Thievery

In my blog post yesterday I wrote, in regard to my pet-sitting business, "This quiet Christmas, my decision to no longer post on my Twitter and Linked In [business accounts], and allowing my [business] website to go dark - well, I again feel a sense of loss."

A few hours after I posted the blog piece I asked Hubby, "Have I shared my feelings about letting my website go?"

He thought for a moment and answered, "No."

"It's affected me more than I want to admit. I realized it this past week - that some of the depression I was feeling was because of the website."

I started crying. "It's one more thing that's been stolen."

I cried harder. "It's one more nail in the coffin."

The tears rolled.

I allowed myself to grieve.

I've known for months I was going to let the site go dark. GoDaddy, my web host, had called me a few months back. They do that from time to time. I talked with the guy and told him I needed to let the site go. He said all I need to do is to just take it off auto-renew. But I didn't do anything about that until Tuesday, December 26. I logged into the website account and deactivated my auto-renew.

That's when the finality-reality set in.

On Friday, December 29, I posted a no-longer-going-to-be-posting announcement on my business Twitter & Linked In accounts.

My pet-sitting business has been like my child since I decided to acquire the business in January, 2011. Even though I've had to continually downsize since August, 2013, the action of letting the website go dark - it's like a death.

Am I exaggerating? I don't think so.

I know, it's just a website. But to me it represents my heart, work, relationships, and all my dear pet friends - some who have died and some who have moved away and some who I've had to bid farewell due to my illness.

And the site represents the goal and dream I had when I decided upon a pet-sitting business:
I'd walk and walk and walk dogs, pay off the mortgage, and go thru-hike the Appalachian Trail (AT).

The AT was a dream from high school, but I had to let it go partly due to my commitment to The Way, to severe adult-onset asthma and other auto-immune problems (which I overcame after a couple decades), to responsibilities of raising a family, and to helping take care of my quadriplegic father.

The resurrected (and very doable) AT dream of 2011 was a dream-possibility come true. That goal gave me purpose while in the process of empty nesting; while recovering from an abusive mental health therapist with whom I had previously teamed up with a purpose of helping people recover from cult involvement; and while continuing to find purpose after letting go of the all-encompassing, true-believer purpose of taking the Word to the next generation and beyond.

My AT thru-hike dream is now (mostly) dead, though I still hang on to a tiny, thin thread of hope.

When dealing with losses (especially due to my illness), or when going through self-pity episodes, I typically counter by bringing to mind:

• the good in my life. And there is much good, much good. I am well aware of my good fortune and privilege just because of where and when I was born, among other things.
• people who are far worse off than I and struggle moment-by-moment to survive.
• the many things I still can do, in spite of the many losses and things I can no longer or, at least seldom, engage.  
• the many serendipitous events which have led to partial answers that have brought improvements to my condition. More answers may still come.

But yesterday was not a time to use that coping skill.

Yesterday, I needed to grieve the thievery of one more part of me.

Abilities and dreams have been stolen by this illness.

Sometimes, when I've tried to share about my symptoms and losses due to the illness, people have responded, "Getting old is a bitch."

But my losses and these symptoms are not due to aging; they are due to a mercurial, stealthy thief which has been hard to catch. My ability to recover is affected by aging. But the ailments themselves are not.

It's no secret that I go up and down between denial and acceptance, between hope and despair, between apathy and motivation, and other betweens I can't think of at the moment.

I think that's a normal seesaw to the circumstances. And to life itself.

Or maybe a better comparison is the up-and-down on a merry-go-round...

~*~

Happy Moo Year. Cows seem to be such peaceful animals....

Blue Ridge Parkway cows. 12/31/2016

A mostly negative blog post ~ a compost pile of losses...

Come March, 2018, my pet sitting website will go dark. I'm not renewing my contract. I haven't accepted new clients in over two years. There's no point to continue spending money on a website.

I contemplated this past March whether or not to renew for 2017. I decided to stick it out one more year because I'd had surgery in August, 2016, to remove and replace my poisonous hip implant. Maybe I'd improve enough to maybe build my business again?

But, that didn't happen.

I've contemplated for at least six months whether or not to continue posting pet pics on my business social media sites. I have a business Facebook page, Twitter account, and Linked In account. Mainly I post for the pets' humans. My other reason is to spread some smiles. I get a few likes and comments here and there.

This past week I posted on Linked In and Twitter that I'll no longer be posting updates on either of those sites. But I will continue posting on Facebook.

This Christmas I only had two clients who were out of town. They own cats, so I only visited one time per day. Both clients said I could skip December 25, so I had no clients on Christmas day. It's the lightest holiday pet-sitting I've had since I started in 2011, except for last year because I was closed at Christmas while recovering from surgery.

In 2013, I had at least 185 pet-sitting clients. In late spring, 2013, Hubby and I put the business up for sale because Son was moving out in August. Son helped me run the business. Due to my illness, I couldn't run it on my own.

We had one bite, as far as a buyer. But he wanted me to continue on as part owner. I couldn't do that.

I decided instead to downsize, and give the clients I was letting go to the walkers who worked for me who I was also letting go. They were able to build their own businesses. One of them didn't continue; he preferred working for someone as opposed to owning his own business. Last I knew the other still has her business, and it's been successful.

In 2013 I started turning away new client inquiries. Every week, from then through at least the end of 2014, I turned away inquiries. Sometime in 2015 I finally updated my website that I wasn't taking new clients.

When I downsized the first time in August, 2013, Hubby agreed to help me with the clients I was keeping. I couldn't have continued without his help.

I've downsized a few times since then. I closed for 10 months when I had surgery, except for a few clients that I added back slowly beginning in December, 2016. When I reopened in June, 2017, I had to reduce my hours, which reduced again my number of clients.

So now, I have about 8 clients, which keeps me busy - sometimes too busy. Again, I couldn't do it without Hubby.

This quiet Christmas, my decision to no longer post on Twitter and Linked In, and allowing my website to go dark - well, I again feel a sense of loss. Another loss due to this incessant, god-damned, imprisoning nerve damage with all its accompaniments. (Sorry for sounding so negative. I know I don't have to apologize, but I want to apologize - so I do.)

As I type this, in my mind's eye, I see a mountain of loss - like a huge compost pile. It's a small mountain, as far as mountains go. But it's big enough. The losses at the bottom are compressed, and some have rotted.

As we age and experience life and loss (or if we are sick, regardless of our age) and the heap gets higher and our bodies get weaker and we can't turn the compost to allow air to speed along the decomposition, the pile gets bigger. Gawd, that sounds so depressing. I guess it is, maybe.

~*~

I'm one of the youngest of my umpteen cousins. My mom was next to youngest of ten siblings, and I'm her youngest. So I'm at the bottom of the totem pole, as far as age.

I've not shared my condition with my cousins, most of whom I haven't seen since Mom's funeral in 2009 which was before I developed nerve damage. One cousin who is local and who I've eaten with a couple times since 2011, which is when the nerve damage started, knows a little about my condition.

Sometime in the past coupleish years, one of my eldest cousins called me. I've always liked her. She's upbeat and has a great curiosity about life and cultures and people. She's in her mid-to-late 70s. I'm not sure why she called, but part of the reason I guess was to tell me about another cousin who had just turned 70 and had recently had back surgery. My cousin must have stated, "She just turned 70," at least five times in our 15ish-minute conversation. She suggested I call that cousin, who I haven't spoken with in 15ish years, at least. She also said, "You should come visit us sometime." She and her husband live in Atlanta.

I told her my health wasn't well and that my symptoms mimicked ALS, which they did. But I didn't expound further. I was hoping that maybe with the ALS comparison she'd get the message that I just wasn't up to travel or socializing or phone calling to check in on the sick and aged. But either I didn't convey my message well, or she just didn't get it.

I don'think that she could grasp the concept that, for example, my 80+ year old mother-in-law can move faster than I (except when I bike), and has more energy. And, to boot, my mother-in-law uses a cane. I didn't give my cousin that example.

But I got the sense that Cousin thought that since I was in my mid-50s and the younger of the cousin-brood, that I have the energy to reach out to the elderly and sick. And maybe she didn't think that, and I just felt self-imposed pressure.

This Christmas I received my cousin's newsletter that she sends every holiday. It was about her and her husband's travels and that her eldest sister (who is at least 80) put on a great birthday party for her husband's 80th birthday and cooked for 70 people. My cousin included a handwritten personal note stating she hoped all were well, especially me. And that another cousin (who is close to my age) had been in the hospital for congestive heart disease and how I should give that cousin a call.

I read the handwritten note, the newsletter, and cried. I looked at Hubby and said, "What about me?" But, the cousins don't know. At least, I haven't told them other than what I mentioned above, and that was before I knew about the metal poisoning. I have no idea if any know I had a revision surgery. And if I don't squeak, nobody knows. Maybe my condition is in the cousin grapevine via my one local cousin who does know a bit more or my sister who may sometimes talk to the cousins. I don't know.

Next year at holiday time when I receive Cousin's newsletter, I'm gonna have Hubby screen it before I decide whether or not to read it which will depend on my mindset and how I'm coping at that given moment.

~*~

If I spoke up with all my ailments - my god, it'd be depressing. My most recent new ailment, which happened the beginning of December, was back spasms that moved down my left hip and leg and produced a burning swath of waves of pain that shot to my groin. That's my hip-surgery side. I would have been scared except that I'd had x-rays a couple weeks prior that showed my hip was good. The spasms and pain and burning and extreme lameness have dissipated now. My epidural helped and maybe a few other things that I and my body did and are doing.

And then I had another recent scare - my December blood test for my yearly physical showed slightly elevated glucose levels. Diabetes is a side effect of steroids, and I've done my best to try to keep that side effect at bay. Thankfully, my A1C is normal, and the elevated glucose was probably due to my steroid epidural which I had gotten 1-1/2 days prior to my blood being drawn. I won't do that again. But I had to wait a week between learning about the elevated glucose and getting my A1C checked. So I had to manage my worry for a week.

A few other slight abnormalities showed up in my blood work. Not enough to really be worried about, but I don't want them to become something to worry about. So, I see my nutritionist this Wednesday to reassess.

~*~

So, this is my mostly negative blog post...and stating that makes me chuckle. :D

Happy 2018! :D

One of my happy pics. Feral ponkey & pony. 6/01/16. Grayson Highlands.

Big thick book-of-books

I may have set a goal to read the whole Bible in 2018.

In my almost two decades as a true believer, I never read the whole thing. But I read most of it and sections of it multiple times.

I'm reading sequentially, but from two different books at the same time - three chapters from the Old Testament, and, the same day, three chapters from the New Testament. If I get to my reading today I'll have read Matthew, chapters 1 through 21, and Genesis, chapters 1 through 21. I'm reading The Amplified Bible.

I like reading two books at once. Keeps my mind fresh, I guess. And usually when I read other books (outside the Bible), I read a couple (or more) books at the same time.

When I was around 13 years old before my true-believer daze, I read the four Gospels. I remember the exact words I thought about Jesus -"ego maniac." That's how he came across to me in the Gospels. And that's how he comes across to me now. And, it's pretty clear that today's wealth-and-health preachers emulate Jesus' tactics, at least so far in Matthew.

Genesis is more stimulating to me than Matthew. I enjoy the historical perspective. I think of various cultures ( such as Native American or Native of Any-land) that passed along their own oral legends and myths, intertwined with facts, explaining the origin and purpose of life. I think of how those oral stories were written in pictures and, later, in words. And I like the human aspects in Genesis - relationships with all their complexities and emotions.

I may offend some folks by stating the following. But, reading both the books at face value - well, God and Jesus are both manipulative. They don't answer questions directly. They speak in riddles. They demand obedience without explaining why. Jesus demands secrecy without explanation, and he talks down to people. They use fear motivation - beware of this and that with threats that if you disobey you'll be tormented. Just to list a few of the characteristics that I notice.

In my true-believer daze I explained that the language comes across like that, at least in part, due to:

• the culture at the time a particular book was written and that God could only work with the writer's ("men of God," which did include some women) own knowledge and ways of communicating; ie: God didn't use automatic writing or possession to have His Word written and had to limit Himself to a narrator's will and language and culture and spiritual understanding at the time.
• our limited (or lack of) knowledge regarding history, orientalisms, and the cultures of the times.
• translation - that the original would have been clearer.
• God's foreknowledge - not that God controls the future, but that He knows where it is going; ie: when God foretells it's not that God makes that happen or that it is even His will, but that He knows that's what is going to happen.
• the spiritual warfare that has raged since before the current heaven and earth and how the devil has maligned God and caused confusion.
• our limited spiritual understanding - God's ways are higher than ours and all things are not yet revealed.
• God's use of different writers to convey different aspects of a given situation - one book may give one angle, but that must be taken in the broader context of what other books convey.

Looking back I think those explanations were, for the most part, rationalizations to try to make the Bible fit, since it was supposed to be perfect. (Hmmm, I guess that rationalization spilled over into other parts of life, especially when it came to "things in the Ministry"...)

Will I make it all the way through the big, thick book-of-books? I don't know. I might lose interest.

I've thought that maybe I should read the Koran at some point. I've only read a few paragraphs hither and yon online.

Children Go Where I Send Thee...

In my last blog entry, I linked to a poem which I wrote on December 2, 2017.
The poem expresses some of my thoughts/feelings living with chronic widespread nerve damage.

The last three verses read:

I don't feel much emotion
That's what happens in my rough weeks
I will feel blue, frustrated, fatigued
But little passion

Energy is expended upon survival
As the body-mind goes
From one calculated self-care task
To another
There are no energy reserves
To trade for passion

perhaps an autonomic
energy-conservation
strategy

Around December 5th, I began reading Victor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning. I don't feel like going into the serendipitous events that landed the book in my hands; kind of by accident, yet on purpose.

Frankl shares his observations regarding a person's response to the experience of a concentration camp. He notes three stages:

1) Shock, when the reality hits shortly after arrival at the compound.
2) Apathy, after prisoner-slave life has become the way of life.
3) [I haven't gotten that far in the book yet, but this stage happens after freedom.]

In no way do I know what it's like to live in a concentration camp. I have never known that kind of arduous labor under horrendous circumstances; the humiliation of being stripped of everything, even all the hairs from one's head and body; the stench of death; the famished hunger; the attempted erasure of one's personhood being relegated to a numeral. To list just some of the trauma.

Yet, Frankl's insights can be applied to life outside that concentration camp.

Of the second stage he states:

Apathy, the main symptom of the second phase was a necessary mechanism of self-defense. Reality dimmed and all efforts and all emotions were centered on one task: preserving one's own life and that of the other fellow.

Upon reading that I thought, I get that. Especially during the years when all my focus was on saving my arms and legs. I had to save my limbs. My entire focus was on saving my limbs. 

I thought of what I had written in my poem - that "there are no energy reserves to trade for passion," and that perhaps this is an "autonomic energy-conservation response." Or as Frankl put it,"a mechanism of self-defense."

And, at least in part, I have accomplished saving my limbs. Or my body has. My body and me and my team of doctors and wellness supports. I no longer live each day with the terror of my limbs becoming useless. Yet after living with nerve damage for over six years, I am settled in a kind of apathy. So much focus still goes into the daily task of calculating how much energy a supposed simple activity requires - such as dressing or bathing or going to the store.

My next immediate thought was,  Anyone who's been beaten down by life again and again understands that apathy. You just hang on, and do the next thing to survive.

I asked my self, In my focus of preserving my limbs, and now, of my self-care tasks, does that preserve "the other fellow?" 

I thought of my family and especially my husband who is my main caregiver and helper. I answered my self, Yes. Where I can care for my self does help preserve his energy, his life.

Frankl discusses how he and others found relief from the apathy and from rigors of life by recalling cherished memories of loved ones and feeling the emotions of those times; by the wonderment of nature and a sunset; and by art. I'm still reading about the art. So far the only art mentioned are make-shift cabarets with song and dance and humor. And that may be all there is. No pencils or tools are needed for impromptu live theater.

I too have found relief in cherished memories, nature, and singing. All three gave and continue to give relief, a bit of hope, and beauty. It's something that simply happened over time in learning to manage how to function through muscle and energy and bodily communication-deadening.

Tonight Hubby and Son and I watched part of a Johnny Cash Christmas Special. At the end the singers - which included Johnny Cash, June Carter Cash, Roy Orbison, Roy Clark, Jerry lee Lewis, The Statler Brothers, and some ladies of whom I don't know their names - sang Children Go Where I Send Thee. I said, "I haven't heard that song in forever. It must be a Negro Spiritual."

My mind envisioned slaves singing in the cotton fields as I thought, Oh how those songs must have helped ease that harsh life. Provide an inkling of respite.

I recalled what I'd learned about how in Africa, the drummers drum while workers labor in fields and villages. It's not slave labor, but life labor. Lyrics and dance accompany the songs.

On writing this blog piece I wondered, Is it offensive to use the term Negro Spiritual? Should I use the term African-American Spiritual? 

When I read part of W.E.B. Du Bois' book The Souls of Black Folk published in 1903, I was taken by the word "Negro." It came across as a beautiful and rich word to me. At the time I thought, I wish it hadn't become an offensive term. I looked up the history on the word here. 

And I looked up the song, Children Go Where I Send Thee. It is a Negro Spiritual.

After reading about the famish Frankl and his fellows survived I told myself, I'm going to remember Frankl when I'm tempted to overeat.

But I'm sure that sometimes, maybe lots of times, I'll forget to remember.

Numbly

I wrote a new poem, or as I sometimes say - a "poemish."

Because I'm not quite sure if what I've written can be classified poetry.

I posted it at my poetry blog, here:  Numbly 

Hope-booster: It worked!

Wednesday, 11/29/17

I round the curve on my bicycle as the tires roll on the dirt trail circling Salem Lake. These trees are again my witnesses, like in the summer of 2015 when I felt my muscles getting juice again. But now the trees are almost leafless, going dormant for the winter. But after winter comes spring, and the trees will again be adorned with new life.

Will my body too have new life?

The reality of the news I'd received five hours earlier hits home.

It worked. It fucking worked...

Thankful, hopeful tears roll down my cheeks as I pedal while the breeze brushes my tears. My heart feels the presence of the trees and the woods and the lake and my bicycle, Olivia. My mind recalls the many times I've cried tears of hope since Summer, 2015, as I've rounded this lake on Olivia.

The many serendipitous incidents, that have given me hope-boost flashes throughout the last six-plus years, roll across my mental screen. It's been awhile since I've had a really good shot of hope.

The news hits me again.

I'm no longer being poisoned from within.

Deep breath as I pedal.

I can set a goal for 2018. Get off the epidurals. Once I do that, I can set a goal to get off daily prednisone.

Maybe it's a fantasy goal. I don't care. I've set it as a goal.

~*~

The news?

My chromium and cobalt metal ion levels are now in the NORMAL range, below 2.

That's huge. Huge! The result was expected, but it's still huge for me.

I had had a secret concern. What if they don't come down? That'd mean the new hip is leeching or the source of the metals is from something else.

But now, the proof is in the serum.

There still may be (and probably are) metal stores in my tissues. So I'll keep working to help my body rid those. My body and I did it with the mercury some sixteen years ago. We can do it again.

Great work body!! Keep it up!