Sometimes I feel selfish with my dream, a dream to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail. Who else is that dream for, other than me? How does it benefit anyone, but me? It isn't an altruistic dream; it is a me-dream. I have no lofty aspirations of serving others within that dream.
I have tried to justify that dream. After all, if the individual raises their own consciousness, doesn't that benefit her neighbor? Doesn't her influence in her tiny circle then cause ripples in the pond - tiny reservoirs helping the water tributary system, spawning life, replenishing the earth, supplying evaporation vessels which then supply sustaining rains?
Wouldn't thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail raise my consciousness? What of the people I meet along the trail, other hikers and backpackers? I don't think of them as having selfish dreams; why am I so important that I feel my dream has to be justifiably altruistic?
Are not all our human dreams selfish at some level? Maybe "selfish" isn't the right word, but most all our decisions are about the self.
It is not evil or wrong to desire more of life. The trail is more life to me. To have all I need on my back. To learn more deeply a respect and interdependence with nature, including humanity. Us humans are a part of nature, bipeds with thumbs.
The kinship that backpackers know in an instant - it is tangible, yet cannot be described with mere words.
Like love making or love longing or grief or jubilation or a myriad of other emotions and experiences. None can be described adequately with words. A reader of such words has to have done that, been there, in some sort of capacity in order to dive and know what the author endeavors to convey. Like a photograph which can never fully capture the expanse and depth and fullness of the valley, of the climb, of the precipice, of life.
Selfish or not, I long and dream to be among the trail with kinfolk.
---------
May 12, 2013
May 1, 2013
Damn straight I'm pissed, but I'm "well"
non-subject: into the flow
AWW, 5/01/13
**************
My mother's name was Flo.
I use the tense "was" because Mom is dead. But I feel strange using the term "was." She "is" still Flo Hamby. That will never change. There will never be another Flo Rae Drum Hamby. Yet, she now "is" a "was."
This past weekend, the last weekend of April, 2013, after hanging up the phone at the end of a conversation with my mother-in-law, I said to my husband, "I wish I wouldn't end up talking about my health. I don't like that I end up talking about it in conversations with people."
He responded calmly, "It's what you are going through. It's what is happening in your life. It's normal to discuss it."
Still, I don't like that I talk about it. Why can't I be the example of a deeply grateful individual that speaks no negatives, only gratitude in spite of life's onslaughts of hardships.
Today after Daniel saw both my wrists in support braces, he asked, "What happened? Was it dogs?"
"No," I responded, "It's a long story." We talked about something else until a bit later. I can't recall now if Daniel asked again or if I volunteered part of the recent medical nightmare I'd been through.
Daniel responded, "Have you ever studied Buddhism?"
"I've not studied it, but I'm familiar with it."
"I think it might help you," he replied.
I retorted something like, "Do you think I'm asking you for help?"
I've been angry the past couple months. Yesterday, I was clear about my anger. Today, the anger was muddled; it wasn't a healthy anger.
I feel I have to defend myself. Why do I feel that way and what do I need to defend against?
Maybe I'm most angry with myself for getting on the American medical merry-go-round. There is nothing merry about it.
Shouldn't I be thankful for the doctors? Doctors who have passed me around telling me all my tests are normal though clearly both my hands and both my feet and both my legs and both my arms aren't working properly.
Shouldn't I have gratitude for my general practitioner? The one that denied me the medication that gives me respite, a medication which is not addictive and instead prescribed Xanax. I then went online searching for hours for a reputable pharmacy from which to order my medication overseas even though I have 100% insurance coverage in the States. Insane.
Only God knows how many hours and days and months I've spent researching serum sickness the last two years trying to understand and find a remedy for this prolonged disability. But serum sickness should have cleared by now.
Yet, from May, 2011, through March, 2013, not one of the damn diagnosticians who call themselves doctors ever suggested I see a neurologist. I suggested it.
Shouldn't I be grateful for the one neuroloigist in April who drew nine vials of blood for labs and performed a nerve connectivity test and then gave me the results: "normal;" and then showed me the door because the tests trump my symptoms?
Shouldn't I just passively accept the verdict and continue to suffer and switch to ordering my medications from overseas? Of course not; that's insane too.
Since the neurologist and general practitioner nightmare two weeks ago, I've spent hours and days re-researching to figure out what is going on only to discover others with similar symptoms have been down similar paths of American medical doctor roulette; only to discover that I probably never had serum sickness but rather small fiber neuropathy; only to discover that with small fiber neuropathy all the typical neuropathy tests are normal, and in fact symptoms in spite of normal test results are a pretty sure sign that the diagnosis is small fiber neuropathy.
Why did the neurologist not look deeper?
What is my insurance paying for?
Instead of paying the merry-go-round operators, should it rather be paying me for my hours of research trying to figure out what's wrong with me?
You god damn diagnosticians! You aren't physicians or healers, you are technicians and you treat people like machines.
Damn straight I'm pissed.
Probably a better response when people ask, "How are you?" is "I'm well, though the definition of well can change on a daily basis."
[end rant]
***********
I need to get calm before my upcoming appointment next week with a new neurologist.
Universe...I'm doing the best I can with what I've got.
Your law is abundance; it's everywhere.
Your law is balance; I want mine back if possible.
Maybe for the rest of my life I'll have to stop at each stair case and get my footing before taking a step.
Maybe I'll have to use two hands to pick up the coffee cup.
Maybe I'll have to ask for assistance to open the water bottle or certain doorknobs.
Maybe someone else will have to cut the vegetables.
I will accept those, if it must be.
But, I do no have to accept being treated like a machine.
Universe, I know there are good doctors out there. I simply request an entrance.
***********
AWW, 5/01/13
**************
My mother's name was Flo.
I use the tense "was" because Mom is dead. But I feel strange using the term "was." She "is" still Flo Hamby. That will never change. There will never be another Flo Rae Drum Hamby. Yet, she now "is" a "was."
This past weekend, the last weekend of April, 2013, after hanging up the phone at the end of a conversation with my mother-in-law, I said to my husband, "I wish I wouldn't end up talking about my health. I don't like that I end up talking about it in conversations with people."
He responded calmly, "It's what you are going through. It's what is happening in your life. It's normal to discuss it."
Still, I don't like that I talk about it. Why can't I be the example of a deeply grateful individual that speaks no negatives, only gratitude in spite of life's onslaughts of hardships.
Today after Daniel saw both my wrists in support braces, he asked, "What happened? Was it dogs?"
"No," I responded, "It's a long story." We talked about something else until a bit later. I can't recall now if Daniel asked again or if I volunteered part of the recent medical nightmare I'd been through.
Daniel responded, "Have you ever studied Buddhism?"
"I've not studied it, but I'm familiar with it."
"I think it might help you," he replied.
I retorted something like, "Do you think I'm asking you for help?"
I've been angry the past couple months. Yesterday, I was clear about my anger. Today, the anger was muddled; it wasn't a healthy anger.
I feel I have to defend myself. Why do I feel that way and what do I need to defend against?
Maybe I'm most angry with myself for getting on the American medical merry-go-round. There is nothing merry about it.
Shouldn't I be thankful for the doctors? Doctors who have passed me around telling me all my tests are normal though clearly both my hands and both my feet and both my legs and both my arms aren't working properly.
Shouldn't I have gratitude for my general practitioner? The one that denied me the medication that gives me respite, a medication which is not addictive and instead prescribed Xanax. I then went online searching for hours for a reputable pharmacy from which to order my medication overseas even though I have 100% insurance coverage in the States. Insane.
Only God knows how many hours and days and months I've spent researching serum sickness the last two years trying to understand and find a remedy for this prolonged disability. But serum sickness should have cleared by now.
Yet, from May, 2011, through March, 2013, not one of the damn diagnosticians who call themselves doctors ever suggested I see a neurologist. I suggested it.
Shouldn't I be grateful for the one neuroloigist in April who drew nine vials of blood for labs and performed a nerve connectivity test and then gave me the results: "normal;" and then showed me the door because the tests trump my symptoms?
Shouldn't I just passively accept the verdict and continue to suffer and switch to ordering my medications from overseas? Of course not; that's insane too.
Since the neurologist and general practitioner nightmare two weeks ago, I've spent hours and days re-researching to figure out what is going on only to discover others with similar symptoms have been down similar paths of American medical doctor roulette; only to discover that I probably never had serum sickness but rather small fiber neuropathy; only to discover that with small fiber neuropathy all the typical neuropathy tests are normal, and in fact symptoms in spite of normal test results are a pretty sure sign that the diagnosis is small fiber neuropathy.
Why did the neurologist not look deeper?
What is my insurance paying for?
Instead of paying the merry-go-round operators, should it rather be paying me for my hours of research trying to figure out what's wrong with me?
You god damn diagnosticians! You aren't physicians or healers, you are technicians and you treat people like machines.
Damn straight I'm pissed.
Probably a better response when people ask, "How are you?" is "I'm well, though the definition of well can change on a daily basis."
[end rant]
***********
I need to get calm before my upcoming appointment next week with a new neurologist.
Universe...I'm doing the best I can with what I've got.
Your law is abundance; it's everywhere.
Your law is balance; I want mine back if possible.
Maybe for the rest of my life I'll have to stop at each stair case and get my footing before taking a step.
Maybe I'll have to use two hands to pick up the coffee cup.
Maybe I'll have to ask for assistance to open the water bottle or certain doorknobs.
Maybe someone else will have to cut the vegetables.
I will accept those, if it must be.
But, I do no have to accept being treated like a machine.
Universe, I know there are good doctors out there. I simply request an entrance.
***********