I Want My MTV... err... Money For Nothing

I have written and deleted this post six or seven times.  I just don't know what to write about.

I thought that I would write about the fact that John and I just celebrated our birthdays.  A week apart leaves little room for catching one's breath between celebrations.  But, we did it!  And both of us felt "special" and loved on our days.  And we each felt a bit heavier too.  Birthday cakes and celebratory cupcakes can never be "fat free" on a birthday!

Then, I considered writing about my type 1 diabetes and how difficult that has been lately. (and no, it's not because of our totally fattening birthday goodies)  But, I have written about that several times and am tired of saying the same things over and over again.  The ignorant s who read my posts will not be less ignorant from another post of mine...

So, I decided to write about one thing that makes me the most proud.

And that is that I was finally

PUBLISHED!!!

That's right.  I finally made it in print form into a publication that I submitted to, had edited (by others), and then I was accepted.  I received the publication in the mail yesterday!  My hands were shaking so badly when I got the manila envelope in the mail.  Olivia was in the car with me and she asked me why I was so giddy.  I told her it's because I was finally published.  And since all I've been doing is working on my novel and blogging lately, she knew exactly what I meant by, "I am published!"  :)

I feel so proud of myself.  Not just because my submission was accepted, but because I have always considered myself a writer.  I write for the sheer fun and total joy I find in writing.  I haven't ever done it to be published or accepted by others.  Sure, I am working on a book, but I highly doubt that will ever be seen by the rest of the world.  I'm sure with the exception of a few rejection letters, that John and I will be the only ones that will enjoy my book... But, that's okay by me.  I don't need the recognition of my work in order to feel satisfied in my writing skills.

I know I am a good writer.

Those that write for a paycheck or for other's acceptance sometimes miss the completely freeing awareness that one gets while writing.

Without further anticipation and ado, I give you my published work:

Is There a Monster at the End?

     As each dawn brings a new day, so each day brings us closer to seeing the end of all libraries.  As I walked through my local building of books and unending imagination the other day, that is the thought that kept leafing through my head.  After all, America is really good at saying goodbye to the really greats. 

     The vinyl record?  Replaced with iPods and MP3 players.  The handwritten letter from grandma?  Your phone alerts you to an email sent from grandma (sans flowery stationary, of course.)  Heck, even notes between girlfriends are now “tweets” and “texts.”   So, why should we keep lugging our mountain of books each one hurriedly read so you can get it back on time (sure), but also because you can’t wait for the next book in the series back to the library?  Why should we continue dragging our two-and-a-half year old kids to that home of rectangular edifices called books? 

     Why?

      How about, “Why not?”

     The library is one of the few remaining bastions of solitude left on this planet where being alone with our thoughts, alone with our reflections of the day, alone with what’s left of our sanity is not only the norm, but also kept as a general rule by the few librarians out there.
     Some of the publishing conglomerates out there are trying to murder books by relegating written matter into handheld devices called Kindles and Tablets.  While nothing is inherently wrong about that, I find it offensive that I am being forced to read some of my favorite authors on my smart phone instead of picking up that dusty and slightly bent novel.  I, for one, still have a relationship with my local library.  I also frequent my favorite neighborhood “mom and pop” store as I browse for those books that I fondly refer to as “keepers.” 

     Perhaps I am a stubborn curmudgeon because I was brought up learning about libraries, and taught how to properly read the Dewey Decimal System.   Standing before the card catalog, my fingers would deliberately march through that drawer of numbers and letters, and with much elation I would eventually pick up my book and check it out, proudly signing my ever-so-neat cursive name.  All this hunter-gatherer routine would surely sound mundane to the child who obsesses over Candy Crush on her phone.  But finding that perfect book that you can’t put down is something I always found joy in.  Library books even have a certain scent to them as well, don’t they?  They smell as familiar to me as freshly cut grass on a summer Saturday or spaghetti sauce on top of the stove.  That is something you won’t ever get to appreciate once you have surrendered your soul to inkless words pixelated on glass. 

     Once you start taking away libraries, you may as well say goodbye to the fireworks at the Fourth of July party or the hot dogs at your favorite ballgame stadium.  I don’t know… maybe I am just a silly little thirty something who is straining to hold onto a past that will inevitably be impossible to hold onto.  I sure hope not.  

     I hope that libraries are still standing when I start to read to my grandchildren.  I want to read all of the classics to them.  All of the Little Golden Books that I read growing up should still be around in paper form so my grandchildren can turn the pages and feel that same anticipation I did.  “There’s A Monster at the End of This Book” just wouldn't read the same on a Kindle. 

If we keep going down the same path we’re headed down today, I fear that the monster at the end of my book will be standing in an Amazon distribution center where a library used to stand.































































   

                                                 

Father's Day (times two?)

One of my favorite guys in the world gave me a ride to my pain management appointment today.  When I hopped - well, my version of hop, anyway - into his truck, he already had the AC running on high and he held out his over worked hand so he could help me into the passenger side...

Daddy and I have always had a special bond.  Maybe it's because I was his first born daughter after seeing three boys come before me.  Or maybe it's because I put him through the ringer when I was a teenager.  It could be because I take the time to heed his well spoken and thought out advice.  Whatever it is, my dad and I are close and I do cherish the times we have together.  Particularly when it's just the two of us.

On the way home from Allentown today, he took a detour.  I was a little confused as to why he made that right hand turn at the light, because I have always went straight, ready to put Allentown far behind me so I can get home quickly.  So, a little confused, I looked over at him and asked, "Daddy, why did you turn back at the light?"

He winked at me and asked me how often I get out of the (my) house.

"Well, it's a rare occasion that gets me out of the living room, let alone the house."

He laughed his contagious laugh and said, "Well, I'm doing you a favor.  You don't get out much, and this way home is alot more scenic."

So, I leaned back into the passenger side seat and put my head into a position that gave the best view to look out the window.  I was indeed going to enjoy the view.  My usual commute home from Allentown is Rt. 100, through little towns and past lots of shops and restaurants.  Cars, gas stations, traffic lights galore.

Daddy's route?
Windy roads that cut through deep woods and beautiful landscapes.  Flowers and birds.  Big spacious homes and tiny cute cottages alike.  Hardly any traffic.  It wasn't long before I had no idea as to where we were...  Let alone how long this particular route would take.

About three minutes or so into this new change of terrain and scenery for me, I had to make a few phone calls.  My first phone call turned into a dropped call.  Sighing with a bit of frustration, my dad suddenly pulled into the parking lot of a cute little church.
I asked him what we were doing there and he said, "Go ahead.  Make your phone calls.  I want to make sure you have good reception for awhile."
So, I thanked him.  And with gratitude I redialed the phone and made the three phone calls that I needed to make.

About three quarters of the way home, I finally started to recognize the buildings and landscape.  I excitedly told Daddy that I knew where we were.

He looked at me and said, "I knew where we were the whole time sweetie."

I almost started to cry.
Isn't that just the sweetest thing a good dad could say to his daughter?

She, confused about where she is and not knowing what is around the next turn.  Looking for stability and answers, she turns to the first man in her life for guidance... And he is always there.  Always and forever holding her hand and helping her up after she has fallen.


I love my dad.  He was the first "love of my life".  He has seen me through some of the hardest times and most difficult decisions that I ever had to face.  And when I married my husband, he was the first one (on my side of the family) to say "Congratulations!" and really mean it... I couldn't imagine the thoughts going through his head when he knew some other man was going to take over.  Some other man was going to be helping me, guiding me, and holding my hand through life's sometimes trying days.  
Even if John and I were separated, due to hunting trips or work trips, I always know Daddy is there for me to fall back on.  To catch me if I happened to misstep.  To kill all eight legged arachnids.  To fix the broken lamp so I can see in my living room.
Yes, my dad has always be there for me.
I don't ever want to think about how my life would be without him.

So, while I still have him, I will appreciate him.  I will hug him a little tighter next time we see each other.  I will look at him for a bit longer.  I will really pay attention to what he has to say.  I will never take him for granted.  I will always look up to him...

This one is for my dad.
Daddy.

I love you Daddy!

Mom's Great Advice

 Today is Father's Day.  A day that some people find inferior to Mother's Day.  

I disagree.

After all, if it weren't for the hard work, the wisdom, the dedication of my own dad, I know that our own family would've fallen apart a long time ago.

My husband, John, who happens to be the most terrific Daddy to our Olivia, is one of the kindest and strongest men I have ever known.

I recognize the hardships and sacrifices that John has made to be sure that Olivia and I are not only happy, but deeply loved as well.

And John isn't the only one that has suffered to make sure that his family is happy.  My dad used to work long hours every weeknight so that all five of his children wanted for nothing.  He usually did all of the grocery shopping as well.  But, when he wheeled out the two carts full of groceries out to his car every Thursday evening, he always had a look of pride and of accomplishment on his face.

And it didn't stop there either.  He would make sure that the house always was in working order.  He'd be up early on Saturday morning fixing this or repairing that.  He added on rooms to an already enormous house.  He made sure there was a pool in the back yard for us to go swimming in.  He was always straightening the stones in the driveway so pot holes wouldn't be too prevalent.

My daddy always made sure we were loved by instilling good Christian values in all of us.  Moral and values that I still strive to live up to in my own family as well.

Yes, Father's Day is an important day after all.

John, in many ways, mirrors my dad.
John is kind hearted, he is compassionate, he is very loyal, and he loves his family with all of his heart and soul.  When I was a child, my mom would often say, "When you marry, make sure it is someone like your dad."
I never really understood that.  Not until I took her advice and married John, that is.
John is very much like my own dad.  And I love him and respect him for all that he does and all that he tries to do as well.
Without the men in our lives that not only raised us, but who love us today, I fear that no woman would be complete.  I know that John is the other half of me.  I wouldn't be a whole person if it weren't for everything he does.  I know that he loves me and that he takes his job as Olivia's father very seriously.

I try to tell him, at least once everyday, how much he means to us.  That we couldn't be where we are today, if it weren't for his hard work and loyalty to us.  I hope that he knows just how much we need him...

Happy Father's Day to all the men out there, to all of you who work tirelessly to provide for their families.  To all of those men who come home to read to their children, to make sure their wives are doing well.

Yes, Father's Day is a very important day...

John and Olivia

Daddy and me

My dad and John

John and Olivia

Daddy and me

Reacquainted With Hospital Staff

Friday night was the night when my life took a really, really weird turn.

John needed a little break and decided to do a little camping with his good friend.  Olivia made plans to spend a weekend with one of her really good friends. I, knowing I was going to be alone had picked out several Netflix movies and was kind of looking forward to some peaceful -er... peace and quiet.

So, with thoughts of movie watching and popcorn popping rolling around in my head I had settled down on the couch and put my feet up.  I was going to enjoy this time, alone and (pretty much) responsibility free...
Of course, as a type 1 diabetic, saying goodbye to all responsibility is (or should be) an impossible task.  I was soon going to be reminded of that very thing, although I had no idea as to what extent.

I had just pushed play on my new favorite show "Scandal" when my phone rang. It was John calling to say that he got settled and was just starting a fire.  He also wanted to see how I was doing and our conversation went well.  Towards the end of the conversation, though, I had begun to feel ------ "iffy" is the word that comes to mind.
I told John that I wasn't feeling the greatest and I wanted to hang up and check my blood sugar level.
We said our "I love you's" and our "goodbyes" and hung up.
When I checked it, it was a frightening and dangerous low  31.
Realizing the situation was serious, I texted John my news.
And that was it.
I passed out.
The rest of the night's events are from what little recollection I have (because I was in and out of consciousness) and from what John was able to surmise what was happening from over the phone...

While I was passed out - John had texted me about six times inside of an hour.  I didn't know it at the time, because I was passed out on the couch.  After he had sent these texts, he then had started to call.  Over and over again.
I am so happy he did.  One of those phone calls shook me out of my unconscious state.  I had missed his last one, so I immediately pushed the one button on my phone that leads to my number one I.C.E. (in case of emergency) contact, who happens to be John.
He answered, and I had started to scream at him.  (Apparently, screaming is something I do when my blood sugar is very low.  And I'm told that this sort of thing happens to alot of type 1's who are having an extremely low blood sugar attack)  While I was yelling and screaming at John, I became only semi aware that something was wrong.  But, in my confused and disoriented state, I was still unsure as to what to do about it. I could hear John yelling my name and telling me to "EAT!  EAT!  YOU HAVE TO EAT SYLVIA!"
I again yelled at him and asked him where he was.
He quickly told me he was camping.  He then instructed me to go to the refrigerator and get the jar of jelly out.
"You need to eat jelly.  Get a spoon, and eat some jelly!"
I don't remember most of that (to me) very confusing conversation.  He later told me everything he was saying to me.
He also said that I argued about the amount of sugar in jelly and that I didn't want my blood sugar to go high....
SIGH...
I was so confused and had no idea as to what I should have been doing.

*The first thing I need to do if my blood sugar is too low is to do exactly that.  Eat lots of sugar - in any form, but some things raise it faster than others.*   But, like I said, I was suffering from a very low blood sugar attack.  So, my mind was not making any sense at the time.  And I had no idea as to what to do.

Something in the back of my mind told me to get the spoon and to start eating lots of jelly.
So, with the phone lying next to me on the couch, and with a spoon in my hand, that is precisely what I did. I started to eat lots of jelly.
During my feast of eating  jelly, I had passed out for a second time.  I know I did,  because when I reawakened, the phone was no longer connected with John and there was jelly all over the place.  There were things all over my living room floor as well.  All of the remote controllers had been knocked over and I had at one point tried to give myself glucose tablets, because there were several of those on the floor.  I even, in my confused and altered state,  had taken the glucagon emergency kit out and had opened it up.
Although I don't remember doing some of these things, the only one in the house at that time was me.
So, I must have done all of this stuff without even realizing it.

So, after awhile, I did eventually wake up.  I was covered in sweat, from head to toe.  My head was pounding so hard and it hurt so unbelievably bad.  John was again calling me.  I answered and was very confused.
He told me that I needed to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  I asked him why.  He explained that I had suffered from a diabetic coma.  That my blood sugar was really low.  I don't  know if I didn't believe him or if I was just being sure, so I told him I was going to check my blood sugar.  It was at that time up to a 42.  Still very low, but I was at least "with it" enough to know that what John was saying was right.
So, I went to check my past numbers from that night, and sure enough, there was a 31 and even a 28 in there!
I still have no idea as to when I had taken the 28 reading.
But, finally, there I was.  Semi alert and only semi with it.  But, enough to know that I should eat, and eat very quickly.
So, while John was still on the phone with me, that's exactly what I did.  I ate a PB&J and drank some massive amounts of sweet tea.
All the while, John kept talking to me, to make sure I was ok and to make sure I was eating.
After the binge eating was through, he asked me who my blood sugar had gotten so low.  I told him that I had no idea.  I mean, I hadn't eaten dinner yet, because I had eaten a late lunch.  But, even skipping a meal does NOT make me crash to that extent.  Never, in the 15 years of having type 1 diabetes have I ever gone that low from not having dinner.  And besides, I had eaten a late lunch and had planned on eating dinner, just not at 7.  I had planned on eating about 8 or so.
Anyway, John and I had stayed on the phone with one another for about an hour after that.  I had slowly became aware - fully aware - of what had happened that night.  And John had started to tell me some stories from his short trip thus far.
After that, I told John that I wanted to straighten up the mess in the living room.   I had thanked him for trying so hard to help me, even from far away.  And he told me he loved me and that he would be calling me every hour on the hour to make sure I was still alive.
He did call the next hour, but after that he had stopped calling.  And out of curiosity, I decided to check my blood sugar for the umpteenth time again.
My sugars were doing the opposite as to what they should have been doing.  They were going down (again) instead of going up.
I immediately dialed John's number and he told me again to eat what I could.
That was the last I had heard from him.

I took care of my sugars with glucose tablets and some more food.  By that time, it was very late.  About 1 or so in the morning.
I ended up in bed, exhausted from the night's happenings.
I awoke to John standing next to me at our bed.
I thought I was dreaming!  John was supposed to be on the river, camping!
But, there he was, jelly in one hand and the glucagon kit in the other.
"Sylvia!"  He was yelling for me to get up.
I looked at him and asked him what the heck he was doing home....
He helped me out of bed, and out to the living room.  I checked my blood sugar and it was at 67.  He sighed a sigh of relief and handed me some more glucose tablets.
He then said that he was so worried about me and my situation that he had paddled down stream, in the dark, five miles, got in his van, and raced home.  He told me that he wasn't sleeping anyway, due to his worry for me and that he didn't feel comfortable leaving me alone all weekend.

I know that man loves me.

I knew it before he had paddled down stream - in the bloody dark, mind you - to come home and make sure I was ok.
But, I know that man loves me...
We had stayed up that entire night.  Talking about the weird things that happened to him and his friend on the river.  And we, of course, talked about my low blood sugar attack, times two.  Neither of us got much sleep that night - or morning, I guess you could call it... .
The next day, I had looked at my pump and realized that it had reset itself.  It had shut off and reset itself with completely different settings.  I was so astonished!  That is why my blood sugar had crashed.  That is why I had no idea as to what happened.  Scary, yes.  Unfixable, no.

My endocrinologist had told me (after I called them to alert them of what had happened)  that I needed to order a new pump.  Which I did.

So, now that John was home with me, and all was well withing the world of type 1 diabetes again, we set ourselves up to watch TV, movies, and Netflix the rest of the weekend.

Or so I thought.

It turns out that my body had other plans.
I had started to fight a pretty bad viral infection (although I didn't know I was fighting a viral infection till later)  early Saturday morning.  Like, 4 am Saturday morning.  I had started to throw up and my stomach didn't stop at that either.  I had also been going #2 alot, and not in the way that you're supposed to go number 2... Like, I think you get the picture... vomiting and diarrhea.  BIG TIME.
All day Saturday and all day Sunday, about once an hour (and at times more than that) I was visiting the bathroom to do both puking and sitting on the toilet.  I was in so much pain and I became so drained of any and all energy, and this all happened so quickly....
By Monday morning, I had started to feel just a tad better.  Just a tad.  But, well enough to go to my pain management doctor's appointment.  I had run out of my pain meds on Monday morning and I needed to get those meds.  The medicine I take for my small fiber neuropathy pain cannot be called in.  The prescriptions need to be picked up.
I got to my appointment and realized that my "stomach" issues were starting to show it's ugly head again while in the office.
I was called into a room, where they took my blood pressure.  It was extremely high.  When I say my blood pressure was high, believe me, it was high!  They had told me it was 200 over 102.  That's like stroke or heart attack victim high!  I couldn't believe it!
And apparently, neither could they.
They told me that I needed to go immediately to the hospital.
I looked at them for a few seconds, dumbfounded.
How could my blood pressure be that high?
I had been taking high blood pressure medication for years!  Two different types of blood pressure medication to be exact... and I take these two pills every single day.

So, I took my script from them for my pain meds and sat in my car for a minute or two after I left my doctor's office - all the way up in Allentown, about an hour away from home.
I called John.
I told him what was going on.
He told me that if I felt I should go in to the ER, that I should go in to the ER.
So, I did.
I asked him if I should just go to Lehigh Valley Hospital (which was right across the street) or if I should chance it and head to my local hospital, who has all of my information and knows me really well...
John said to go where I felt more comfortable.
I headed to my own local hospital.  After all, I had just gone to the ER about two weeks prior to that with pneumonia.
After registering at the front desk and getting a hospital bracelet, I was taken to triage right away.
They quickly determined that yes, my blood pressure was dangerously high.  And yes, my blood sugars were also very dangerously high.  And that yes, vomiting and diarrhea for the last few days was serious enough to have me be admitted to spend a few days in the hospital.
Ugh...
The last place I wanted to be was back in the hospital again.
The best place I should have been was back in the hospital again.
So, I was admitted to the hospital.
After loads of tests and examinations, I was told by day 2 that I was fighting a severe viral infection and that I had gone sepsis for the second time in two weeks.  All of the doctor's that I saw during my stay surmised that I had picked up something from my last hospital stay when I was in with pneumonia.
They had put me into isolation while they were running all of these tests.  And for the most part, all I did there (besides vomit and have diarrhea) was sleep.  I slept almost the entire time I stayed there...
I had run some pretty high fevers and my blood sugars were so out of whack and my stomach ailments were all enough to leave me feeling as though I was hit by 5 or 6 tractor trailers....

I had again responded well to the drugs given me in the hospital.  I was severely dehydrated, but as soon as they started to pump fluids into me, I had started to see a light at the end of the tunnel.  I had started to eat more than liquid and by day 3, I had felt as if I was a new woman.
So, another hospital stay under my belt... And all of it started with extremely low blood sugar on Friday night...
Sigh...
I am hoping that my days of being inside of a hospital room are long over.  And I hope that my pain meds can be changed at my next appointment which is coming up in a week or so...

So, I guess that's it...
For now...
My life has been - well  - exciting lately, to say the least.
I am happy to be home and recovering here.  And I'm happy to be able to see John and Olivia every day.  I am blessed to have such good insurance, that I will never see a bill for either stay.  And I am happy that the nurses and docs at my local hospital are so good to me...

Thanks for reading and take good care!!!

Getting Better Acquainted with Hospital Staff

As I limped into the ER on Thursday night and then gratefully slumped into a wheelchair - brought over to me by a concerned nurse - I never thought that I wouldn't have been leaving that night.
I mean, I know I was sick.  I know I needed major help.  I know that I would not have gotten better at home had I just "waited it out."
I just didn't know how seriously sick I was till - after an hour or so of being there - a nurse came over and said to the doctor, "So, what's going on with her?"  (she's pointing at me)
The doc says, "She's not going anywhere except for upstairs to a room."

I am ahead of myself here.

I am sorry.

But, you must forgive me.

I've been -and this is putting it very mildly - under the weather.

Wednesday morning I woke up with a jolt.  My eyes got real big.  And I could tell that I didn't have much time between realizing it was going to happen and it actually happening.
I grabbed the slightly dusty "puke bucket"  from under the bed and prepared for some very painful vomiting. I tore my glasses from my face, pulled my hair from out from around my face, and started to throw up very violently.

I didn't go to bed feeling badly at all.  In fact, the next morning, my cousin had plans on coming over to my house to cut Olivia's hair (before I dropped her off to go to school)

But, there I was.  Crying, puking, crying, and puking some more.

Normally, I try to vomit as quietly and as calmly as possible.  When I was preggers with Olivia, I did my fair share of throwing up, but it quickly got to be annoying for all of those around me.  My cat would get scared and run away.  Well, excuse me Spot, but I am trying to grow a human here!My husband would quietly sit there, my hair in his hands and let me do my thing, only to ask me later (as nicely as possible - and he truly was very sweet about the whole thing) to try and not get so upset during those times in my life when the things inside of me desperately wanted to be on the outside of me.  His thought was that if I was a bit calmer that it wouldn't hurt so much.  And he was right.  The less of a spectacle I had made while throwing up, the easier the whole process was.

So, years ago I had mastered the art of stealth vomiting.
This time, though, there was zero stealth in my puking...
I had nothing to vomit, so all that was coming out was bile - or whatever lies in your stomach while your stomach awaits for it's next meal.

So, Wednesday was not a good day.

Thursday, I had started to feel much worse.  By Thursday, the vomiting had ceased, but I had developed a cough that was increasingly getting worse.

That's when I decided to pay a visit to my family doctor.

He had diagnosed me as having bronchitis.  By my appointment with him, I had started to run a fever and my energy level had started to plummet.  So, he threw some antibiotics and some cough medicine at me (ok, well, he didn't really throw anything at me, instead he gave me prescriptions)
By 5 pm, having skipped dinner and taken my first actual dose of antibiotics and cough medicine, I was off to bed.
I remember falling asleep too.  I can remember thinking that as far as bronchitis went, this time it wasn't too horrible.  I was in a very comfortable sleeping position.  I wasn't coughing that annoying cough that comes with having bronchitis.  My medicine must be working.  I thought to myself that I was going to kick this one very easily and very quickly....

But I was wrong...

So....

WRONG...

So, I woke up at around 11 pm Thursday night.  I suddenly felt as though I was drowning.  Drowning is the only word I could come up with.  My chest felt as though there was a building sitting on top of it.  I couldn't catch my breath.  I was trying to catch my breath, like desperately trying to catch it, but with each breath I tried to take came a new level of panic that it is really indescribable.

I didn't yet feel feverish, but I knew that something was seriously wrong.  I couldn't breathe.  I just couldn't do it.  When I did breathe, my chest felt so heavy.  I said before that it felt like a building was on top of me.  (and for a fleeting moment, I thought this how some of the people must have felt back in the olden days of the Salem witch trials when people were put under the severe weight of rocks until they admitted to being witches or knowing of witchcraft)

So, with thoughts of buildings and the Salem witch trials I ended up in the ER department of our local hospital.

I - as urgently as possible - explained to them the chest pain I was having and the breath that kept evading me.

I was quickly handed a paper to sign, and a bracelet was put on my wrist and I was whisked away to the triage unit of the ER.
I was hooked up to an EKG machine and asked a barrage of questions and told within a relatively short amount of time that I was being admitted to the hospital.

Diagnosis?

Pneumonia.

Turns out that I had a fever of 103.5 Fahrenheit.  I had learned that while I was on the table hooked up to the EKG machine.
I can kind of remember some of the questions being asked of me.  But, I was so sick.  I mean, I never felt as sick as I did... I can't ever remember feeling this sick.
Lots of nurses and doctors and hospital personnel would ask me questions.  Simple questions that I - under normal situations  - could answer with ease and a smile on my face.  Thursday night, however, I couldn't form a thought, let alone an answer to a simple question.
I had zero strength as well.  Holding the pen in the entrance to the ER proved to be a slightly impossible task for me.

So, there I was.  No strength.  No clear thoughts.  Just the lack of breath, the high fever, the really high blood sugar and the fear that - despite being in a hospital - that I was surely going to die.

About 2 am or so, I was wheeled to my staying quarters.  A hospital room with enough space for two beds, although I was the only occupant at the time.  There was a large flat screen TV on the wall, a bathroom barely big enough for me plus a medical cart with IV's hanging from it and two closets in the back of the room.
I was given loads of steroids, loads more of antibiotics, and lots of different pills.

During my stay, I was poked - it seemed - hundred of times.  I was told by several nurses that I had "bad veins".  My veins were quickly dubbed as "rollers".  I had no idea that my veins were that much trouble.  As a type 1 diabetic, I had my fair share of blood work done, lots of lab work under my particular belt. Any of the phlebotomists I ever met never ever had trouble with my veins before.  But, here I sit, with dozens of holes in my hands and arms - each with it's own black and blue mark to prove that my veins are indeed rollers.

I had stayed hospitalized with pneumonia a total of three nights.  All of the docs I met thought for sure I was going to be there at least a week.  I was told that I was in the early stages of septicemia when I entered the ER, according to their lab work.  And as a type 1 diabetic that it certainly could have been alot worse.  But, I went in early enough, and it was caught in enough time.  And I responded very well to the antibiotics that was administered to me via the IV drip....

I am one lucky girl...

Or so one doctor had said.

So, there you have it...

I had my first (and hopefully my last) battle - although it felt more like a war - with pneumonia.

I still feel very weak.  I still feel as though I was hit by a truck.  But, slowly I am starting to feel like my old self.  Although I'd like to feel like a newer version of my old self, this will be just as good.  I will settle for this...

John and Olivia were both worried for me.  Quite frankly, I was worried for myself as well.

But, I am feeling better and on the road to recovery.
I will probably be taking a very short blogging break to give myself some time to heal even quicker.  So, I will say I am sorry now for my absence....

Oh, and one more thing before I hit "Publish" and scoot off to bed where I belong...
The hospital let me check and control my own blood sugar, thanks to me wearing the insulin pump.  Something I was very grateful for.  After my fevers had subsided and I was again thinking clearly, they said that pump wearers usually took very good care of their diabetes.  And they weren't wrong.  My numbers - after the steroids had stopped being given - were quite good during my hospital stay.

So, I guess that is it for now.
Thanks for reading, and take care!!!!

Lockets and Cards

Wow... What a day!  Not bad, but not great either.  I'd say, it was a good day, and if nothing else, it was an average day.
 

It started when I woke up to  Olivia standing right by the bed on my side, staring at me...
She smiled, and said "Happy Mother's Day.  Can I finally give you your present now?"  :)

I rolled out of bed and got the sweetest card and locket pendant - she even put a picture of herself inside of it.  Then, she whipped out the other one she had, one she was wearing herself, and had a picture of me inside of hers...
My heart just melted...  How could it not have?
There she is, the preemie baby that I gave birth to just 13 years ago, smiling about the fact that she got me something to honor me as her mom.  I fear (however) as we continue down this path of teenager-dom, that the moments I had the pleasure of  enjoying today will end up being fewer and fewer.  I sure hope not, but that thought is always in the back of my head.


Let's see... After some coffee and some rereading of my sweet Mother's Day card, I got an early phone call about somebody wanting my surplus insulin (Craigslist ad).
So I quickly (or as quickly as someone whose feet and legs hurt 24/7) got dressed and said goodbye to my daughter.  I ran down to the gas station to meet my early morning caller and sold him my insulin.

 After that, I came home and had the rest of my morning to myself.  I had a light breakfast and then I got a text from another buyer of surplus diabetic supplies.  I had some reservoir sets and some infusion sets for my insulin pump and decided that instead of them going to waste, I would sell to whomever may want them.
We had to drive to Pottsville (about a 50 mile trip, ugh)) to meet this guy though, because he lacked transportation.  But, he was offering to pay us handsomely and I seldom turn down an opportunity to make a little money.
The whole day, though, poor John had (and still has) a head cold and did nothing but cough and sneeze all day long...  He was so super sweet though, the entire day.  He held my hand in the car and told me how proud of me he is for being the mom I am to our daughter... (I can't help but think I may end up with a head cold in the near future, but it's gonna be worth it.. ;)   )

As sick as John was feeling, he did treat me to a nice little dinner in Hamburg on our way home from Pottsville.  That was a nice change of pace.  The last few nights, neither of us could muster up the strength to make any sort of dinner.  John's been feeling ill, and I have been in too much pain to do it.  The fanciest we have been getting is spaghetti from a can... sigh... Oh wait, no, that's not true.  The one night, we did have Caesar salad.   Ok, so there you have it.  We have been feeling too bad to make anything nicer than a bagged salad and some spaghetti from a can.  I'd say a nice little Mother's Day dinner was in order, don't you?

Well, that was how my Mother's Day was.  I told you.  Not bad, but not great either.  It was a good day.
And good days are getting harder and harder to come by.
So, in that respect, I would have to say today was a terrific day.  :)

I hope all of my fellow mom's out there had a nice Mother's Day as well.

Thanks for reading.
Till next time...

Being a Mom

Mother's Day is coming up this weekend.

I often reflect on my own life - as a mom, and as a wife, and as a daughter - when Mother's Day approaches.

I first like to think of my own wonderful mom.  That lovely woman had five children and still made the time to make sure I had clean sheets on my bed.  Heck, all of us had clean sheets on our beds.  I will never make another bed again (at least I haven't since) without thinking about my own  head touching the pillow case that was fresh and spotless on my childhood bed (complete with Sylvia June painted in orange on the headboard).
My mom also made sure we had dinner every single night.  I mean, every single night, there she was, in the kitchen making some sort of meal that would feed at least seven  hungry people.  That's an amazing feat.

So, when I tire from making only one meal, to feed just three people, what right do I have to complain?  I say none.  Who am I to make faces when Olivia asks that evening question "What's for dinner?"...

So, thanks to my mom for continuing to be a wonderfully (over) adequate, and terrific mom!

Anyway, I also ponder how many children I really should have - residing with John and me - if circumstances would have been different.

Not that I really regret doing the things I did in a certain way.  I often just wonder how my life would be if I would have made choice A instead of choice B.

Like, I bet alot of you don't know that I had suffered a miscarriage on my 23rd birthday.  And it was literally on my birthday.  The nurse who attended to me even said that after seeing it was my birthday, had to excuse herself for a few moments to cry because she felt so badly for me.
What a way to celebrate.
When just a few days before my 23rd birthday, I was calling the entire family to say we were expecting our second child. And when we got to the hospital to have a doctor explain why I was bleeding so badly, we never expected to be leaving (the hospital)  with a dead baby inside of my womb.  Well, to say we weren't "expecting" the news is untrue.  Of course, the awful thought of a miscarriage weighed heavily on me, but I couldn't bring myself to audibly admit the fear of losing that baby.
I did nothing wrong during that very short pregnancy that would point to why I would have a miscarriage.  And when I reentered the hospital with unspeakable pain a few days later, I had to say goodbye to the tiny baby that had already formed a head and hands in my uterus.  
That was a really tough night.  After I had seen the baby practically fall out of me in the hospital's restroom, I had fainted on the floor.  The nurses gave me smelling salts and woke me up just in time for me to see them take the fetus and put it into a container, marked "hazardous waste".  My baby was never intended to be labeled as waste of any kind. What a terrible evening that was.  An evening John nor I will ever get over or ever forget.
 Less than a year after that tragic loss, I had to part with the thought of ever having children again, for they had detected (and later found) cancer in my uterus and had to do a partial hysterectomy, leaving me with only one ovary and zero chances of ever being pregnant again.  In fact, I was so young, that the doctor performing the surgery had to get special permission to do such a permanent solution to my ever lasting female problems - which included unstoppable bleeding, pain, and later on anemia.  Needless to say, we were heart broken.  But, at that time, we had already had one child - Olivia - and that's the only reason the doctor was able to get permission to give me a hysterectomy.


We also put a baby up for adoption.  That was when I was 18, going on 19.  John and I spoke at length during that pregnancy about what we were "supposed" to do and what we should do and also to what we had to do.  We got advice from my parents, who at that time, were very supportive and very open to any decision we had to make.  It's a good thing they were there, and were surprisingly unbiased in their opinion. 

We (John and I) finally made the very difficult decision of signing our parental rights away in order to give that baby a better shot at life than what two very young people could give him/her.  Had we gone on to marry because of a baby, and ultimately gave that child a job to do before ever being born, I fear that we would be talking about a much different marriage than what we currently have.  (and honestly, we did give him/her a great life)

I still think it highly wrong and maybe even amoral to marry because "she" happens to be carrying a child inside of her.  After all, who's to say that 15 minutes of passion (or for some, lack thereof) is the sole reason for an everlasting happily ever after.  Being pregnant should never be the (only) purpose for a wedding.  That is my opinion, take it or leave it.

Then, I think about the child we do have.  And the unthinkable love that we have for her.  There are literally not enough words in the dictionary to describe how we feel about our daughter.  She is the keeper of both our hearts.  She embodies her middle name in a way I never thought possible.  She is completely the reason for most of our joy.  Now, I'm not saying that if we never had her, we wouldn't be happy.  But, just having her in our lives, just knowing that she is there in the mornings to smile and say "Good Morning Mommy" is a good reason to have an outstanding and happy life.

I know I am a good mom to her.  There is nobody in this world that could make me question that  - well, of course except for myself.  I have asked myself the "Am I a good enough mom"  question more times than I would care to admit.  But, knowing that I would die for her, no inquisition needed, says to me that I am a great mom.  I have both given things up and added things to my life in order to make myself a mom that she needs me to be.  I don't regret anything that I have ever done in her honor.

So, with all of that said, I have mixed emotion in regards to Mother's Day.  Regardless of how I feel though, it doesn't change the fact that I have an awesome mom.  And that I have an unarguably terrific husband who gives me the strength I need to be an awesome mom to my own child.

I really admire and am astounded by my mom, for she too has been through much hardship to be the amazing woman she is today.  And she has always shown such grace through it all!  I cannot believe how incredibly lucky I am to have her as a mom.  I wouldn't be who I am today without her influence and guidance.

Happy Mother's Day to all of the moms reading this.  May you be blessed and may God keep you all!
As always, thanks for reading, and take care!


















                                   

Olivia and me

My mom and me

Olivia and me

John and my mom