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

Nocturnal Horrors #2

Unrealistic as they are, I still get bothered greatly by my horrible and vivid nightmares.

I have blogged about my night terrors before, and all of that is still the case.

I am still waking up in cold, clammy sweats crying or yelling about some strange creature that I have encountered while in a deep sleep.  Or perhaps, it's a dream about losing John in the middle of nowhere with no chance of finding him or getting out of the middle of nowhere.
Sometimes, I don't even need to be in my REM stage of sleep.  My night terrors can arrive on those days when I take a mini 30 minute nap during the day; I guess in that case, it would be a day terror.

And I hate every single one.  And it doesn't matter what time of day or night I have them.

Tonight, I just awoke from one that I do remember and it wasn't pretty.  John says that I was yelling pretty loudly right before waking up, and this time I do remember why I was indeed yelling.  I was running away from a big winged "thing" and trying to carry my (for some reason) infant Olivia in my arms at the same time.

It was horrible!!!

I have already sought out help from a sleep specialist.  And I had two different sleep studies done.  Now, I have a feeling that I will have to return to a place I thought it was safe to say "goodbye" to.  The psychiatrist.  It seems that my nightmares and night terrors are getting worse instead of better.  No pill is going to fix this either.  I think I will have to start talking my stuff out.  While John is a very patient listener for that sort of thing, I know that he is just not the right person to be discussing my slumber issues with.  I need a professional.

I really don't care why I am having them.  I know I should care.  But, I don't.  I just want them to stop.  And I don't want to hear that because of "some child hood instance that made me feeling alone and vulnerable" is the reason for these either.  The fact is, I had a pretty good child hood, if not sheltered a bit.  But, even during my happy childhood, I had these night terrors and nightmares that my whole family can attest to.
I do remember several of the ones from childhood.  Strange as that  sounds, those seem more real to me than the ones I am having now.  One in particular, my dad was involved in.

I was only 4 or 5 at the time, and went to bed one night, normal as any other night.  This night, however, (and this all took place after I had been sleeping for some time)  at the end of my bed, where my feet were, I felt something cold and slimy.  I woke up screaming!  Literally, screaming.  My voice got so hoarse from all the screaming, but that's how long I actually screamed  until my door opened and my dad walked in to "save the day" ...
I saw him come in, and at that moment, my legs were up to my chest because I didn't want to "feel" the slimy thing at the end of my bed.  Dad gave me a weird look, pulled up the covers and there it was... something so odd looking, there are no words to describe what it was.  The only word I can think of to use is "alien".  It was a wet, jelly like, slimy and alien looking thing that he removed from my bed, and quickly threw into the garbage can.  My garbage can from my own bed room.
But for some reason, that had calmed me down.  And I remember my dad bending down to kiss me on my forehead and tuck me back into bed where I drifted off into a peaceful hibernation till the morning.
When I awoke the next morning, I instantly remembered my terrifying night time ordeal and hopped out of bed and walked across my bedroom to the trash can.  Not really wanting to look, but knowing I wouldn't be satisfied if I didn't look, I decided to look inside.
What I saw was more confusing than what had happened the night before.
What I saw was NOTHING.
There was nothing in my trash can.  It was completely empty.  There wasn't even paper from a messed up drawing in there.  It was as if the trash can was brand new and never used.  Completely clean, and completely empty.
Confused, and also a bit worried that the "alien" may have gotten out, I ran out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where my dad was sitting at the counter drinking coffee.
I asked him what had happened to the "slimy thing from my bed."
He claimed to not have a memory of it whatsoever.  That I dreamt the whole thing.  That it was all in my head.  That nothing at all happened last night.

That memory is so ingrained into my head, I still to this day sometimes bring it up to my dad in conversation.  He still to this day just smiles and tells me that I always had weird dreams and he insists nothing of the sort ever happened.  Ever.
I told John about that awful night (earlier on in our marriage), and he sort of gave me the same look my dad gave me.  Like I had lost my mind - but in a cute, "Oh Sylvia, you're so crazy" type of way.  Not in the psychotic, "I need specialized therapy" type of way.

So, you see, I've always been plagued by nighttime scares and it's these types of thing that has me awake every single night... Well, ok... Not every single night.  But, more than I think is normal.
So, I suppose I will make an appointment to see a therapist and see if I can't pin point where all of these crazy, scary, and awful dreams are coming from.  It certainly couldn't hurt.

Well, I guess that's it for now. It's after 2 in the morning and I need to go back to sleep.  Or at least back to bed to see if I can, indeed, fall asleep.  Hopefully this time, I won't wake up by a nightmare...

Thanks for reading, as always.  And of course, sweet dreams - my dear and loyal readers...

Happy-ish Easter

We had such an amazing weekend!  The weather was just bright and sunny and I am finally seeing the buds starting to pop on the tress outside.  Dandelions and tulips have just started to introduce us again to the wondrous colors of spring and summer!  And my car is again being covered in that green stuff called pollen, already reminding me how poor I utterly am so I cannot go visit the car wash till payday...

But, yes, spring has definitely sprung around here!

More importantly, we just celebrated Easter.  And as I strive to look beyond colored eggs, baskets full of bright wrapping and chocolate bunnies, I can't help but think about what Jesus did for me - and it certainly wasn't that He ran to the nearest convenience store to pick out marshmallow peeps in my favorite color.

He gave His life for me. 

 He suffered horrid scars and torment, so people like me - ungrateful and spoiled brats, such as myself - can be saved.  I find it difficult to imagine and even more difficult to really ponder what He went through for little ole' me.

But, after He selflessly gave up His life for me, another miracle occurred when three days later, He rose again from death.  What a miraculous sight that must've been!  I can only try to imagine what the guards were thinking when the angel appeared to them and told them that Jesus had risen...

So, as I think about the amazing and wonderful thing that has been done for me, I find it very difficult to complain about my own situation.  After all, I certainly don't deserve the grace that I have been shown.  And I know that I can never really know the true impact of what Jesus did for me.  But, I also know that God only gives to those what He knows they can handle.  And that with every test I am given, I am to learn from it and try to pass on my message to others.

I have failed many of my tests.  I know that now.  And I know I will continue to fail others.  But, knowing that I have failed and not doing something about it would an even bigger atrocity.
With that thought in mind, I will try to be a better example of what someone who truly walks in the light of the Lord should be.  I will try not to let my petty pains and insecurities weigh me down.

Sure, the pain I am dealt with is very hard to live with.  But, so would living with this pain if I didn't have God to turn to.  And I know I have others in my life I could turn to as well...

So, I am very sorry if I have led anybody to believe that I am not a saved individual. I would hate to die and for people to be at my memorial wondering about where I "ended up".  I want people to be sure that I am going to be in Heaven!  I want those left here on Earth to know that they will definitely see me again one fine day.  I don't want people to say, "She was a Christian???"

When I do start to stumble - which I most undoubtedly will do - please try and not be too harsh or judgmental.  Try to be understanding, uplifting, and kind.  After all, none of us are perfect.
I, in return, will not only be grateful for your willingness to support me and my imperfections, but I will also strive to be the same way with you.


Happy Easter...

Thanks for reading...

Till next time...

(just an FYI - we had an amazingly delicious dinner over my folks house this afternoon.  My sister and her clan was there as well.  Great food and some really refreshing laughter permeated from the Oley area today...)