5/04/2018: "May the Fourth be with you."

5/04/18. Mid morning.

I retweet a tweet that states,

I know it's cliché, corny, and a tad over-done, but it's what Yoda would have wanted:
So, May the 4th be with you!!

*~*

5/04/18. Late morning.

"Hello," I answer my cell phone knowing it's a call from the lawyer's office.

"Hey Carol. It's Crystal...."

Crystal works for the law firm that's handling my case regarding my defective hip implant. She's not the lawyer; his name is John. I'm not sure what Crystal's professional position is, maybe a paralegal. She and I have communicated regularly since July, 2016, after I discovered in June that my hip implant had been leaching cobalt and chromium into my body.

We exchange hellos and how-are-yous, and then Crystal gives me the news.

"We received the award for your delayed recovery and will have your check in the mail to you soon..."

I'd received an email in March from John, the lawyer, sharing that I had been awarded the highest settlement amount allowed for my delayed recovery from my revision hip replacement surgery, which I underwent (more like suffered through; I'm still not fully recovered from that surgery) in 2016 to replace the defective, metal-leaching implant from 2008. I like lawyer John; he seems like a really good guy. We had been communicating since 2017.

Both he and I were surprised because we weren't really sure if I'd get anything for delayed recovery. The highest amount still isn't a big settlement in terms of lawsuits, but it's a significant amount for me and will help put a dent in the mortgage. (I'd already received an award previously, just for having to go through a surgery to replace the defective implant. Again, not a huge amount but significant for me.)

When I'd opened that email in March from lawyer John, I was stunned. My response was...OMFG. The amount was over four times what I thought I maybe, might, maybe, might have had a maybe-chance at winning. I had to sit with the news and only shared it with Hubby, at the time. And I didn't allow myself to fully believe it, until I actually got the check and deposited it.

*~*

5/04/18. Suppertime.

I get home from somewhere. I can't recall where now. Maybe I'd been biking. Hubby was already home from work, so the time must have been around 6:45PM.

I walk into the kitchen and see two pieces of mail on the counter. One was an envelope from the US Treasury holding what looked like a check. The other was a larger envelope from the Social Security Administration.

I stare at them. Could it be? Oh my gosh...

"Is this what I think it is?" I say aloud as Hubby stands behind me.

"I think it is," Hubby answers.

Just the day before I'd had another bout of anxiety regarding my disability application process. I really thought I was in for a long haul and would have to end up going before a judge.

I opened the envelopes. My disability was approved, and I received my first check with five months backpay. (I got six months backpay, but the lawyer got one of those months. A different lawyer than lawyer John.)

Hubby and I just stare at each other, in a state of quasi-disbelief at the happenings of the morning and evening.

The Fourth had been with us.

***

I'm thankful for the settlements and the disability. But I'd much prefer to have my health and to not have endured the circumstances of the last seven years.

Writing prompt: Urgency

Plan the devil out of your life.
Redeem the time because the days are evil.
Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.
Don't allow a crack in the hedge of your believing.
Rise to the urgency of our times.
All things decent and in order.
All nine, all the time.

The "all nine" manifestations of the spirit:

Speaking in tongues.
Interpretation of tongues.
Prophecy.
Word of knowledge.
Word of wisdom.
Discerning of spirits.
Believing.
Workings of miracles.
Gifts of healings.

Most churches teach these are the nine "gifts" of the spirit. The Way teaches these are the nine "manifestations" of the one gift of holy spirit, lower case "h" and lower case "s." Upper case "H" and upper case "S" are used only when the words "Holy Sprit" refer to God our Father, who is the giver of the gift of holy spirit, lower case "h" and lower case "s."

Every person who believes that God raised Jesus from the dead, thus making Jesus lord or master, becomes born again. That is born from above, filled with holy spirit, enabled to operate all nine manifestations.

According to The Way.

"Reach up into Daddy's cookie jar," Wierwille used to say.

God was "Daddy" and God's "cookie jar" was the gift of holy spirit with the manifestations. To me the cookie jar represented everything God was and provided and had made accessible to His children, the believers, those who are born again.

All the answers are found either in God's Word, The Bible, or in "Daddy's cookie jar" via the manifestations.

It's the all-in-all end-of-all.

There is really no further reason, no space, for any unanswerable questions.

We were to be diligent, always.
We were to speak in tongues all our waking hours, as much as we could.
The spiritual battle was 24/7.
And when we made mistakes, we examined where we "missed it," where God had spoken to us and we didn't obey.

*~*

As I type those words I feel a tightness around my chest, a tenseness in my body's muscles.

I say to myself,

Relax.
You no longer live in those confines.
Breathe.
Recall your times with the woods.
And the trees and insects and leaves,
and groundhogs and clover and wildflowers,
and cows and snakes and birds and deer,
and rocks and hills and rivers and dells,
and turkeys and coyotes and rabbits and skinks,
and squirrels and wild ponies,
especially Fabio.

My chest relaxes, no longer feeling bound.

It expands, letting in the open spaces.

Open spaces filled with peace and life and trust.

The unanswerable questions hang in space, lingering.

Unanswerable for now.

And there is no urgency to contrive an answer.

***

Brings to mind a poem I wrote in 2007: Bareback

How do I feel?

How do I feel?

I don't feel like writing, but I write anyway.

I feel disappointed with myself. Why?

I set standards too high for what I am capable of. I still catch myself setting goals from a perspective of … well … a whole person, the old me that had health and energy.

Or is that perspective of "the old me" just a fantasy?

Part is, part isn't. Most of my entire adult life has been chronic illness, starting from when I got sick at age 22, four years after joining The Way.

But that was my first chronic illness life. It lasted from 1981 through 2005ish. Through the last ten years of that time, I entered a realm of gradually allowing myself to think outside The Way bubble.

But I really didn't think I'd ever be completely allergy and asthma and hive and polyp and fatigue and pain free. But it happened. It happened as I kept moving forward and following where, mostly subtle, signals led me.

What signals?

Happenstances that would present themselves.
Choosing books at Borders, intuitively.
Daring to try health approaches outside what The Way would consider safe, like hypnotism and energy medicine.

In 1997, I began journaling and things began to leak, then flow, then flood. What things?

Can I not come up with a more descript word than "things?" How about "stuff?"

With journaling, things and stuff began quivering, undulating, coming to life in my emotions and psyche. Unknown to me at the time was its profound effect on my soma, my body.

With journaling, my landscape changed. I was on the move, gradually at first, slowly gaining momentum until I emerged into a vast landscape filled with variety and options, an abundance of paths.

Yet I really didn't think I'd ever be well, able to live without inhalers, allergy-free diets, needles, lots of supplements, medications, experimental treatments. The list goes on.

But I was wrong. I got well. Beginning in 1999, I virtually had no more asthma, no more sinus polypectomies. A few years later, no more hives. Then less fatigue, less brain fog, more energy. Eventually, no more pain. Even my depression and anxiety eased.

And then, in 2011, it all changed again.

Knapp.
Oral terbinafine; aka generic Lamisil.
A defective hip implant leaching cobalt and chromium.

It was a perfect storm which left me numb, lumpy, weak, inflamed, fatigued, almost paralyzed at times.

And here I am, seven years later.

And this time, I really don't think I'll ever be as well as I became after my first chronic illness life.

The main reason I think this?

Age.

I'll be 60 next year, so I don't have whatever it is that youth provides. Why is that?

And is it really true? Or how true is it? How much does regeneration of health depend on youth? Young blood? Young hormones? Young tissue?

My oversetting of goals, it's a continual balancing act. Even if I had my health, I'd be in the same predicament. I'd just set more goals with higher standards.

I wonder if I can change that about me? If not, at least I recognize it and can perhaps learn to manage it better. At least become more adept and aware when it's happening.

Nice wide sidewalks

Today is our third full day here.

We arrived Saturday afternoon, 4:30ish I reckon. We went to get bikes on Sunday, but places were closed, and it was raining. We went to a mall so I could walk with my walker; I needed to move and couldn't cycle yet.

Monday we drove, in the rain again, to get bikes. This time Boogie Down was open. That's where we rented our bikes.

I called two other places to see who had what. Boogie Down was the only place that rented mountain/street bikes with gears and not just one-geared beach cruisers.

Cruisers use pedal-brakes. I haven't used pedal-brakes in decades; my habit of handbrakes may cause me to go boom if I try pedal-brakes. Plus, sometimes cruiser handle bars are a U-shape; that position would be rough on my arms. So, cruisers are out for me.

It was raining too hard Monday to ride, so Hubby loaded the rental bikes onto the car rack and drove back to the hotel and unloaded the bikes from the car rack and chained them to the bike rack supplied by the hotel in the key-access-only breezeway. I had rented a Mongoose brand, girl bike, with gears. Hubby got a cruiser; I forget the brand.

After dropping off the bikes, we drove to the Museum of Arts and Science (MOAS) in Daytona. I needed to move and didn't want the mall again. MOAS was the perfect choice. The art, history, and science were all engaging. Except the planetarium show. Hubby and I both nodded off. I poked Hubby when he started snoring, which had woken me up.

One of my favorite exhibits in MOAS was the Coca Cola memorabilia in the Root Family Museum section. It was really cool with all sorts of vending machines on display.

And I learned about Chapman Root who designed and patented glass drinking bottles. His bottles were chosen for Coca Cola back in the day.

Just that morning, some seven hours earlier, I had been thinking about glass bottles wondering who figured out that sand could be made into glass? Prior to glass, humans would have used wood or clay or moltable metal to make vessels and plates. Windows would be covered with wood or iron, before there was glass.

And now, seven hours later, I'm staring at hundreds of glass bottles.

A few weeks ago I thought, In a world of plastic, be glass.

At MOAS, I walked using my walker, and, when I got tired, I rode in my walker while Hubby pushed me. But I didn't use the footrests because each one is folded upwards and, with two different colorful pipe cleaners, is attached to its corresponding, perpendicular, metal rod. That keeps the rests from falling down when they aren't being used. I didn't feel like messing with trying to untwists and then retwists the pipe cleaners.

I bought my walker in 2016 and named it The Phoenix; it's painted a metallic burgundy. It has a padded seat, a basket under the seat, a padded back support bar with a separate padded push bar, lockable handbrakes, and footrests for the rideist's feet when the walkist gets tired and needs to sit and becomes the rideist. I seldom become a rideist on The Phoenix, but it came in real handy at the museum.

Today, Tuesday, we were able to ride bikes. I was so glad. I needed to ride. But, I had to take my Mongoose and trade it in. It was so uncomfortable. While riding it back to the rental shop to trade it, I thought, Maybe one has to be a mongoose to ride this thing. I traded it for a Trek. Whew; that felt so much better. I have to store the Trek inside when not in use, out of the salt air, so it doesn't corrode too quickly. It's more costly to replace than the Mongoose. It has a nice storage spot in our studio room.

On our ride, we saw lots of little lizards, which I guess are skinks, and lots of tiny-little, dark-gray crabs. I like watching crabs side-walk.

We rode our bikes on sidewalks today. Sidewalks here are nice and wide, designed for simultaneous use by cylcists and walkists, little lizards and tiny crabs.

Serendipitous validation

Yesterday, once again, the winding backroads of southwest Virginia did not disappoint. Her wide, rolling pastures dotted with cows - black and white, moms and calves - grounded me into unhurried simplicity. The drive is a stark contrast to the Raleigh back-and-forth commute on wide, striped asphalt zooming with wheeled tin cans - 18 wheels, 4 wheels, 2 wheels - tempting my being into hurry-or-get-slaughtered complexity.

***

I met Shirley shortly after I arrived at the New River Trail State Park parking area in Austinville, Virginia. I was the only car in the dirt lot until Shirley arrived. After she pulled her walking cane out of the trunk of her car, I commenced a conversation.

"How far are you walking today?"

"I don't know. Maybe a couple miles."

"Do you walk here often?"

"Every day. I love the trail. I live about 10 minutes away. Every hike I'm thankful it's in my back yard. I have to walk, have to. I can't just sit on my couch in pain and rot away."

"I totally get it. I'm the same with biking."

We shared a bit about the life-giving force of being in the woods. Her sister lives in Raleigh and commutes to Shirley's every weekend to get away from the traffic and congestion. Her sister is a teacher in the Raleigh area.

Funny that Shirley brought that up. Earlier in the week I had commuted to and from Raleigh, twice. After the two trips I determined that the drive probably isn't worth the current effort to complete "my big goal" of biking that part (and east thereof) of the state, so I was leaning toward non-commitment to that goal. Her comments further validated my decision to put it on indefinite hold. Not a big deal to me. I much prefer slower, meandering country commutes and more wood-time than interstate-time.

I shared with Shirley that on one of my Raleigh trips I met a teacher who commutes to and from work on his bike via the greenways. He shared that it's much less stressful than driving.

"I saw a bear on my walk recently," Shirley changed the subject away from big-city congestion and back to the trail.

"Oh man. I've been wanting to see a bear. I think it's been six years since I've seen one. When I ride I'm on the lookout, looking up in tree tops."

Shirley shared how she was lost in thought as she hiked, and then she looked up, and there was the bear. She prayed, "Lord if this is it, let it be quick." I'm not sure what happened after that because our conversation went in the direction of trail risks and if we were to die on the trail it'd be a good place to depart this earthly life. If I see her again, I'll have to ask what happened.

We talked a bit more, and then she commenced her walk.

About 30 minutes later I caught up with Shirley as she was crossing one of the wood-slat bridges. I dismounted my bike and walked beside her as we chatted some more. Ends up Shirley is disabled and walking the trail is one of her best therapies, like biking is for me. She would love to be able to bike again, but she can't due to her disability. I'd love to be able to hike again, but can't due to my disability. Ironic.

We stopped once we were across the bridge and chatted for at least another 20 minutes. Part of our chat was about social security disability and her fight to finally get it and how the judge apologized to her that she had to fight for four years. That part of the conversation brought me anxiety because I'm currently in the process of trying to get disability. I think it might be difficult for someone to understand how I can bike but not be able to work a regular job. Shirley totally gets it because that's how walking is for her.

We bade our farewells and then continued our treks - she on two feet and I on two wheels.

It took me an hour or so to calm my anxiety about the disability subject. But I was good after arriving back at Edward the Explorer and after talking to hubby on the phone. I actually had cell service at Austinville. That surprised me.