am - Seminary pickup in Jackson
8:30 am - home to fix Grandpa's Breakfast, pack everyone's food for the day
11:00 am - shopping back in Jackson
12:00 pm - drop off handmade jewelry at gallery in Sutter Creek (yay!)
1:00 pm - meet with our homeschool charter supervisor in Plymouth
3:00 pm - back to Jackson for piano lessons
3:30 pm - head to Fiddletown (back out past Plymouth) for Jonah's reading lesson
5:30 pm - back to Jackson for a presidency meeting
7:00 pm - Young Women's activity
9:00 pm - clean the church

'Prob'ly a good thing today was a resting day.
Looks like Thursday may end up being one, too.



(The view from my favorite resting spot)

Finding Love

I don’t know what it is, but I keep seeing hearts lately - heart shaped puddles, wood grain, leaves - little love notes everywhere. Maybe they’ve always been there. Maybe I’m just finally noticing. 

*****

Since Hashimoto’s moved in with me in the fall, I’ve been learning to let a lot go -the house, my schedule, my expectations- and for the first time I have begun to focus less on my character flaws, feel a little less guilt, and appreciate more what I am able to do while focusing less on what I’m not.  Finding a lil' self love.

But I’ve also had to face my failures and faults in a new way. At my church, I serve in the Young Woman’s organization. It’s a busy job, and I truly love it, but it has also provided me with the challenging opportunity to see my weaknesses through the eyes of others.  Just when I have been working to forgive myself for my many failings, to be patient with this disease and all it is taking from me, I’m often being handed a mirror at my least lovely moments. It’s been humbling. 

But the other day a woman on the autoimmune page I follow posted about her life.  She was just barely diagnosed, and feeling so sad and guilty about not being enough for her children, not being able to tend to her life as before.  I wrote a note of encouragement to her. After I read it back to myself, I realized I needed these words as well...

“Sweet, sweet, darling mama. You’re going to be okay. This is hard, no doubt about it. But you can do it.  Don’t  feel guilty for putting yourself first, and taking care of yourself. Try not to use the words like “failure”, or “terrible mom” when describing yourself, because your heart is listening. 

If your sweetest, dearest friend was going through this right now, how would you talk to her? What words would you use? Would you give her permission to be sad? Would you tell her she just got this diagnosis, and it will take time to adjust? Would you tell her that she has to give the medicine time to work, the information time to sink in?  Would you tell her that she is strong, and good, and capable, and that she will get through this?

I promise you will have better days. You will have bad ones too, but not all of them will be bad. One of the things that Hashimoto’s has given me that is really a gift, is to tell me to slow down, bring my babies up onto my lap and snuggle with them.  On days when I feel bad, we read. If I don’t feel up to reading, we watch a nature show together and talk about it. We play little games, sometimes with me laying down and the game resting on my tummy. My daughter has officially labeled me, “the best pony mom in the world” because I play ponies. A world title... not so shabby for a sick lady.

Here are my new rules:

If I’m tired I sit down.

If I am sleepy, I cancel plans and take a nap.

I don’t schedule more than one "outside" activity a day if I can help it.

As far as housework goes, if I get ONE thing done a day, I am a rockstar! And if I don’t, I praise myself for taking the day to rest.

Three months ago, I spent every waking minute on the couch or in bed. Unless I was absolutely forced to go get groceries or to take a child somewhere, I was on the couch laying down.  I now take two naps a week, instead of two a day. I’m getting my house tidied up little by little. I’m doing more things with my kids outside of the house. I’m starting to work on projects again. I am more cheerful and my anxiety is decreasing. My Hashimoto’s symptoms are less intense, and I’m feeling more hopeful. 

You’re going to be okay.  It’s going to be hard, 

but you’re good at doing hard things!"

*****

I can't think of anyone to whom this simple note does not apply.  We all need to take better care of ourselves.  This world we live in, with it's schedules and expectations, is so hard on us.  We are all suffering from being overbooked, undernourished, sleep-deprived, toxicified and spiritually drained.  If we don't care for ourselves, who will?

My heart has started listening. As I have begun to feel more patience with myself, I’m feeling more for others as well. Including the mirror-holders in my life. 

I replaced a GFI outlet the other day.  I know that's not a big deal for most.  It wouldn't really be for me either (except for a slight fear of death by electrocution), but it was my ONE THING for that day, and I did it.

That makes me a Rockstar, baby.

As Fun as a Needle in Yer' Neck!

So autoimmune disease

is like this:

Your body is a house.

Your immune system is a bodyguard 

set outside the door to keep you and your house safe.

One day the bodyguard opens the door, steps in with a baseball bat, and starts

 bashing the crap out of your tchotchkes and thingamabobbles. 

  Then he bonks you on the head for good measure. 

Sadly, Western Medicine's approach is:

Get a broom and dustpan and sweep up behind the bodyguard, 

replace the Ming vase with a coke bottle, 

and slap a bandage on your head.

They do not, however, try to kick out the bodyguard.

The cycle is expected to continue until the house is destroyed and you have hamburger for brains. 

Then you get moved to a cheap apartment.

All that is to say that the basic approach is to treat the symptoms, replace the hormones that the damaged organ is not able to make, and wait

 for more damage and eventual destruction. 

It's not how I do things.

I study. I research. I experiment. 

My goal is to find a way

 to reform the bodyguard. 

Maybe even get him back on my side. 

*****

This is how it’s been:

GP, Rheumatology, Head and Neck, Dermatology, Allergy, Optomology and Opthomology have all sent me on to the next guy. It’s autoimmune hot-potato

(and, by the way, each one have said “There is no research to support diet changes, but if it makes you "feel better", go ahead.” And by feel better, they don’t mean physically). 

I had been told by other autoimmune folks not to hope for much from an endocrinology appointment. 

 I kept my expectations low. 

After the usual “where does it hurt?” chit-chat, Dr. P did an ultrasound of my thyroid. The growths were only slightly suspicious to her, though she admitted that cancer tended to have vague borders, which my growth (she said there was only one) had. She told me a biopsy was up to me, or we could wait and see. 

Hmmmm... wait 6 months and see if it’s cancer, or find out now.... 

what to chooooose....

Now, please!

Oh, wait, she meant NOW now. 

No appointment for a month from today. 

Now. 

I hoped up on the table, she sprayed my neck with utterly useless numbing spray, 

and then sunk a needle into my throat (the answer is 

YES.IT.HURT.LIKE.BLUE.BLAZES!  Thanks for asking).   

And if one stick in the neck was good, four was even better.

Guy said he could see the needle on the ultrasound as she dug all around in my neck with it each time. Apparently it is a little unpleasant to watch.

Of course, I was sorry to have been such a nuisance to him. 

On my end, it felt like my throat had mice with ice cleats on running around inside it.

She bandaged up my neck. 

I was miffed that after all that, 

she gave me a Barbie doll bandaid. 

It was kinda’ insulting, frankly.

She then gave me a prescription. Traditionally I avoid meds when possible, but new research has indicated that even if my thyroid levels are in the safe zone, they might be too low for me personally. So if a small amount of  medication could help my symptoms, I was willing). 

But my favorite part of the appointment was when she encouraged me to modify my diet. 

WHAT?! A doctor that believes you can influence your health by improving your diet? I pretty much almost hugged her!

She made a few suggestions. I smiled at Guy. I told her what I have been doing the past 2 months (more on that later). She was surprised and the strictness of my food protocol, but was all in favor. 

We chatted about a medical industry that is driven by pharmaceutical companies who finance studies intended to promote dependence on the drugs they manufacture. Of course, there aren’t many studies on diet!  No drug company wants you to see food as medicine.  Grocery stores don't require prescriptions.

*****

So that was last week. 

And lucky you, you don’t even have to wait as long as I did for the results. 

Negative. 

Yay for no cancer! That’s twice in two months.

I guess, for that, I will forgive them their puny bandaid. 

The Lesson in Daffodils

I have always loved daffodils.  In fact, I planted them in the tiny yard of our little apartment back in Santa Rosa, and dozens more in both the front and back of the Rancho house.  I wanted to bring them with me when we moved, but it seemed silly to dig up the yard.   But I knew how much the love I had given to my yard would be appreciated by the next owners of our little house.  So I left behind my daffodils, irises, crocus, lilacs, wisteria, callas, African daisies, and roses to be loved in their new life by their new people.

About three months after we moved from Rancho, we were invited back to neighbor Betty's house to go swimming.  When we got to her back yard, I couldn't help but glance through the chain link fence between her yard and that of my old house, only to see that all of it, every flower, every plant, was either dead or dying.  Even my hearty lavender was nearly gone.

.......Yes!  Of course I was devastated!!!  I should have rescued every last bulb and branch!

But we live here now.  Here, where the deer will eat anything.  Anything, that is, but daffodils.  I don't know why, but they won't touch them.  And there are, kindly left behind by the previous owner, several patches of daffodils throughout our new property.  Soon after we moved in I decided I would add to them, but missed the planting season last year.  So this fall I bought a big bag of bulbs, and marked my calendar for the perfect day to plant them; October 5th.  There was no special reason except that the almanac showed it to be ideal.  Funny, though, now that I think of it, it is both the day Guy and I got engaged and the day we lost one of the babies.  Isn't it strange how after so many years -a day of such joy, and later a day of such pain- it would become just a day; a nice day for planting flowers.

But buying those bulbs in the middle of September might have been the last thing I did before the shingles hit.  I postponed the bulb planting, thinking, soon... soon... But when the shingles morphed and Hashimoto's showed up, the bulbs were set aside.

Aside, but I could feel them begging to be planted.  I know bulbs need to be cold all winter to bloom well, so that wasn't a problem.  They were certainly cold enough in their resting spot by the stairs.  But they wouldn't last forever out there.

I have been, in the interim,  going to doctors about once a week and getting lots of tests run.  The GP sent me to the rheumatologist and the allergist.  The allergist sent me to the dermatologist.  The optometrist sent me to the ophthalmologist who is sending me to the oculoplastic surgeon.  Everyone is giving me creams and drops and ointments, which is just a barrel of monkeys.  The big, superdy-duper important appointment, the one with the endocrinologist, is finally just days away.  That is the one where (we hope, though we have been told we shouldn't bother hoping) there may be some answers and treatments for the Hashimoto's.  My thyroid ultrasound showed two large growths, so that is what I am most interested in resolving (read between the lines... checking for cancer).  And all the while the damage to my thyroid has played out in the typical symptoms... the exhaustion, sleepiness, pain, dry eyes and hair loss, for me, are dominant out of the dozens of symptoms of the disease.

So there they sit... the daffodil bulbs, with all of their potential for life and beauty, packed in tight behind a mesh net bag.  They have become a symbol for what is going on for me.  All that I want to do but can't, all that I desire to create and accomplish, bound up and restrained.

I went outside a few days ago to help Adam find a part to the leaf blower.  We searched the usual spots (put away. why would it be put away?) and then I went for the less obvious spots (the ones where lazy children dump things.  I know, why didn't I check there first?).

Well, I didn't find the part, but I did find the bulbs. And the instant I saw them I burst with a joyous laugh...

They didn't care that they weren't planted... no soil, no pot!  They didn't even mind the tight mesh bag pressing them from all sides.  There, peaking  -no, reaching!- out of the blue mesh, were two dozen green stalks.  They had found their way out of the bulbs, out of the bag, and into the light, reaching skyward.

I can't tell you what those amazing little bulbs have done for me.

I'm still very tired and often in pain.  I sleep a lot, and when I am not sleeping, I'm counting the hours and minutes till my next nap.  I'm not painting or making pots or much else.  I do school with the kids, and drive here and there, and then collapse on the couch in the sunny window, trying to warm up.  But ever since seeing those daffodils reaching out of their bindings, I have felt a little freer, a little more cheerful, and a little less weighted down.  I know that this is going to be a long process and maybe get much worse before it gets better, but I think the lesson in the daffodils, for me, is to take my rest but not give up.  It might be hard, and it won't be like it was before, but I will still be able to make, and do, and be something beautiful.

The other day I asked my husband for a blessing, a special prayer for health and comfort.  After it was done, a friend who was there suggested that maybe someone out there who is going through a similar struggle would benefit from my sharing my journey here.  

I hope you all won't mind.

Here Comes the Bride

When I met Melissa, little Jessica was just a toddler.  She was the smartest little child I had ever met.  She was a chubby-cheeked, whispy haired, toe-head with deep brown eyes and an ever deeper voice, who started learning to talk at just nine months old.  Serious and funny, she was always wiser than her years. 

Melissa was at two of my kids births in person (and two by phone... yes, she listened as I bellowed my babies out).  And I was at two of hers. We cooked, cleaned, walked, and nursed babies together. We spent some part of every day together for years. When I look back at many of my favorite memories, Melissa is quietly there, bringing joy. 

Sixteen years ago, after years of being neighbors with Melissa’s family in the same apartment complex, we moved.  Not just our family, but Melissa's too.  We moved away the same week, planned that way so that we didn't have to be “the ones left behind”. 

Over the years we have kept in touch.  It took us a while to negotiate our relationship via phone.  Up until that time, our phone calls went like this:

"Hey."
"Hey."
"Can you com'mere?"
"Be right there."

But we figured it out.  Now, 16 years later, we don't get to talk as often as we'd like, but when it came to Jessie getting married, it was simple.  Guy said it best...

"It's Melissa. You have to go."

I got to Salt Lake on a Thursday afternoon.  What a joy to see my sweet Melissa, and Jess surprised me by joining her at the airport.  We got our nails done (a first for me, and probably last if all manicurists are that masochistic!), and the next day we made food!  Lots of food!!!

A few hundred little caprese skewers, bazillion sandwich pinwheels, a million fruit cubes and cake squares later, and we were somewhat ready for the nuptials. 

The next morning I got the privilege of escorting the lovely bride-to-be to the temple with her proud mama.



Melissa looked so lovely. Again, Guy said it best... “She never ages!”



Jessie’s only sign of nerves hit in the car, but were short lived. My favorite mental picture from the day was seeing her and her sweetie walking hand in hand up to the temple. 



The ceremony was lovely, of course, but I missed sitting in the Temple with my own sweetie.  Temple weddings are a very simple affair.  There are only a couple of dozen family and close friends in the small sealing room, so it feels very tender and intimate.  I love seeing the bride and groom walk in holding hands.  The sealer who performs the marriage usually gives a short bit of council to the young couple, and it always brings home the beauty and purpose of marriage.  After the exchange of promises while kneeling across the altar from each other, the couple then shares a sweet kiss over the altar, and are pronounced husband and wife for time and all eternity. 

The ceremony only lasts about 20 minutes, but it is sweet and reverent.  At the end, well wishers pass by the new husband and wife in turn,  whispering their quiet congratulations.  I had managed to hold back my tears until that moment, but couldn't help it once I looked into that sweet girl's gorgeous brown eyes.  The years folded in on themselves, and I could see how short a lifetime must be in God’s eyes. She whispered how glad she was that I had come.  I felt so grateful.

From that point on, the day was the flurry that most wedding days are.  There were a million pictures in subzero temperatures (it feels that way when you are out there long enough. It was Utah, after all). 

And suddenly I saw the scene, not from the generation getting married, but from the parent generation. When did we get so old? 

I loved that I got to be THAT person for my sweet Melissa.  The one who watches from the side and makes sure her bra strap isn't showing, no lipstick on the teeth, that her hair is blowing the right way... the one that will remember how beautiful she looks to tell her about later,  when we are two old ladies, a million years (or five minutes) from now.



An amazing thing happened for me that day.  I had been so worried about my health getting in the way of what we needed to accomplish for the reception.  After all that Melissa has meant to me in my life, I wanted to be everything she needed me to be on her special day.  Before the trip I had changed my diet to follow the Autoimmune Protocol (AIP), and had done great until the day prior.  The diet is a lot of work (more on that next time), so I decided not to worry about my food that day, and just eat what was available, praying that I would still be okay.

The amazing thing was that for the first time in months, I felt awesome.  So awesome.  I was quick on my feet and had tons of energy.  I lasted all day, and right into the night.  I spent the reception chasing Melissa back out of the kitchen, chatting with long-missed friends (the McKays, also old friends from the apartments, and my Soul Buddy Ellen from Sac, who now lives in Utah), and cutting watermelon and such.  I seriously felt better than I had since before the shingles hit back in September.



It didn't last, I will admit, but it gave me hope for better days ahead.  The next day my flu symptoms hit again, and I spent the day in Melissa's recliner nibbling leftover wedding food and visiting with my dear friend until it was time to go to the airport.  By a sweet coincidence, Jessica and hubby Brayden's flight to the Bahamas was leaving just ten minutes after mine, so we got to take her to the airport with us.  It was the perfect ending to my stay (I mean, for me.  I think she was focused on other things).

God answers prayers, even silly ones for a little extra energy. 

Isn’t that wonderful of him?

Luggage

Febrary 21, 2019

I’m in an airplane somewhere over The Rocky Mountains. I’m in the middle seat, sandwiched between a very polite teenager, a rarity in any state, and a guy who has Wi-Fi when nobody else seems to. Out the window the mountains are blanketed in snow so thick it looks like clouds.  My luggage wasn't all that heavy, but I checked it anyway, to avoid the overhear storage situation.

 I’m headed to Utah.

My dear friend, Melissa, waits for me at the airport on the other side. Her daughter, Jessica, is getting married in two days. It’s so hard to believe. Cliché I know, but I remember when she was in diapers (Jessica, of course, not Melissa), and Melissa remembers me before I ever had any kids at all.

She called me when I was sitting in the airport. She apologized for the changes the years have brought on; a few wrinkles, maybe a few extra pounds. Funny,  I was worrying about the same thing, but I told her I’d given up on looking cute anymore. We both knew I was lying.

It’s the first time I’ve traveled by myself in a long time. This time, I’m packing more than just luggage. Last week I received a diagnosis for Hashimoto’s disease. My immune system has been steadily attacking my thyroid gland for a couple of decades now. But things eventually got bad enough, and I finally got sick enough for someone to pay attention. The evidence was there all along, but now we have the tests to prove it.  I've also tested positive on two different Lupus tests, but apparently Lupus is a little trickier to diagnose. More tests next month, then Sjogren's tests after that.  Fingers crossed for more answers. 

Right on the heals of Shingles, a breast cancer scare, and a lovely knee injury, I have been plunged head first into the world of autoimmune disease.  I'm studying, researching, and experimenting with diet protocols to see if there will be relief beyond pharmaceuticals. So far 3 doctors have informed me that changing what I eat will not help (side tangent: that's what they used to say about diabetes, heart disease, and celiacs).  I'm not willing to accept that I can't have an impact in this.

So for now, I can't lift my smallish suitcase up to the overhead because my right arm isn't working too well.  After the shingles in the fall, it started to hurt all the time, and I can't lift anything heavier than a glass of water if my arm is extended.  I fight constant flu symptoms that come and go all day long, and rage at night.  And just for chuckles, a rash has shown up around my eyes in the last few weeks.

Anyway, I hope I’ll be able to be help to Melissa. I know I won’t quite be the powerhouse I was back when she and I used to have all-day cooking marathons, house cleaning trades, laundry-folding gab sessions, and toddler birthday parties to plan.  But I really, really want to be there for her.

Because this is no little birthday party.  

This is a big deal. 

This is Jessica’s wedding.