Old Lady Fat Stage

I'm at a stage in my life I did not anticipate ever entering.  I'm doing things I never expected myself to do.  In a month, I'm going to be participating in an event I never saw myself doing.  What brought on this unexpected activity that has consumed every waking hour for the past 6 weeks?  I've entered what we affectionately refer to in our house as the "old lady fat stage."

My daughter was talking to me about someone being really creative, and she said something that I heard as "She's in her old lady fat stage."  I told her that didn't sound very nice.  After being really puzzled, she repeated what she said.  Old lady CRAFT stage.  That made more sense, but "old lady fat stage" stuck, so now we just joke that I'm in my Old Lady Fat Stage.

In our house, Old Lady Fat Stage means that I have been crafting from the time I wake up until the time I go to bed.  I bought a Cricut and spend hours making things, I paint, I design, and I let the creative juices flow.  It's been very therapeutic, and I am finding something to give me some joy and purpose for the first time in a long time.  This is definitely something that is outside of my comfort zone, and the cognitive load is sometimes exhausting, but it feels good to actually be DOING something.  This is something I can do while elevating my feet, while seated, while still meeting the needs of my physical limitations.  

In a month, my BFF and I are going to do the Arbor Day Craft Show together.  I have never done anything like this before.  I know the stimulation will be both mentally and physically exhausting, that my legs are going to be swollen, discolored, and painful by the end of the day, and my head will very likely be throbbing.  BUT, I know it will be so good to actually spend a few hours out of my house, to see people, to socialize.  Maybe I will see former students, former colleagues.  Maybe I will meet people who are in town for the festivities that further enrich my life.  If nothing else, it means hanging out with my BFF for 8 hours, and that is never a bad thing!

Being away from the teaching community for 2 years now has been the hardest thing I've had to face on this Long Covid journey.  I don't think there will ever be anything that will fulfill me the way teaching did.  However, it does feel good to be excited about things again, to learn new things, to do things that bring me joy, that allow me to be creative, and to put my energy into something that makes me happy.  Our living space has been taken over by crafting, from storage totes full of materials to craft carts filled with vinyl and tools, crafting equipment, and finished items waiting to be displayed next month.  The clutter my new hobby creates clashes with my intense need for my house to be neat and tidy at all times, but I saw a quote once that said something about true growth being uncomfortable.  So, I'll go with that theory while I dive even deeper into my "Old Lady Fat Stage"!

Simplifying My Life: My own personal year in review

As I reflect on the past year, I have come to the conclusion that there is a very real difference between giving back, paying it forward, being there for others, showing love, empathy, and compassion, and self-sacrifice for the sake of giving.  There is a line one can cross where physical, emotional, mental, and even financial health can be sabotaged for the sake of others.  It is time to rid myself of the clutter, both the physical and the mental clutter.  It is time to focus only on the things that feed my mind, my body, and my soul in healthy, positive, and enriching ways.  

It's time to simplify my life.

Old habits die hard, and I know it won't be easy.  But being uncomfortable never is...

This year has been one for the books, to say the least.  January was the typical long, gloomy month that felt like it had 87 days rather than 31. February is a month of birthdays in our family, with 5 people to celebrate, 4 of them within 6 days of each other!  Then came March, when I had to be taken by rescue squad, discovered I was in septic shock, was transferred to Lincoln, and had to process the fact that I almost died.  If we had waited even another 15 minutes to call for the ambulance, I would most likely not be here today to write this blog.  That is a fact I still think about often, something that has been really difficult to fully comprehend.  On the first day of April we were blessed with the most precious gift we could have ever imagined.  Our precious grandbaby was born, and she is everything we ever imagined, and more.  May is the month I checked off the number one item on my bucket list.  I finally saw the ocean.  I even put my toes in the water, sat on the beach and let the waves wash over me, collected dozens and dozens of shells, and basked in the South Carolina sun at Myrtle Beach.  It was the vacation of a lifetime! June was a month of rest and recovery, spending time with our new grandbaby and basking in our post-vacation glow.

The second half of the year had just as many significant events as the first half.  July was quiet, but then August rolled in, and life presented us with new challenges.  On August 15th, my husband was diagnosed with a motor neuron disease believed to be ALS.  Though he does not have the lab-confirmed markers of ALS, and some of his symptoms are atypical of ALS, neurologists seem to not know what else to call it, so that is his official diagnosis.  That same evening I began running a high fever, and my symptoms were very similar to the symptoms I'd had in March when I was septic.  I then began to have the most painful experience of my life.  I would have happily given birth every single day rather than experience the excruciating pain I endured for 4 full weeks.  It began in my right shoulder blade, traveled across to the center, into the left shoulder blade, and then back to the right again.  I was seen at 2 different hospitals in 2 different cities, and all testing came back inconclusive.  To this day, we do not know what caused this horrific pain, but I hope and pray I never experience anything like that ever again.  

September was a huge milestone in my life as I celebrated my 50th birthday.  It's so odd to turn 50, yet feel like I can't possibly be a day over 30.  How does time go so fast?  I threw myself a party, and I was blessed with friends and family in attendance to celebrate with me.  In October, my husband and I celebrated the 26th anniversary of our first date.  It's so weird to realize I have spent over half of my life with this man, and even more difficult to believe our daughter is the same age I was when we first met and became friends!  

I received a book from my best friend for my birthday.  It shows 5000 places to visit across all 50 states.  We used suggestions from the book to plan a road trip in November.  We were in a total of 6 states (Nebraska, Iowa, South Dakota, North Dakota, Minnesota, and Montana), all within a 48-hour time frame.  Along with crossing off another bucket list item, we spent 4 days road-tripping through the Badlands, the Black Hills, 2 national parks, and the sand hills.  It was a fast-paced vacation to literally see as much as we could see and add as many states to our list of visited places as we possibly could.  It was not the relaxing southern vacation we took in May, but we saw a lot of beautiful terrain and made more memories together.  

When we hit December, it just didn't really feel like Christmas.  We decorated our house, put up our lights, and I wrapped the dozens upon dozens of gifts I had spent September and October purchasing so that I would be ready for the holidays without feeling too rushed and overwhelmed.  However, once the gifts had been given, the Christmas goodies eaten, and the thank you cards written, I was left to reflect over the next week.  What I realized was that I was left with an empty, hollow feeling in my chest.  

I realized as I reflected over the year that I felt very overwhelmed by so much.  I felt the immediate need to purge.  I decided to get rid of kitchen items I hadn't used in at least 2 years.  I donated or threw away shoes I no longer wore, clothes I hadn't touched in years, dog toys that filled a 30-gallon garbage bag to overflowing.  I checked the expiration dates on all the products in my pantry and cabinets and threw out things that had expired.  I bought new dressers, nightstands, and lamps to both update and save some space our old furniture had taken up in our cramped bedroom.   

While purging and organizing the physical aspects of my home, I had a lot of time to reflect on the year as well.  I thought about the hardships we'd faced as well as the exciting things we'd experienced.  I thought about those who reached out to us to check in, to offer a helping hand, to ask how we were feeling, and to check on our emotional well-being as well as our physical health.  I thought about those who were excited to see us cross things off our bucket list, who were excited to see us have good things happen to us, who are always in our corner, always rooting for us, always supporting us in both the good and bad times.  

Those are our people.  

Those who make me feel defensive rather than at ease, who do not openly show their support for us, who are not rooting for us, I am no longer going to put forth the effort.  I have tried to live by "Be the Energy You Want to Attract," and I still will do that, to an extent.  But I am no longer going to put forth energy that is not given back.  I will no longer be the one to always reach out first, to offer unsolicited updates on our lives, to check in with people who never check in with us.  

I have now, as of December 2024, hit the 3-year mark of living with Long Covid.  My husband has been living with chronic pain and neuropathy in his right arm for almost 2 1/2 years, which has been accompanied by shooting pain in his right hip for almost a year now.  With the unknowns of his lower motor neuron disease diagnosis and the unknowns of the long-term effects of Long Covid, along with my close call with sepsis, we have been giving glaring reminders that life is too short not to do what we can when we can.  Life is also too short to give precious time and energy to anything that is not deserving of it.  

With this realization came the conclusion that 2025 is going to be about removing the clutter and simplifying my life.   

Another Oldie, But Goodie, for HARLEY, to celebrate her 23rd birthday!!! (This blog was written on her 10th birthday, back in 2011!)

The birth of Harley was one of the happiest days of my life, and for a lot of reasons. She was planned and wanted so badly. My pregnancy with Harley followed a terrible heartache of losing a baby due to an ectopic pregnancy. Getting pregnant with Harley so soon afterwards, and finding out just 3 days before Christmas was an amazing gift. Rob and I were newly married, so excited to have a baby to seal our family together, and to share in our love for each other. With 3 boys between the two of us already, we desperately wanted a baby girl. Rob was sure she was a girl from the moment I got pregnant. I wanted her to be a girl so badly, but was scared to get my hopes up. She'd been named long before I was ever pregnant. When watching "Pure Country" (that movie with George Strait about him leaving the music business to lead a simple life and falling for a girl named "Harley") before we were ever even married Rob said, "When we get married and have a baby girl, we're naming her Harley." I said, "OK..." not even knowing if that would ever happen, if we would get married OR have a baby girl! But, when she was born, and actually as soon as the ultrasound tech told us it was a girl, her name was "Harley" and that was that! While I was rewarded for 9 months of being sick with Riley by an easy labor and delivery, Harley was different. Instead of being rewarded for once again being sick for 9 months of pregnancy, I was further tortured. After being due on August 3rd with both babies (so ironic to me!), Harley had no intention of coming out anytime soon, so it was decided that I would be induced the morning of August 7th. That was pure torture! After going in at 6:00 A.M., being speared with IV's, and strapped to the bed with a fetal monitor, I was in agony for 11 1/2 hours before Harley entered the world. She couldn't do it easily either. High-maintenance from the beginning, that girl was! Her heart rate dropped with every contraction, and each contraction I had "piggy-backed" which meant I had 2 contractions between each "break". They inserted an internal monitor which they screwed into the top of her head, and I had to lay on my side or up on all fours for about the last 3 hours of the labor in order to keep her heart rate where it should be. When she was born, her cord was around her neck, which explains the heart rate issues. Luckily, she was perfect in every way, despite the grueling labor, and the second I asked, "What is it?" and the doctor said, "I told you it was a girl!" I cannot even begin to describe the joy that surged through me. The first phone call I made was to Riley, the proud big brother waiting anxiously at Grandma Shirley's house. He was the first person outside the delivery room to know that Harley had been born, 2 days after his 6th birthday, and a great birthday present! Harley was the perfect baby from day one. She slept through the night her very first night at home. When I woke up the next morning I was hysterical, thinking she'd died of SIDS her first night out of the hospital! She was fine though, just obviously as exhausted as I was and so glad to be home! She only cried when she was wet or hungry. She was happy, pudgy, and perfect. Until she hit the toddler years... Harley was the kind of toddler who ran across the parking lot the second you released her hand. She ran away in the store and was never where she should be. She was into everything, climbed out of her crib on her own at 15 months, walked her My Little Pony horses through the landlord's fresh concrete, refused to be potty-trained until SHE wanted to, despite knowing how to do it, made messes she didn't want to clean up, and would take her clothes off as fast as I put them on, almost making late for work many mornings. But boy was she SMART! I often tell Harley I realize she has the highest IQ in the house, and I'm not kidding when I say that! The girl was drawing stick figures of the family at 2, writing her name at 3, and reading books aloud, not by memory, but by actually reading the words at 3 1/2! She absolutely amazed me every day with her knowledge and intelligence. She still does today. The last 10 years have gone by so fast! After looking back at Riley's childhood and vowing to appreciate Harley's more, to savor it more, I realize that it's not that I didn't appreciate or savor the time with either of them. Time just goes REALLY fast when you're raising babies and watching them grow. So here we are, 10 years later, and I can remember every single second of the day of Harley's birth like it was only a few months ago. I don't know where the time goes! She will be a 5th grader this year, and it's so hard to see her growing up and not still a "baby". I love that she still sleeps with stuffed animals, plays with her Little People and her dolls and colors and watches cartoons because I know these days are going to soon come to an end. I want to enjoy every bit of the "little girl" stage while I can. Having a daughter is an amazing gift, and one I'm so grateful to have. Harley continues to amaze me every single day, and I could not love her more. She challenges me every day. She's willful, moody, and a complete and total drama queen. But she's also smart, beautiful, sweet, and sensitive. I cannot imagine my life without my baby girl. Happy 10th birthday, Harley Brooke! I love you

A Blast from the Past to Celebrate my son's 29th birthday-This blog was written on his 16th birthday, back in 2011!

The day I found out I was pregnant was a surprise to say the least. On an old episode of "Roseanne" D.J. asks Roseanne what the difference between an accident and a surprise are and she says, "An accident is something if you had to do over you wouldn't; but a surprise is something you didn't even know you wanted until you got it." That's what Riley was: A SURPRISE! Angie was the first person to know I was pregnant, waiting outside the bathroom door while I took the test. But, for anyone who knows either of us, that was probably a given! ; ) From that moment on, I was Riley's mom. Now, of course, throughout those next 8 months I was absolutely sure he was a girl, and I wanted a girl desperately, and being Riley, he kept us guessing and didn't reveal himself at the ultrasound so we'd know for sure. However, the second Dr. Weldon said, "It's a boy!" I was thrilled beyond a belief. The first words out of my mouth were, "Well, my other babies will have a big brother." I later told my mom, "I don't know why I ever wanted a stupid girl in the first place!" I was THRILLED with this absolutely beautiful, smooth-skinned, perfect baby boy with his wavy brown hair and gorgeous eyes staring up at me. While the labor was absolutely the easiest first baby labor I'd ever heard of, starting with my water breaking around 9:00 A.M. and having him 4 1/2 hours later with no meds until the very end when the doctor instructed the nurse to give them to me when he realized I hadn't had anything. Even then I didn't feel like I needed any and he was born within 15 minutes of that shot being administered anyway. However, he was cranky and colicky from day one. He spit up constantly, stained every shirt I owned, and would not let me put him down for even a minute for about the first 3 months of his life. He was going to attach himself to me and there was no choice in the matter for me! But, from then on, Riley and I had that bond, that attachment that only a mother and son can share. Over the next 3 years Riley was with me through a lot of highs and lows, but the one constant was my absolute adoration for him. I took pictures of him sleeping, awake, smiling, laughing, crying, frowning, in the bathtub, in his crib, everywhere, wanting to capture him on film to have forever. He was an absolutely delightful toddler, making up for his cranky infant stage. He didn't have the typical "terrible two's" and I could take him anywhere. He talked to absolutely anyone he could and told them his whole life story, but he was delightful to listen to! He was well-behaved, stood beside me while I put groceries in the car, never ran away, never threw random items in the shopping cart, ate his dinner, went to bed like a good boy, was the most perfect, funny, cute little boy I could have dreamed of. Now, it hasn't always been easy. Yes, he was absolutely in love with his new baby sister, was an adorable big brother to her, and made me smile every day as he went through his elementary years. But he was talkative, ornery, and a little mischievous as he got older. Though I was certain he must have ADHD, I was assured that he was just an outgoing child and would learn to "channel his energy" as he got older. And he did...eventually. About midway through 7th grade, after a conference with his teachers, he turned things around, showed the amazing person he could be, and took on the role of a leader in his class. I had the absolute pleasure of starting my teaching career as an 8th grade teacher the same year Riley was an 8th grader. While some 13 year-olds would dread that, Riley relished in it. We became closer than ever, sharing each day together, laughing at the same jokes, and seeing each other on such a different level. It was one of the happiest times of my life both professionally and personally. Then high school came... High school is a scary place to send your babies! At least for me it is! As a high school student Riley has spread his wings and become more independent. He has made some wonderful choices and he's made some horrible choices. I know this is all part of the growing and learning process. And though it is so difficult to watch your baby fail, to get hurt, to make poor choices, to suffer consequences, to learn things the hard way, that's also part of being a parent. But this has also been a time to swell with pride while watching him play soccer, play football, train for Cross Country, put on a tie for school dances, laugh with his friends, do things on a skateboard I didn't think were possible, grow into an amazing young man who isn't perfect, who isn't faultless, but who is my baby. Today's blog is for Riley, in honor of his 16th birthday, to say how much I love him, and to celebrate the day I first became "mom". By Mamareeves74 August 05, 2011

Catastrophizing, Anticipatory Anxiety, or just a Worry Wart?

I've been a worrier my whole life.  My grandma was a worrier too, so I'm sure that's where I got it.  (Yes, I mean WORRIER, not warrior).  I'd see her worry, so then I'd also worry.  I say a prayer every time we pull onto the highway.  I say a prayer when I know one of my kids, my husband, or another loved one is on the road, heading somewhere, because I'm so scared of them having an accident.  I feel anxious, stressed, and have this feeling of impending doom every time one of my loved ones leaves the house to go any further than across town to get groceries or some other local task.  

According to the American Psychological Association (APA) Dictionary of Psychology, Anticipatory Anxiety is worry or apprehension about an upcoming event or situation because of the possibility of a negative outcome, such as danger, misfortune, or adverse judgment by others. The worry or apprehension is often accompanied by somatic symptoms of tension. The APA describes people who always think that the worst possible outcome will occur from a particular action or in a particular situation as catastrophizing.  Dictionary.com defines worry warts as people who tend to worry habitually and often needlessly.  

I feel like I fit all of these definitions if I am being honest.  Every scenario in my life consists of me imagining the absolute worst thing that could happen.  I think it's because my luck always seems to be bad luck.  If something is going to happen, it's going to happen to us.  We are going to choose the box that is missing parts, get the random defective car battery, the box of nuggets with one nugget missing. No risk factors for an ectopic pregnancy, yet I had one.  No obvious signs of any type of infection, yet I went into septic shock.  So, when we began to plan our first "across-the-country vacation" nine months in advance, of course, I'm going to be concerned that things are going to go wrong.  

Every time we leave the house, I worry something is going to happen to cause it not to happen.  And of course, it's always horrible, gruesome thoughts that I'm imagining; never just a minor inconvenience.  By the time it's ever time for our vacation to actually happen, I might be too stressed and anxious to even enjoy it!  Because then of course, I'm going to worry about the freak things that could happen to us on our way there or while at our destination.

Will one of us get attacked by a shark, stung by a jellyfish, or die from the poison of some freakishly-shaped sea urchin disguised as a piece of seaweed?  Will I somehow fall to my death off our 20th-story balcony, or will a car from our sky wheel ride fall into the ocean?  And that's only if the pier the restaurant we are eating at sits on doesn't collapse into the sea first!  And all of that is if we even MAKE IT to our destination in one piece.  And before we can leave for our destination, we have to have survived ALL NINE of the months leading up to it.  

Maybe it's hard for me to accept that good things are going to happen because they seem too good to be true.  I hear about other people doing all these exciting things, but it doesn't seem real that we could be doing them too.  Checking things off my bucket list has never felt attainable to me; I always thought of a bucket list as a list of the things you wish you could do, but never actually will get to do in your lifetime.  I think now, if I really do make it TO, THROUGH, AND HOME FROM this first bucket list trip, maybe I will see it differently.  Maybe I will actually look at life differently.  Maybe things I never thought were possible really can come true. 

Speaking of Bucket Lists, I'd love to read some of yours!  Please feel free to comment below, and don't forget your name so I know whose bucket lists I'm reading!  Here are the top five things on mine!

 

Garret

Garret...I have had so many things bottled up in my head since October 8th, that it's hard to even know where to start.  I guess the first thing to tell you is that when you left us, you took a piece of Harley with you.  She will never be the same.  You were her world.  In her eyes, you were the epitome of perfection.  No matter your mistakes or your flaws or the demons you fought, no one ever did or ever could measure up to you.  She loved you unconditionally pretty much from the day she met you.  For the better part of 18 years, it was always you above all else...

Your birthday recently passed...but I don't think there are birthdays in Heaven.  You are forever 22, forever young, forever with so much still left to see and to learn and to experience...I know some people don't believe you go to Heaven if you take your own life, but I do not believe that.  If there really is a God, and I know you believed there is, I cannot believe that He would punish someone who was already hurting and struggling enough to do what you did by not allowing them into Heaven.  

I like to think that Allie came running to you, butt wiggling the way Boxers' butts do, so happy to see you, and you just as happy to see her.  I know that would have been the absolute best reunion to see!

But, gosh, Garret, you are so missed, so loved, and you have left such an emptiness in the world, in so many homes, in so many lives, in so many hearts.  I will never understand how you could do what you did, how all the love so many people felt for you wasn't enough to save you, why you weren't able to see in yourself what so many others could see in you.  You were one of a kind, and you have left an absence in this world that will never be filled.

Thank you for loving Harley the way you did.  Thank you for the laughs this past summer when you were here at the house.  And most of all, thank you for continuing to watch over Harley, for coming to see her in her dreams, and for knowing when she needs it the most.

We will continue to miss you and love you for the rest of our lives...until we meet again...

New Perspectives, Christmas Eve, and Ugly Crying

I belong to a couple of Long Covid groups on Facebook; one is a group called Survivor Corp, which is a great public group to join for information and support if you or someone you know is suffering from the after-effects of Covid.  A woman whose husband has been dealing with Long Covid for almost 3 years recently posted something that really resonated with me.  She said that her husband had attended appointment after appointment with every type of specialist imaginable, and there just weren't any answers or resolutions for his symptoms.  (I know this scenario all too well myself.) She said when they went to see a cardiologist, they were given the best advice of all.  He told them that if her husband had not improved significantly after 4 months with Long Covid, the chance of recovery wasn't very likely to happen.  BUT, he told them that in 2 years her husband would be feeling much better.  He told them it wouldn't be because the symptoms had noticeably improved, but because they would have had time to grieve the loss of the life they'd had, time to grieve the changes and the illness, and would have learned their "new normal" though she said she hated that term.  (As do I at this point.)  She said it really was true; life was better now, after 2 years, than it had been because they'd learned how to accommodate for his limitations.  She said their children had learned that "Dad" couldn't do certain things with them (playing in the yard, going on amusement park rides, etc.).  She said her husband's friends no longer looked at him sympathetically when they saw him with his cane or riding his mobility scooter; that they'd adjusted to the changes and now talk and joke with him the way they had done before he had Long Covid.  That new perspective is something I need to work on for myself...

I have had Long Covid for 2 years now, and I haven't gotten past that grieving stage yet.  There are still days that are so hard I have fleeting thoughts that maybe it would have been better to have not survived Covid than to have had a relatively mild case, but then dealt with all of this for the past 2 years.  I would estimate that 3-4 days out of every 7 days of the week I have tears running down my cheeks while my husband helps me with my personal care and getting dressed because I'm so sad and angry and humiliated that I need someone to help me get dressed every day, someone to assist me with regular, routine tasks, with activities of daily living and even some executive functioning skills.  

My therapist and my disability lawyer have both basically given me the same advice: You can only control your own actions; don't worry about the things you can't control.  Well, I really took that to heart this year for Christmas.  I began my shopping back in early September.  I carefully chose everyone's gifts based on what I knew about them and their personal tastes.  I purchased multiple gift bags and gift boxes to make wrapping easier because I knew it would be exhausting.  I demanded that my husband get our living room remodel finished before Christmas Eve, which I was hosting.  I went all out.  I bought new matching paper plates, napkins, soup bowls, plastic cups, foam coffee cups, sparkly plastic spoons, the works.  I even bought a Christmas dress and "Merry Christmas" leggings.  I went all out in ways I never had before, and I have been hosting a "Soups and Snacks" Christmas gathering for the past 17 years!  I was controlling the things I could, and I wanted everything to be PERFECT.  And, honestly, it was. 

And then I paid for it.

On Christmas Day my head was pounding and I had dizzy spells throughout the day. I was completely exhausted.  The week between Christmas and New Year is a blur.  I honestly don't even remember those 7 days, and I didn't leave the house for 13 days following Christmas.  I was exhausted; mentally, emotionally, cognitively, physically, I was completely drained.  

This past week involved some ugly crying too...Thinking about school starting back up prompted me to think about what I would have done in class on that first day after break.  I started thinking about how I would give them Bell Work, with directions projected on the whiteboard.  

"Write one paragraph sharing your favorite part of Christmas break.  

Write one paragraph sharing your least favorite part of Christmas break.  

Write one paragraph sharing anything you'd like me to know, any topic you choose.  You do not have to share aloud in class, and no one will read them except me." 

I would then have used the rest of the class period to let students who DID want to talk and share things do so, using it as a speaking, listening, and asking appropriate questions lesson (which is a 6th-grade standard).  As I talked about it with my husband and daughter my longing to be teaching came back with a vengeance.  It's a physical ache in my chest, that longing to be in my classroom, to be with my kids again, to feel their energy and excitement.  I miss laughing every single day because of things my kids said or did.  I miss that feeling that I can't even describe in words when their faces light up because something "clicked" and they are learning and understanding and are developing the passion for reading and writing that I have.  There is nothing else in the world that feels the way it felt to teach and to see my kids LEARNING. 

And that's when the ugly crying happens...when I allow myself to feel the grief of no longer teaching...

Christmas Scavenger Hunt

Every year, for the past 10 or so years, my husband, my daughter, and I have done a Christmas Lights Scavenger Hunt.  We typically would find a list online, print it, and then off we would go.  Our first stop is always to get a coffee, cappuccino, or hot cocoa, and then we would head to the first neighborhood to begin our search. 

This year, my daughter and I decided to compile a list of items for the scavenger hunt based on past hunts, ideas online, and things we know we've seen.  We made our own Christmas Scavenger Hunt, and I thought it would be fun to share it with all of you as well.  

Here is our Christmas Scavenger Hunt for you to print and enjoy with your family!

A Birthday, A Death, A Covid Test, and A Party

Every year on my birthday, I think, "This is going to be MY year."...This year, that is the exact opposite of what I was thinking.  This year on my birthday my thoughts were more along the lines of, "Am I going to survive this year?"

It's a struggle writing this blog.  My left hand keeps spasming, so my fingers hit multiple letters at rapid-fire speed and I have to go back, delete, and attempt to retype.  That along with the struggles I already have with word-finding and needing to google similar words in order to figure out what I'm trying to say makes writing blogs a several-hour process.  My symptoms are exacerbated because I currently have Covid.  Again.  Yep, the nightmare that began October 10, 2021, is once again making its presence known.  

My birthday was Saturday.  I turned 49.  The last year of my 40's.  I didn't feel well.  We stayed home, laid low, did nothing to celebrate my day.  It was honestly a pretty depressing day.  As far as birthdays go, it was in the top 4 worst birthdays I've had (the other 3 being my 16th, 22nd, and 24th).   

To finish off the day, I received a message through social media from my ex-husband's ex-wife (who I didn't even know existed) informing me that my ex-husband had passed away.  I had no idea how that news might affect me.  I'm honestly still processing it.  On one hand, I married him, spent 3 years with him, and loved him.  He was a father figure to my son from the tiny age of 3 months through 3 years old.  He came into my life when I had hit an emotional rock bottom, and we had some really great times together.  And he was so good to my son, loved him like his own.  But on the other hand, he was abusive, both emotionally and physically.  He gave me my first black eye 2 days after our wedding.  He cracked my eye socket on my birthday.  He bruised a nerve in my back, threw a glass at me, pulled a knife on me, and refused to allow me to have contact with any of my friends, even most of my family.  He literally pulled the phone cord out of the wall when I attempted to call a friend while he was home.  It was often a scary and very isolating time in my life.  However, thinking that he just no longer exists somewhere in this world...that is a feeling I'm still trying to process.  

The next morning, I woke up feeling very stuffed up, congested, and had a "heaviness" in my head.  I took a Covid test, and it was instantly positive.  My husband and daughter also took tests, and theirs were positive as well.  All of us getting Covid was bad enough, me getting it again after still suffering from so many Long Covid complications 22 months after my first bout with Covid is pretty concerning.  I'm struggling.  I told my husband I feel like my brain is being attacked from the inside.  I don't know how else to describe it.  

My biggest disappointment of the weekend was not being able to attend a family gathering I had been looking forward to for weeks and weeks.  My aunt and uncle were celebrating their 50th anniversary, and I was sooo looking forward to seeing all my aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. whom I don't see on a regular basis.  I was absolutely devastated that I was no longer able to go because of our positive Covid tests. A lot of tears were shed as I watched the clock tick away, knowing what I was missing.  My cousin did Facetime me, which allowed me to see everyone, to watch my aunt and uncle open their gift from me, and to talk to people I hadn't seen in quite some time.  That did make me feel a little better about things, but it still, obviously, wasn't the same...

I've said it before, and I'm sure I'll say it again...Covid has RUINED my life...

I began taking a selfie on my birthday each year starting at age 46.  You can see that the two years before having Covid and the 2 years since having Covid are quite different...                             

                 

Endings, Triggers, Infections, Friendships, and Gratitude

The last couple of weeks have been rough.  Especially rough.  I knew school starting back up would be hard.  I didn't realize how hard though.  Last year I was on medical leave, so school starting was just the "official medical leave" start date.  I was still a school employee, it was still my job, my classroom, my life.  It was just on hold for a bit.  This year, everything is different.  I'm not a school employee anymore.  It's not still my job. It's not still my classroom.  That's no longer my life.  The impact of this reality has been more difficult than I ever realized or imagined. 

The things that have triggered me the most are things I had not even thought about being such severe triggers.  All the "First Day of School" pictures on social media felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest.  Each one was another pull on my heartstrings because I should have been at school to see all those shining faces, nervous smiles, and sparkling white new shoes.  But I wasn't; I was at home trying not to think about what the date signified.  

Then, there was the unfortunate timing of my husband driving past the school, the school where I had taught for the past 14 years, on our way home from my doctor's appointment last week.  The students I'd had in my last year of teaching were outside at noon rec.  MY kids were outside at noon rec.  Even writing about it has my stomach in knots and my chest feeling tight because leaving that classroom behind still brings me physical pain each and every day.  

But this week, it was the silliest thing yet that really twisted the knife into my gut.  I began to see people sharing a promotion for a "Free Drink at Scooters" with the presentation of a school ID.  It hurt.  Plain and simple.  And yes, I know it's silly.  But that didn't change how much it hurt.  Then, yesterday, THE DAY, seeing all of the teacher friends I have or follow on social media sharing pics of their free drinks brought me to actual tears.  I had to just close my phone and not even look, not check my notifications, just remove the trigger completely.  It wasn't about the drink, it wasn't about getting something for free, and it's not like I couldn't and didn't get a yummy coffee drink today; it's that it was one more thing I'm no longer a part of because of Long Covid.  

It's that the identity I have had for the past 22 years is gone, and I don't know who I even am anymore...

A symptom I've been battling since 3-4 days before my actual positive Covid test, which we now realize was my very first symptom of Covid, is severe, pitting edema which has now developed into Lymphedema.  It has been uncontrollable despite lymphedema therapy, diuretics, compression, and all the things used to treat lymphedema.  A big part of lymphedema care is keeping the skin well-moistured because it gets stretched so tightly from the swelling.  If the skin breaks, lymphatic fluid weeps out, and this provides a beautifully fertile, absolutely ideal, breeding ground for infection.  

Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, I developed a rash that turned into blisters that turned into open wounds, and after not feeling well for a couple of days, and then having visible signs of infection along with significant pain, I went to the ER, and sure enough, I had an infection in my leg.  Treatment and healing are a long, uncomfortable process, and getting rid of the infection along with preventing it from returning while the wounds on my leg heal are the biggest and most challenging health priorities right now.  

It seems that's what my life has become; one challenge after another...but...

I recently read a quote that said:  Friends are like rainbows; they're always there to cheer you up after a storm.  

I have to say, that is absolutely true.

At the worst of times you really do learn who your truest friends are, and let me tell you, I was BLESSED WITH THE BEST.   From the friend who commented, "Once a teacher, always a teacher," on my post about Scooters to the ones who gifted us with an amazing surprise when we least expected it to those who go out of their way to ask my daughter how I'm doing when they see her at her job to those who started a GoFundMe for me when I spent 11 months battling with my Long-term Disability Insurance, to the ones who bring me coffee and stay for a visit, randomly text me just to check in, and show me dozens of little ways that I'm thought of and loved, there just aren't enough words or blog posts or poems or songs or flowers or hearts or hugs or thanks to show how much it means.  

To all of you, and you know who you are, I truly do know how lucky I am to have you in my life, and I hope every single one of you knows how humbled I am, how full of gratitude, and how truly thankful I am to be loved and cared for by you.  

Bassinger Family Pledge Fundraiser

As an educator for over 20 years, I have had well over 2,000 students come into my life, and with those students are also their parents and families.  I have heard more stories about siblings, parents, pets, family vacations, and details of day-to-day lives than I can begin to count, and this is the beauty of working with kids.  And though every single one of my kids have been special in their own unique way, sometimes a certain student comes along that just tucks themselves a little deeper into my heart, tugs a little more at my heartstrings, becomes an extended part of my family.  

And that is exactly what happened when this sweet, timid little 6th grade boy named Zach Bassinger entered my classroom way back in 2016.  He was so shy and nervous those first few days, but he soon got very comfortable, and that orneriness that makes Zach the Zach that he is came out.  And I just couldn't help it; I adored him from the start.  Zach was assigned to my homeroom, which meant I had him in class all 3 years he attended Middle School.  When he got into any kind of trouble, he knew when I showed up in the doorway of whatever classroom he was in, he was going to hear about it.  He often came to my classroom to work, and we had one of those bonds that carried on through the years and extended to his family as well.  

I did not have his sister, Allie, in class, but I often saw her around the building.  She was a mother hen to Zach, being only a grade behind him.  She kept an eye on him, and she took it upon herself to keep him in line.  There was more than one occasion that she and I shared a knowing look!  

A few years later, along came his brother Carter.  Carter knew what he was in for before he ever entered my classroom; he knew I had connections, and that he had better watch his P's and Q's because I was well-acquainted with his parents already, and I made sure to tease him about that fact often!

Zach's parents were the kind of parents every teacher loves to meet.  They were attentive and supportive.  They came to every Open House and every Parent-Teacher Conference.  They responded promptly to emails and phone calls, and they worked as a team with teachers in order to help their kids have the absolute best education they could.  They were the kind of parents you were excited to see walk into your classroom.  

This is why, when I learned that Zach's dad, Terry, was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, my heart was instantly broken for them.  No one deserves that diagnosis, but this family, Zach's family, who were such good, loving, hard-working people, absolutely did not deserve to face this battle.  And a battle it has been, spanning over the last year and a half, with additional complications all along the way, taking the family's life on the kind of roller coaster no one wants to be on.  

And then it got even worse.  Just this month, Zach's sister Allie was also diagnosed with thyroid cancer.  The devastation this kind of news brings is something beyond words.  Allie is a senior in high school.  This should be the most exciting, fun time in her life.  Instead, she is going to be battling cancer, taking on the fight of her life.  

There is a GoFundMe set up for the family, and people have been so generous.  However, with both Terry and Allie now fighting this battle, the bills will continue to pile up, and the last thing the Bassingers need to worry about during a time when they need to focus on other things is the financial burden this puts on them.  

In honor of the Bassinger Family, I have decided to make a Pledge to donate $1.00 for every "hit" on this blog post between today and my birthday, September 16th, up to $500.  Please share the Bassingers' story, donate if you can, and encourage others to do the same.  I promise you, this family deserves anything we can do for them.  No amount is too small; they will appreciate any gesture you are able to make.  If you are a praying person, please offer those up for them as well, because they need all the support possible.  

Here is the link the GoFundMe set up for the family:

https://www.gofundme.com/f/supporting-terry-angie-bassinger

Thank you all!

Let's Talk Accommodations

"The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) became law in 1990. The ADA is a civil rights law that prohibits discrimination against individuals with disabilities in all areas of public life, including jobs, schools, transportation, and all public and private places that are open to the general public. The purpose of the law is to make sure that people with disabilities have the same rights and opportunities as everyone else."  (Copyright 2017 ADA National Network. All Rights Reserved)

I think it's safe to say that most people know there are requirements for fair and equal opportunities and rights for people who have a visible disabling condition, and for the most part, I have witnessed good intentions, appropriate accommodations made, and compassion shown.  However, there are many, many "invisible" disabilities, and I don't feel those dealing with them are always aware of their rights, nor are those around them as understanding or even willing to acknowledge them.  

Depression and other mental health diseases are covered by the ADA.  Bladder and bowel problems,  neurological disorders, endocrine and circulatory problems...the list goes on and on.  These are things I feel everyone should be aware of.  No one is going to advocate for us; we need to be our own advocates and learn how to ask for what we need without shame or embarrassment or fear of judgment or criticism.  This is advice I need to take as well, but it's much easier for me to advocate for others than for myself.   I admit that wholeheartedly.

When my daughter decided on a college, decided to live on campus, and began the process of enrolling, her biggest stressor was the idea of having a complete stranger for a roommate.  I couldn't blame her; I would not have been comfortable with that either.  However, I didn't say that to her; I reminded her of all the stories about people meeting their lifelong best friends when they became college roommates, about her aunt having longtime friends who had started out as strangers she'd met at college, etc.  But, in my head, I was still feeling a lot of empathy for her because I knew I'd have those same concerns, and her feelings were valid.  Then I learned that social anxiety, if diagnosed and being treated for this condition, was a covered disability under the ADA.  Because of this, with nothing more needed than a couple of forms filled out by both her and her therapist, she was able to qualify for a single-occupant room with single-room fees waived through her rights under the ADA.  Though she didn't like the idea of "special treatment" and didn't want to be labeled as "disabled", I explained to her that she should not feel that way, that this was her right, and that she deserved to be able to feel good about her upcoming college experience.  If something was causing her so much stress that it was impacting her feelings about attending college, that absolutely was something within her rights to address.  If even one parent or one student reads this and learns about their rights regarding anxiety and/or depression, and realizes their feelings are valid and deserve to be addressed, then I have done my job with this blog.  

Advocate for yourselves, advocate for each other, and have each other's backs out there in the world, because at the end of the day, those are the things that really matter...

“Ada National Network.” ADA National Network | Information, Guidance and Training on the Americans with Disabilities Act, 22 Aug. 2023, adata.org/.

It's not all in my head...but some of it actually is...

One of the most frustrating things medical professionals (or friends, family colleagues, etc.) can tell someone when they complain of an ailment is that it is "all in your head".  This response causes feelings of invalidation and even distrust of those who we expect to listen and to support us when we are struggling.  One of my favorite quotes from the sitcom Boy Meets World is from Season 7, Episode 14, when Cory Matthews thinks he is terminally ill and goes to the doctor.  When he comes home, he gives his wife, Topanga, the news that his doctor diagnosed him with hypochondria and gave him placebos to take to treat his illness. When Topanga tells him that hypochondria is what it's called when crazy people think they're sick when it's really all in their heads, and his best friend, Shawn, tells him placebos are pills to make crazy people think they are being treated for illnesses they don't really have, he gives the impassioned response that he has to be on them for the rest of his life. 

But, sometimes it really IS all in our heads.  Literally.  

The impact trauma has on a person physically, mentally, and emotionally is difficult to describe if you haven't experienced it firsthand.  You can think you understand, offer sympathy, and even make jokes about being forgetful too, but the trauma response in those who have experienced either mental or physical trauma is much different than simply forgetting if you turned off a light or forgetting to pick up milk on your way home from work.  It impacts every single aspect of your life.  

Research published by both the University of Denver and the National Library of Medicine shows very similar patterns among those suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), people with Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), and Long Covid patients.  The impacts of PTSD on Long Covid patients were very similar in both those who were hospitalized with more severe symptoms and those who had more mild symptoms and were never hospitalized during the duration of their Covid infection.  The trauma responses aligning with PTSD are because of the impact Covid has on their lives following the illness.  TBI symptoms are due to inflammation caused by the Covid virus, similar to the inflammation caused by a concussion injury.  This inflammation found in Long Covid sufferers typically affects the brain stem, just as is the typical area of inflammation in concussion patients.  

The American Psychiatric Association describes PTSD as an anxiety disorder that must include five major criteria.  In terms of Long Covid, the five criteria are met based on the experiences of Covid-19 and its lasting impacts.  The five criteria in my own personal situation are:  1.) Exposure to an event that threatens safety, triggering a response of fear or helplessness.  In this case, that event is being infected by Covid-19.  2.) Psychological distress when reminded of my trauma; 3.) At least three avoidance symptoms; My personal avoidance symptoms are active avoidance of reminders, withdrawal from others, and emotional numbing.  4.) Marked arousal; Mine include insomnia, difficulty with concentration, and a heightened startle response. 5.) These symptoms must cause considerable functional impairment at least 1 month after the initial trauma event. I first began to notice concerning cognitive symptoms in mid-November, 2021, which was 4-5 weeks after my positive Covid test.  

Treatments for the mental and emotional areas of Long Covid look very similar to the cognitive behavioral therapy used for TBI and PTSD patients.  This therapy can be difficult and extensive.  Working through the traumas that brought me to the place I am at today means digging deep and first facing those triggers and traumas I had kept tucked away in deep, dark places in my brain.  It means knowing that there is some actual physical damage caused to my brain because of the initial infection, and learning how to accommodate for those things that don't work the way they used to work.  It means finding a way to accept that this is my new reality and trying to move forward, even when the future is scary and unknown after thinking I had the whole rest of my life all figured out.  It means living one day at a time and remembering that every teeny, tiny baby step forward is still forward motion and needs to be celebrated.

References

Anschuetz, Nika. “DU Study Finds Similarities in Diagnosis and Treatment for Concussions and Long Covid.” University of Denver, 20 Feb. 2023, www.du.edu/news/du-study-finds-similarities-diagnosis-and-treatment-concussions-and-long-covid#:~:text=There’s%20a%20deficit%20between%20acute,they%20could%20involve%20similar%20treatments.

Bryant, Richard. “Post-traumatic stress disorder vs traumatic brain injury.” Dialogues in clinical neuroscience vol. 13,3 (2011): 251-62. doi:10.31887/DCNS.2011.13.2/rbryant 

Houben-Wilke, Sarah et al. “The Impact of Long COVID-19 on Mental Health: Observational 6-Month Follow-Up Study.” JMIR mental health vol. 9,2 e33704. 24 Feb. 2022, doi:10.2196/33704

 

Let's Be "Matchy"

Being a mom, for me, means unconditional love.  The moment my babies were put into my arms, the overwhelming emotions were beyond words.  The love and protectiveness and pure joy and contentment cannot be matched.  Or so I had thought until my brother gave me a nephew, and then later, a niece.  

Seeing my brother become a dad, and holding his babies for the first time was shockingly similar to those same feelings I'd had when holding my own babies for the first time.  That absolute love and protectiveness and swelling in my chest happened all over again.  Being 8 years older than my brother and 12 years older than my sister, I'd always had a maternal feeling for them, so I guess it shouldn't have been surprising that I'd have those same overwhelming feelings towards their babies.  

I have made an effort to be an active part of their lives.  I've babysat them, colored Easter eggs together, attended their school concerts, swim meets, soccer, football, and baseball games, and taken them to the zoo and swimming.  However, since having Covid and now Long Covid, I have not been able to do those things with them.  That's been really hard because it feels like I'm losing my bond with them, like I don't really know them anymore. They're growing up so quickly, and I feel like I'm missing it.  It feels like just one more thing Covid has taken from me.

When my niece opened a gift from my parents on Easter and it was a romper with the same print as a dress I'd recently bought, I was so excited.  She and I have a little "tradition" of wearing plastic tiaras when we are together.  We have a selfie of us wearing them, and it's one of my favorite pictures.  To be able to be "matchy" at our next family gathering, I told her we should wear our matching romper and dress too!  That gathering is next week, so I'm looking forward to an updated selfie of being matchy in our navy and daisy print outfits, with tiaras in place, of course, to be the queens we deserve to be.  

The Family We Choose

There are so many old sayings such as "blood is thicker than water" and "family is family" and other such quotes.  Those sentiments are framed as wall art, embroidered on pillows, and stated over and over on television shows, movies, books, and even in memes on social media.  However, I do not believe that is always the case.  There are also sayings about finding out who your true friends are when you go through hard times.  Now this I absolutely do believe is infinitely true.

In the last 18 months, as I've dealt with the many symptoms of Long Covid along with complete financial devastation due to loss of wages while going through an 11-month delay in receiving my disability insurance benefits, I truly learned who is there for me, who has my back, and who I consider "family".  Are some of them family, either by blood, adoption, or marriage?  Absolutely.  Are some of them colleagues, friends, neighbors, and strangers?  Again, absolutely.  I have family members who have never once checked in on me or asked how I was doing.  I have family members who have made care packages, brought us suppers, dropped off treats and still check in on me regularly.  I have friends who have shown up to sit beside me at an emotional school board meeting, covered the cost to have my house deep-cleaned, text me weekly to see how I'm doing, bring me coffee, and make an effort to see me.  Others, who I thought were good friends have never reached out, or as time has gone on, have just kind of drifted on with their own lives, separate from me.  

Last year, while battling for my disability insurance to pay what was owed to me, I was completely overwhelmed by the generosity of so many people who I never expected to show the support they did.  People donated time, money, resources, emotional support, and compassion in a way I never could have imagined. Some of these were people I didn't know well, who were parents of students, community members, and anonymous donors who showed unimaginable kindness. I always said that when we were in a position to pay it forward, I absolutely would.  That's what I have been trying to do this year, now that things have calmed down, now that I have the ability to offer those same things to others that they offered to me during a difficult time. 

Yes, we have family.  But family isn't just those related to us.  For me, family is not just formed by blood, but by love.  I read a quote from Elizabeth Warren (that she credited to others before her) that really stuck with me.  "If you don't have a seat at the table, you're probably on the menu."  That's not a table anyone should even want to sit at.  Get your own table and fill the chairs with the family that you deserve to be sitting there with you. 

Happy Anniversary to Us

Tomorrow, May 20th, marks my 23rd anniversary of being married to my husband.  October will mark 25 years together.  That's more than half of my life.  It's crazy to think I have spent over half of my life with this man.  That's a really long time...

The single most significant person in my life was my grandma.  She was my best friend, confidant, cheerleader, and unwavering supporter, as well as my Sunday comics reader, board game opponent, Barbie doll dresser, and roller skating judge.  (The fact that she would let me roller skate around the kitchen, do "tricks" and then hold up a sheet of paper with a "score" on it as I pretended to be various competitors in the Roller Skating Olympics, Kitchen Floor Edition, still makes me shake my head in wonder.)  She passed away when I was 31.  It's hard to believe it's been 17 years since we last spoke.  My grandma is how I measure so many things in my life...It's also hard to believe I've now spent almost as much of my life with my husband as I had with my grandma.  

My husband and I met at a time when we were both really struggling.  Rob bid on a job in the same department I was working in at a local meat processing plant.  (This was during that period of time while I was still trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up.  It paid the bills and had decent benefits.)  One day we were put on a line together, just the two of us, and we spent 10 hours together that day, standing across from each other, and we talked about anything and everything you could possibly imagine.  We discovered during that talk that we were both very recently separated from our spouses.  (I had not told anyone I worked with that my husband had asked for a divorce recently, so it was a surprise to Rob.) He then confided in me that he'd had a huge crush on me several years earlier when I'd worked at a local retail store.  He shared that he'd always made it a point to go through my checkout line.  He even knew what kind of car I had driven and what my rims looked like!  It may sound a bit stalker-ish, but I couldn't help but be flattered.  I confided in him that I'd always thought he was cute, remembered seeing him at the local 4th of July carnival several years earlier, and had commented to my friend how cute he was, and that it was too bad he was married with a baby.  

From that day on we were inseparable.  We spent 10 hours a day, 6 days a week working together and getting to know each other.  Our first date was dinner at Village Inn.  I actually told him at the end of that date that I didn't think it was going to work, that I just needed to focus on myself and my young son.  But he didn't give up.  He pursued me with flowers, balloons, songs dedicated to me on the radio, the works.  So, of course, I gave in.  And, as they say, the rest is history.

It has definitely not been 23 years of blissful married life. We've had many ups and downs.  We've suffered through the loss of a baby, the loss of my three remaining grandparents, and the loss of his mom (which almost meant the loss of our marriage as well because grief sometimes drives you to sabotage your life.)  But, through thick and thin, we've made it.  After 25 years together, married for 23, we are in it for the long haul.  We are best friends, we have built a life together, and we are each other's meaning of family.  No matter what happens, we have each other's backs, and we stand beside each other regardless of what else is going on around us or between us.  At the end of the day, it's us.

And, to be honest, if I laced up some roller skates and asked Rob to watch me do tricks in the kitchen, then hold up my scores on sheets of paper, I guarantee he'd do it.  But only if I let him have a turn at competing in the Roller Skating Olympics, Kitchen Floor Edition too!

Happy Bittersweet Day

Being a mom is hard.  Having a day to celebrate being a mom isn't always the best or easiest day either.  There are the women who desperately want to be moms, but have not been able to do so.  There are the moms who wish they still had their own moms, but have lost them.  There are the moms who have lost their child or children.  There are the moms who do not have relationships with their children, for a plethora of reasons.  There are the moms who don't have a relationship with their own moms, also for a plethora of reasons.  Mother's Day isn't always cards and flowers and chocolates and breakfast in bed.

Where I live high school graduation is held on Mother's Day every year.  I hate it.  Spending Mother's Day watching my children graduate is not how I would ever choose to spend Mother's Day.  It's stressful, emotional, such a roller coaster of a day.  It's also A LOT of work to prepare for and host a graduation party.  It's such a sense of pride, sadness, love, and anxiousness all rolled into one when you see your babies reaching such a huge milestone.  A gym full of people, so many emotions, pride, joy, and sadness all combined in my tears.  It's just not how I would ever willingly choose to spend Mother's Day.  But I did it.  Four times.

As for being a mom, there is nothing in this world more important to me.  It truly is life's greatest gift to have carried my babies for 9 months, to bring them into the world, and to watch them grow and learn and become their own individual selves.  My babies are all grown up now, but they still have my whole heart, and always will.  I was also blessed with two bonus sons when I married their dad.  Being a stepmom is hard, has a negative connotation to it.  It has always felt like I was being scrutinized, judged, doubted.  But, I can say with 100% sincerity, both of my stepsons have brought me so much joy and happiness, and I love them both to the moon and back.  

Today, I am going to do what I've been doing every Mother's Day for the last 15+ years (minus the years I was attending graduations); I'm going to plant my flowers in the pots and baskets on my deck.  It brings me so much happiness to see them grow, to see all their colors when I sit outside on the deck.  It's funny how something so simple can bring so much contentedness.  But, it's true, it really is the little things in life.  

Happy (Bittersweet) Mother's Day to me, to all the moms reading this, and to all the moms who are still waiting for their babies, and to all the grandmas and dads and aunts and teachers and neighbors and family and friends who have stepped into the role of "mom" for those who need them.  

Overweight and Out of Shape

Overweight and out of shape.  Those are words that could possibly have been used to describe me literally my entire life.  And maybe they even were...I was the largest of my mom's 3 babies.  I was a chubby child.  I always hated that day in the fall and then again in the spring during those elementary school years when the school nurse showed up, lined us up in the hall, and weighed and measured us.  Right...in front of...the entire class.  

Then there was junior high and those dreaded showers.  Oh my gosh, how I worried the summer before 7th grade, imagining those locker room showers and being judged by everyone.  But, it ended up not being so bad. Our PE teacher only made us shower once each quarter to give us our "shower grade".  And even then, everyone else was just as mortified about them as I was, so we all changed with our backs to each other, and we were FAST, everyone equally distraught about the whole ordeal.  

In high school, all was good.  I had friends.  I had boyfriends.  I had a part-time job, a car, and just did all the things high school kids do in small-town mid-America.  I certainly didn't put much thought into my weight.  I had been a size 18 from "school-clothes shopping" the summer before 6th grade all the way to my high school graduation, except for a very brief period of time at the start of my junior year.  That was after my first really big heartbreak occurred, and I could wear a size 14 for about a month.  But, I quickly grew out of them again as I moved on to bigger and better things and my appetite returned at the same pace that my heart healed.  

Weight was always just something in the back of my mind, but not something I stressed about too much as an adult.  It didn't stop me from doing the things I wanted to do.  It didn't stop me from going places, from buying clothes, from being active, from dating, hanging out with friends, or any of the things a young adult does during those first years out of school.  

It wasn't until after a couple of kids and 15 years down the road, when I was a size 24/26, that I really actively pursued serious weight-loss and the whole "diet and exercise thing" that I saw other people doing so diligently.  My motivation was a wedding I was going to be in, and a bridesmaid's dress I had to wear.  I was in my mid-30's, weighed about 100 pounds more than I'd weighed in my mid-twenties, gaining about 10 pounds a year each of the previous 10 years, so it hadn't even been a big deal to me as it was happening.  After all, that had been less than a pound a month, so it had just gradually crept up on me.  I was teaching middle school, absolutely loved my job, had great kids, a great husband, great friends, and life really was just "GREAT" during that period of time.  I began logging my calories, borrowed a friend's elliptical, and in 10 months, just in time for the wedding, I'd lost 50 pounds.  It was such a change in my body that I had to have my dress taken in several inches just days before the wedding when I tried it on!  However, over that next year, life just went on as a busy, working mom and wife, I stopped being so strict with my calorie counting, my friend needed her elliptical back, and I'd gained those lost 50 pounds by the end of the following year.  

I bounced around within the same 20 pound range over the next 10 years, sometimes up 10, sometimes down 10, but always within that same 20 pound range of the weight I'd been before my 50 pound "wedding weight loss" had happened.  It wasn't enough to cause my clothing size to change or for there to be any big changes in my appearance, my fitness level, my annual bloodwork at the doctor's office, or my life.  In late 2020/early 2021 I tried a prescription appetite suppressant.  It worked.  I lost about 30 pounds in 3-4 months, which was the limit to how many months my doctor would prescribe it at a time.  But the weight came right back on as soon as I stopped taking it.  I wasn't too concerned though.  I had been following the same "healthy habits" for the last 10 years. I tried to eat well Monday-Friday, splurged on the weekends if there was something I was craving or if there was something really ooey-gooey and decadent I wanted to cook or bake.  That was the life balance that worked for me.  And it did work. My doctor had even told me I was "the poster child" for not being able to tell someone's health by their outward appearance because all my labs were always great; my good cholesterol was high, my bad cholesterol was low, and my blood sugar and blood pressure were both good.

I was confident in saying 2021 was going to be a good year.  We had made it through our first full school year after being closed due to the pandemic.  I was teaching my "dream job" position, and loving every minute of it.  Summer break was one of the best I'd had in years.  I was just focusing on eating well, being active, reading, keeping my house clean and organized, playing frisbee every day with my dog while getting lots of natural vitamin D, cooking healthy meals when my husband came home from work, and enjoying every day.  We went to the zoo, went swimming, and even drove to Missouri to watch the Chiefs at Training Camp.  I was excited for the upcoming school year, and just really loving life.  

School started for the 2021-22 school year, and it was as great as I'd hoped.  I loved my 100+ new 6th graders, I was so excited for everything I had planned for the year, and I threw so much energy and enthusiasm into planning my lessons.  I dressed up for EVERY SINGLE DAY of Homecoming Spirit Week for the first time in the 22 years I'd worked there.  I was completely and totally in the groove and "living the dream" I'd always wanted.  Then, 8 weeks into that glorious, magical school year, I tested positive for Covid.  

I quarantined for my 14 days, as was the protocol at that time.  I was still very winded, weak, exhausted, and still had this mysterious swelling at the end of the 2 weeks, so took a third week off to continue recovering, and then returned.  By the end of that first week back, I was so worn down, I couldn't quite make it to the end of the day on Friday and left early.  I was completely defeated, in pain, exhausted, and the edema was worse and worse with each passing day.  My principal was so kind, so concerned.  He completely supported me trying to only work half-days that next week. But it soon became apparent that something wasn't right.  I started each Monday thinking, "OK, this is the week I am back in the swing of things."  But it wasn't mind over matter.  Not even close.  The more I pushed myself the more exhausted I was, the more pain, the more fluid built up, the more headaches, the more brain fog, confusion.  My shortness of breath began to get worse and worse, my heart was racing all the time, and the edema in my lower extremities was horrible.  Then more and more cognitive issues began to develop.  The more I tried to do, the worse I felt, the more I pushed myself, the more I felt like I was getting pushed back.  But by what, I didn't know...And then, it finally all added up.  I had Post-Covid Syndrome, now more commonly known as Long Covid.  

It's been 18 months now, since that first week I tried to return to work.  It's been 18 months of nerve, joint, and muscle pain, headaches, dizziness, severe edema, and debilitating exhaustion.  It's been 18 months of dealing with cognitive deficits, loss of mobility and balance, loss of some dexterity and fine motor skills.  It's been 18 months of gaining 40 pounds of fluid, losing it with diuretics, filling right back up with 40 pounds of fluid when the meds stop, and repeating this cycle.  Now it's to the point that even the diuretics aren't working.  The fluid doesn't leave, just shifts up and down my legs, into my abdomen, up into my arms, back down into my legs. My shortness of breath has gotten worse and worse, my racing heart sometimes feels like it's going to pound right out of my chest, and even the smallest of tasks is absolutely exhausting.  It's gotten to the point where it's difficult to even leave the house more often than not, and is rarely worth the amount of time and energy it takes for me to do so.  Just forcing myself to still get up to an alarm each day, to get out of bed, to get fully dressed, comb my hair, throw it up in a bun, and make it down the hall to the couch is a feat in itself.  

Some of the doctors I've seen and been treated by have been amazing.  They have shown kindness, compassion, and patience with me as I've explained my symptoms.  They've included me in decisions, listened to my concerns, and even to my ideas. They've gone above and beyond to help me navigate a disease they are still only just now learning about themselves. Others have looked at me and seen an overweight and out of shape woman in her late 40's, and they can see nothing else.  No matter what I tell them or what they see in my chart, they see overweight and out of shape, and look no further.  I must just be deconditioned from those 3 weeks I was off with Covid. (Oh, you mean those 3 weeks I was off 18 months ago?)  

I can't deny being overweight.  I have not been considered in the "average weight" range since I was about 5 years old.  I've even received such backhanded compliments as, "It's a good thing you're overweight  because if you were pretty AND thin, you probably wouldn't be as nice of a person."  Ummm...thanks...?  And I'm sure as heck not an athlete.  I was once asked to sub on a "just for fun" women's volleyball team, and literally told them they would be at less of an advantage being a player short than having me play on their team.  But you know what else?  I was overweight and out of shape the summer of 2021 when I was living my best life.  I was overweight and out of shape when I tested positive for Covid in October of 2021, and I was still overweight and out of shape when I was still feeling ill in November and again in December, and still in February 2022 when I was officially diagnosed with Long Covid.  But, is that what's "wrong" with me?  No.  Is this overweight and out of shape identity something I've only taken on since being home with Covid for those 3 weeks over 18 months ago?  Nope, not accurate either.  Should ALL  doctors (and other medical personnel), and strangers, and even colleagues, and heck, even friends and family, always remember that there is a lot more to someone than just their physical appearance?  Absolutely.  Because, last I checked, just being overweight and out of shape has never stopped me from living my best life.  

Grieving Someone Who Is Still Living

I want to text about the game, about a call, a penalty, a play...then I remember I can't.  I want to send a screenshot of a funny meme.  I remember something and want to text about it.  

I recall memories gone by..."The muffin pan, the muffin pan..." Every. Single. Time. I get in the closet and see my muffin tins.  

Every single time it rains, do you know I hear a little voice singing, "Rain, rain, go away, come aday another gain" in my head?

You changed my life.  You SAVED my life.  I was going to end it.  I didn't want to live.  Feeling your little feet kicking inside my tummy is why I didn't.  The ONLY reason I didn't.  I could do that to me.  I couldn't do that to you.  You deserved a chance.

I tried so hard.  I was young.  I know 21 isn't as young as many moms, but at 48 I can say that 21 is young.  I didn't have the patience.  I didn't know to appreciate things in the moment that I look back on and savor now.  But you were my entire world.  I married someone I thought would be a good dad to you because I wanted you to have everything you deserved, and in my mind that meant a mommy, a daddy, a  house, meals together, two cars in the driveway, and the bills paid every week.  

That guy, he gave us that for 3 years, and I loved you so much, that every black eye and swollen temple was worth it to me as long as you were being taken care of the way I wanted you to be taken care of.  But when he told me I couldn't read you a story before bed, when he told me you couldn't have your nightly "Little Critter" book read to you, that's when it got ugly.  I ignored him.  He could do whatever he wanted to me, but I would not let him interfere with the bond between you and me, and bedtime stories were part of that bond. When he hit me in front of you, with your toy, your plastic golf club across my upper back, when you saw the way his eyes turned black and his face turned to rage, that's when I knew I needed a new plan.  When I still didn't leave your side, when I stayed in your room, composed myself, and continued reading, and he came back with a knife in his hand, that was the beginning of the end.  Protecting you was all that mattered.  From the moment I saw that positive pregnancy test, that's all that ever mattered.

When you were three, I met someone who loved me and adored you instantly, and he married me and adopted you and gave you two brothers and together we gave you a little sister who literally turned your eyes into sparkly little hearts, and I thought I'd finally gotten everything I'd ever dreamed of having.  And for while it was.  It really, really was...

As you got older, I know our ideas of me protecting you were a lot different, but that's all I ever tried to do.  I just wanted to see you do great things.  I wanted to support you in everything you wanted to do, I wanted to help you blossom and grow. I wanted to protect you from paths I felt were not the best for you, even if you disagreed with me.  I still do, even today, even when you're now all grown up...as a mother, I don't think that ever probably changes....

You didn't see the bills that were paid late so you could have the bat you wanted or the uniform that had to be paid for or the cleats you needed.  You didn't realize the pay advances Dad had to ask for to cover hotels for an out of state tournament or to cover gas and meals for 3 days on the road every weekend. And you shouldn't have seen those things because that wasn't your burden to bear, and as parents we do what need to do to give you the opportunities we can give you to thrive and to succeed.  In return, respecting those sacrifices rather than considering them irresponsible choices is how you show gratitude.  

Parenting is hard.  Really, really hard.  And expensive. And filled with regrets.   And what ifs.  And if onlys.  And time goes really fast and no matter how much you try to appreciate each moment, it's gone before you know it, and you only have the memories.

So I will sing "The muffin pan, the muffin pan," and I will think "Blue Dog" every time I see "Pluto" and I will achingly hold back the urge to text about the game and the crap calls and the funny memes, and I will hope and pray that someday an understanding of perception vs intent will be reached because Time is a selfish thief in this short life of ours.