Bag Lady

I was 15 when I got my first purse.  It had a long strap that allowed it to hang at my waist.  It looked like something a hippie, flower child would have.  My grandmother bought for my trip to California.  A small wallet held my new driver’s license, a card with emergency numbers and $10.00 emergency money.  My passage into womanhood had begun.

As a young wife beginning my working career, I made the switch to more grown up and conservative purse.  It held a wallet along with a brush, lipstick and my checkbook.  As I added children to my life, my purse became much larger. Style was not important.  Cheap vinyl and many pockets were all that mattered.  It held the basics and crackers, a small bag of Cheerios, Kleenex, band aids, and an assortment of small toys.    I always had paper and pen to entertain the kids.  The onset of panic attacks in my life added a bottle of Valium to the mix.

As my life became complicated and I slipped into addiction, my choice of purses changed as well.  I needed much larger bags now.  Style wasn’t as important as functionality.  The wallet held the usual items as well as rolling papers. Mini bottles of booze along with cigarettes and a lighter were required items.  Breathe mints, eye drops, bottles of pills, and spare deodorant were needed items.  Organization was lost and things were thrown into the bag without thought.

After sobriety, life changed along with my purse.  I still preferred larger bags with lots of pockets.  Over time, I became more courageous and chose vibrant colors and designs.   Now the more essential items were my meeting schedules, antacids, and candy.  My wallet once again contained money, a checkbook, pictures, and credit cards.

Today I carry a smaller satchel type bag.  I have a huge wallet that holds all the basics along with 20 key cards for discounts stores.   The wallet comes with a detachable strap so I can carry it alone.  A pill box is a necessary addition.  One of the most important things in a purse is an outside pouch for my cell phone.   Inside the purse is a phone charger, extra hidden car keys car, a small notebook to capture ideas for writing and a variety of pens.  Since I am a college student now, I also carry a huge backpack/book bag .

I wonder what my purses will be like in the coming years.  I am getting older and I am sure the changes in my life will bring changes in my purse and the treasures inside.  I imagine I will always own a purse even if I don’t get out much.   It holds so many things that are important in my life.   They say that to dream about a purse represents secrets, desires and thoughts that are being closely held and guarded.  It symbolizes your identity and sense of self.   You know, I think that might just be true.

There’s No Need To Hide

I saw the headlines, “Pastor Rick Warren Asks for Prayer Following Son’s Suicide.”  I read the articles detailing the struggles of the 27 year old son who had battled depression most of his life.  I was grateful to see that Pastor Warren expressed such love and understanding of the tremendous battle this young man fought and finally lost. I read nothing of blame nor lack of faith.  Sadly, it is a common theme.  You can overcome depression or any other form of mental illness simply by prayer, self will, and choosing to be strong.  Some will go so far as to say that mental illness is the work of Satan taking over because your faith was not strong enough to fight.

I kept my own mental illness a secret for a very long time.  It was an example I learned at a young age.  We didn’t talk about my great grandmother’s “problem.”  They sent her to a state mental hospital and lied to everyone.  My grandmother felt that mental illness was a weakness.  Prayer and just the right amount of church services and tithing could fix it.    We never talked about my grandfather’s alcoholism to anyone.  Our Pastor was the only one that knew.  He came once a year to “talk” to my grandfather and pray for him.  He only did it because my grandmother insisted.  When I showed signs of depression and anxiety disorders as a child my grandmother became angry.  I learned quickly to hide and lie.  I found ways to cope that had to be unlearned as an adult.

I am grateful to two amazing therapists who helped me learn to manage my life and my illness. They both helped me find my way back to my faith.   I am grateful for the medications that keep me in balance.  I am grateful for friends and family that allow me to share my world with them.  I have bad days just like everyone else. No one in my circle of family and friends comes running in to ask if I am taking my meds or if I need to see my psychiatrist.  The amazing thing is that they would do that if they truly were concerned.  I talk about these things because there is no need to be ashamed.  Yet, many people still talk in hushed tones about mental illness.

I read a blog post today and I wanted to share a  part of it here.  Here is the link if you want to read it in full.  What Christians Need to Know  About Mental Health by Ann Voskamp

“There are some who take communion and anti-depressants and there are those  who think both are a crutch.

Come in close — I’d rather walk tall with a crutch than crawl around insisting like a proud and bloody fool that I didn’t need one.

I once heard a pastor tell the whole congregation that he had lived next to the loonie bin and I looked at the floor when everyone laughed and they didn’t know how I loved my mama. I looked to the floor when they laughed, when I wanted them to stand up and reach through the pain of the flames and say:

Our Bible says Jesus said, “It is not those who are healthy who need a doctor, but those who are sick.” Jesus came for the sick, not for the smug. Jesus came as doctor and He makes miracles happen through medicine and when the church isn’t for the suffering, then the Church isn’t for Christ.

I wanted them to say it all together, like one Body, for us to say it all together to each other because there’s not one of us who hasn’t lost something, who doesn’t fear something, who doesn’t ache with something. I wanted us to turn to the hurting, to each other, and promise it till we’re hoarse:

We won’t give you some cliche –  but something to cling to — and that will mean our hands.

We won’t give you some platitudes — but someplace for your pain — and that will mean our time.

We won’t give you some excuses — but we’ll be some example — and that will mean bending down and washing your wounds. Wounds that we don’t understand, wounds that keep festering, that don’t heal, that down right stink — wounds that can never make us turn away.

Because we are the Body of the Wounded Healer and we are the people who believe the impossible — that wounds can be openings to the beauty in us.

We’re the people who say: there’s no shame saying that your heart and head are broken because there’s a Doctor in the house. It’s the wisest and the bravest who cry for help when lost.

There’s no stigma in saying you’re sick because there’s a wounded Healer who uses nails to buy freedom and crosses to resurrect hope and medicine to make miracles.

There’s no guilt in mental illness because depression is a kind of cancer that attacks the mind. You don’t shame cancer, you treat cancer. You don’t treat those with hurting insides as less than. You get them the most treatment.

I wanted the brave to speak Truth and Love:

Shame is a bully and Grace is a shield.  You are safe here.

To write it on walls and arms and wounds:

No Shame.
No Fear.
No Hiding.
Always safe for the suffering here.

You can be different and you can struggle and you can wrestle and you can hurt and we will be here. Because a fallen world keeps falling apart and even though we the Body can’t make things turn out — we can turn up. Just keep turning up, showing up, looking up.”

Running On Empty

The other day my friend sent me a picture of her gas gauge with bars showing she had no miles left until empty. We laughed and talked about knowing better.   This morning the gentle dinging sound as I started my car reminded me that I needed gas. I should have stopped last night but it was rainy and I was tired. I looked at my gauge and the needle was teetering close to the little line that says, “you will be sorry if you don’t fill this car up NOW.” Yes, I have run out of gas before and it is not a pleasant experience. Once again, I was running on empty.

I tend to do the same thing in other areas of life.  I stay up too late when I have to get up early.  I don’t eat healthy, nutritious food.  I don’t exercise enough…or I just don’t exercise. I don’t play and have fun.  I isolate and don’t talk about things that concern me.  I spend too much time being negative and worrying.   I don’t take  to journal or write.  I forget about quiet time to meditate and pray.  Eventually my light comes on and I see the signs very clearly.  I am running on empty.

It is time to fill up my tank.  The car is an easy fix.  I just pull into the gas station and fill it up.  Of course, with gas prices these days, it isn’t as easy as it used to be.  Filling up my personal tank can be a challenge, too.  I am working part time and going to college almost full time.  Writing papers, studying, and preparing for class all take a lot of time.  I have to pay bills and do time consuming things like laundry and cleaning.  There are also all the day to day activities that get in the way.

I am exactly like my car.  I have to fill my tank.  I can wait until I am almost on empty and push to see how much  farther  I can go before I breakdown  on the side of the road or I can do the smart thing and refill at any time along the way.   I imagine I am still going to push it from time to time, but I am going to try to do better.  I still have a roadside assistance plan for my car…. just in case.

Keep It Simple

Scott Peck wrote in the Road Less Traveled, “Life is difficult. This is a great truth, one of the greatest truths. It is a great truth because once we truly see this truth, we transcend it. Once we truly know that life is difficult – once we truly understand and accept it – then life is no longer difficult. Because once it is accepted, the fact that life is difficult no longer matters.”

Life is filled with complicated questions.  “Why?” is the one that comes to mind most often.   I wonder if knowing why something happened would really make it easier.  If I knew why my friend died, would it hurt any less?  Would I  miss her any less?  If I knew why parents and grandparents were the kind of people who would hurt a kid, would it really matter?   Why did I become a drunk? Does it really matter why I gained weight ?   Why did I get sober when others  can’t? Why did I  survive so many obstacles and come out in tact and with my faith when other didn’t ?  I don’t have answers for all those  “why” questions.    “Why”  often seems like searching for a treasure box only to find it empty.

I wonder if my time would be better spent accepting that life is filled with mystery and things we will never understand.  Maybe my friend was right after all.  Whenever something happened that just didn’t make sense she would ask,  “what is the lesson you are supposed to learn from this?”  As much as I loved her, I often wanted to throw something at her when she would ask this.   Here is what I usually seem to learn in those times:  Take the next step, do the next right thing,  love the people in your life, and trust in God (whatever you may call God).

 

It’s Just Like Riding A Bike

I don’t remember learning to ride a bike, but I do know how to ride one. I remember spending a lot of time circling our neighborhood with my friend as a kid. It was a special kind of feeling so be so free flying around on two wheels. I remember the joy in helping my children and grandchildren learn to ride. I watched them experience that first sense of freedom. Throughout my life I have owned bikes from time to time. It is true, you know-you never forgot how to ride a bike. In fact, there is a well-known cliché that says, “It’s just like riding a bike.”

This morning I walked into the office building where I worked until last September. It had been a huge part of my life for a very long time. I am going to be working there again part time. I saw a few old faces as I entered the building. One of the women and I joked about the elevator that seems to have a mind of its own. I made my way to my office area and walked in to a truly familiar setting. Honestly, I have been a little nervous about coming back. I wondered if I would remember everything. I made my way to the desk and logged into the appropriate software for the different systems. I sat back and was ready to go. The Executive Director walked by and said, “It’s so good to see you here again. Sorry I have to run but I have a meeting. Love you.” I laughed as I replied, “Nice to see nothing has changed.” Another coworker arrived and we began chatting about some clients and ways  of dealing with them. We talked about old times and caught up for a bit. There were only a couple of technical things I needed help remembering. It felt good to be back.  It’s just like riding a bike.

In January, I became a freshman at the College of Charleston. I am a bit older than most of the students; actually I am bit older than many of the professors. I haven’t been in a college classroom in over forty years. I took some classes at a technical school years ago, but that was nothing like this. I have had to remember how to read schedules, find classrooms, take notes, study, do homework, write papers, and more. I wondered if I would remember everything. So far I am doing pretty well. I am making much better grades than I did in high school.  It’s just like riding a bike.

In September last year, I became single again. I have had to learn to live single. I am very fortunate to be able to live with my daughter, son-in-law, and grandson so I am not truly alone. There is an old country song, “Sleeping Single in a Double Bed,” and that is a change. I have to think about things like work, car repairs, paying bills, taxes, retirement, and health insurance by myself. I buy groceries for one and I cook for one, that is if I ever cook.  I spend a lot of time with friends and we eat together often.  I wondered if I would remember everything I needed to live single. I am adjusting and finding my way. It’s just like riding a bike.

March is the month of two significant losses in my life. Today is the anniversary of my “other” mother, Mamma Pearl’s death and earlier this month was the anniversary of the death of my best friend. As I look at my life changes I know more will come. I know that close friends and family might move away and some may die. I know there will financial challenges, physical problems, issues with aging, and life challenges. I have faced them all before. I have had some huge obstacles to overcome, but I did. I have a God, friends, and family who never give up on me. I wonder if I can remember everything that has helped me get here when those times come. I think I will. After all, it’s just like riding a bike.

There’s Not An App for That

Seems there is an app for everything these days.  There isn’t an app to help create a title for a blog, book, or essay.  Believe me, I looked for one.  I can think of  hundreds of words for a post but struggle for what seems like hours to find a title.  Even after deciding on a title, I don’t usually like it.  I often see blog posts or books with eye catching titles and wonder how the author chose it.

I saw an article recently entitled, “Chicken, Pot, Pie – Sounds So Much Better with Commas.”   Another one that made me laugh was, “Tampons and Chocolate.”  One of my favorite bloggers is “Abby Gabs.”  That is a great title for the blog, and she always has great post titles like, “Tips for My Funeral. “

Why am I on a rant about titles?  I wrote a post a couple of days ago and I racked my brain for a long time for a title.  I came up with, “Remembering An Old Friend.”  Yeah-it’s not original or appealing.  You wouldn’t see that title and feel compelled to read the post.  It also didn’t capture the essence of what I wrote.   A couple of friends told me they were surprised the post was not about my friend who died a few years ago.  I write a post about her and that time in my life every year since she died.  I didn’t write one this year and I’m not sure why.  Grief presents in different ways at different times and I just couldn’t write about it this year.

Several of the comments about the post reflected on the teacher I mentioned. While she was an important character in the post, no one seemed to connect the “old friend” with the book and the fictional character in the post.  Perhaps if the title had been “Remembering a Book Filled with Four Letter Words,” or ” I Was In Love With A Fictional Teenage Rebel,” readers might have perceived it differently.

I have to admit that I have the same struggle with the books I am writing.   I have  changed the title on one of them at least a dozen times. Of course, I’ve changed the direction of the book with each title change.  Perhaps this is why it is taking so long to finish it.  ” Mothers, Monsters, Madness, And Miracles,”  “It’s All in My Head,” and  “How Did I Get Here From There?” are a few of the titles I have considered.

If any of you develop an app for creating titles, please let me know.  Until that time please send me any ideas that might help me come up with great titles for my posts or my books.  Otherwise, I might have to stop writing.  Coming up with titles is just too stressful.

Remembering An Old Friend

I looked at the updated syllabus covering the rest of the semester. Our academic writing professor didn’t want to overwhelm us with what was to come next so he only gave us assignments up until Spring break. The first thing that caught my eye were the instructions to read chapters 1-5 of Catcher in the Rye. Catcher in the Rye is a book that holds some very significant and bitter-sweet memories for me. My mind raced back to my senior year in high mmschool.

My grandparents sent me to a very small, private Baptist high school. Most of my classmates were affluent and many had been in elementary and junior high together. I was just as much a misfit and outsider here as I was in other areas of my life. I ate lunch with a small group of three girls. Our conversations were often strained and usually boring. In my junior year, I became friends with Eileen. We took Driver’s Ed together the summer before our junior year and, we both had a crush on our instructor. It was truly a bonding experience. Her mother was the school secretary, so Eileen attended school for free. That made her a bit of misfit as well. She was pretty and smart but still an outsider. I loved having a friend at school. It made my last two years more tolerable.

The first day of our senior year we met the new English teacher. Miss Foster was young, and this was only her second year of teaching. I was immediately drawn to her. She paid attention to me in class and encouraged me. Most of my other teachers classified me an underachiever. “She is so very smart but just doesn’t apply herself,” was the verdict. No one ever bothered to ask why I didn’t apply myself. Miss Foster said I could be a writer.

Eileen stayed after school everyday waiting for mother who worked until 4:30pm. I walked about ten blocks to my grandmother’s office to wait for her. Most days I stayed and hung out with Eileen for a while. We started going to Miss Foster’s classroom at the end of the day. We would all sit around and talk. She told us we could call her Bitsy after school. We even convinced her to be a chaperone for us the next summer on a cruise to the Bahamas. Our senior class wasn’t going to be able to take the traditional Bahama cruise. The school’s administrators decided it wasn’t a “wholesome” environment, so our class was going to New York City and Washington, DC. We thought our parents just might let us go together if we had a teacher go along. We never did ask them.

Eileen was out sick one week, so I was able to have some one on one time with Bitsy. She told me she wanted to talk with me about something important.

“I have something I want to give you.” She pulled two books from her satchel.

“I want to give you these two books. They are different from anything you have read before. I think you will get a lot out of reading them. You are so smart and I know you will understand them. I must warn you; they have some ‘four letter’ words in them. If you want them, I have to ask that you never show them to anyone. Keep them as something private, just for yourself. If someone does see them, you can’t tell them where you got them. If anyone knew I gave you these books, I could lose my job. Do you think you can keep this secret?”

“Yes, I promise I can. I would really love to read them.”

I had no idea what the books were about and I didn’t care. I would read anything Bitsy gave me. I would go to any lengths to protect her. You could have tortured me and thrown me into jail and I wouldn’t have budged. I imagined myself much like the Apostle Paul being martyred for the sake of the Gospel, only I was doing it because I wanted to keep her in my life. The lonely little girl in me saw her as a mother figure. She had no way of knowing that I was a champion at keeping secrets. I had kept secrets since I was old enough to talk.

What strange titles for books- Franny and Zooey and Catcher in the Rye. She was right. I had never read anything like them before. I devoured Catcher in the Rye much as a wild animal devours its prey. Lines like, “Mothers are all slightly insane,” made me love this book. I was infatuated with Holden Caulfield. I knew that had he been a real boy we would have been the perfect couple. I knew he would “get” me. Bitsy laughed when I rushed in after school the next week and asked her if there were any other books like these I could read. I told her that I found something in them that was real and that made sense to me. She promised to find others for me.

Just two weeks later we were in class when the principal came to our room and asked Miss Foster to come to her office. My heart sank; Could someone have found out? I would deny everything if asked. Miss Foster returned just before the end of our class. She was carrying a bouquet of flowers and it was obvious that she had been crying. A man in a military uniform followed her into the classroom. We all knew she was dating a man in the Navy. They announced their engagement to the class as she showed off her new ring.

That afternoon Eileen and I went to her room to find out all the details. She had an unusually sad look for someone who had just been engaged.

“I have to tell you both something. You can’t say anything until it is announced on Monday to the rest of the school. I wanted to tell you this myself.” My heart was racing. I wanted to put my fingers in my ears and say “lalalalalala” and pretend I couldn’t hear her talking. I had an idea what was coming next.

“I know you remember how unhappy I was because Micheal was being transferred to Virginia. He came to propose to me because he wants me to go with him. I am going to be leaving in three weeks to go with him. I am going to miss you both more than you can imagine.”

I put on my brave face and congratulated her. I told her I was going to miss her very much. Inside I was screaming’ “Please don’t go. Please! I don’t think I can survive the rest of high school without you!” I cried myself to sleep that night and for a week after she left. I was used to losing people in my life but it never got any easier.

I hid the two books away. I kept them on my book shelf for many years after I left high school. I never opened them or read them again. I have known that Catcher in the Rye was on our list of required books since I registered for the class. Even though I ordered all of my other books early, I didn’t buy that one until yesterday. I stood in Barnes and Noble holding the book and for a few moments I became that scared, wounded sixteen year old girl who fell in love with Holden and the book. I didn’t know if I was ready to meet Holden Caulfield again, but I think I am. I thought about Bitsy and how much she changed my life in just a few short months. It’s one of the things that amazes me most about my life; the right people show up just when I need them most.

“Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”
― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

The Sky is Falling–Again–For Real

Tonight Feb 16

27^°Low  Rain / Snow Showers Early    Chance of precip: 40%

Rain and snow tapering off this evening. Clearing overnight. Low 27F. Winds WNW at 10 to 20 mph. Chance of precip 40%.

I live in the south…the real south.  We have sweet tea, beaches, Palmetto trees, moss on trees, and the finest seafood around.  We are polite (to each other but not always behind your back), we say Y’all  (yes, it is so cute), and we will defend our southern ways to the death.  We are used to dealing with rain, thunderstorms, and even hurricanes.  What we don’t get is snow.  We do not know what to do when the weather channel and local weather stations say that dirty little four letter word.

We have a weather forecast including the word snow tonight.  It will not stick to the ground and there will be no accumulation.  Most people will be peering out of their windows waiting for those first few flakes to appear; if they can see them that is.   As soon as one is cited, the cell towers will be buzzing with the news spreading from one person to the next.   We will question each other to see if it is “sticking.”  We will just pray the roads stay clear.  The truth is those pesky bridges can become dangerous in wet, freezing conditions.  Haven’t you seen the signs?  

I made a trip to the store to pick up a prescription and it took a long time to find a parking spot.  Once inside I saw people lined up at the deli counter and the bread isles were low on product.  You see, if we lose power from the massive flurries we must have food that doesn’t need electricity to prepare.    Strangers talked with each other about the looming dangers.   I could pick out the “Yankees” among the crowd.  They looked lost and confused.  Had they perhaps missed some weather alert from the app on the phone?   They whispered to each other and laughed.  They know what it means to have snow and this wasn’t it.

I made a quick trip to get what I needed and returned home to snuggle in my Sponge Bob Snuggie and settle in for the night.  I will miss Saturday afternoon and evening with my friends because while the snow doesn’t worry me,  the cold bitter weather is no match for my bronchitis ridden lungs right now.

I have lived in West Va, Maryland, and Reno, NV.  I know snow.  I have been in blizzards, shoveled more snow that I ever care to again, used lighters to heat car keys to unlock the door, scraped ice and snow off windshields, helped my daughter find her car in a huge snow drift, and put tire chains on my car.   I understand that no matter how wonderful your four-wheel drive SUV is, it is no match for ice on the road.    I am a southerner who isn’t afraid of the white stuff falling from the sky.

I have to admit that I do miss snow.  I miss making snowballs and snow angels.  I miss dressing up in 5 layers to go outside and play.  I miss sliding down hills on inner tubes.  I miss the beauty of the freshly fallen snow that leaves a blanket of white on the ground.  I miss it just enough to want it to snow on a Friday afternoon and linger throughout Saturday and then go away.   I don’t know if I will see any flurries, but  I will be one of the many who will be watching out my window to see if the sky does indeed fall tonight.

The Sky is Falling

Narrator:   Chicken Little was in the woods one day when an acorn fell on her head.  It scared her so much she trembled all over.  She shook so hard, half her feathers fell out.

Chicken Little:   “Help! Help!  The sky is falling!  I have to go tell the king!”

I have written about my Grandmother in previous posts.  Her ideas on religion and life in general would give even Freud cause to wonder.  I became her “child” through adoption at age four so her impact on my life was significant.  In fact, it has taken two amazing, determined therapists and many friends to allow me to move past her influence.   Yet, there lies trapped in my brain those tapes and fears that can be triggered without warning.  My rational mind understands the illogical fears that still haunt my “little girl” inside, yet the fears are real.

I have been fighting bronchitis since my Christmas gift of the flu.  One round of antibiotics and prednisone seemed to work but the bronchitis came back full force.  I am now on more antibiotics, double the prednisone, and breathing treatments/inhalers filled with albuterol.  They tell you to rest, yet the medications make sleep improbable if not impossible.  Last night I managed to fall asleep and stay asleep for four hours.  I woke at 3:00am and turned on the TV looking for something to lull me back to sleep.  The story of the Carnival cruise ship stuck at sea for several days captivated me.   I watched the passengers finally disembarking from the ship in Mobile, Alabama as the newscast played “Sweet Home, Alabama.”  Yes, it was corny, but effective.  It made me laugh.

Just as I got comfortable in my fortress of sheets and pillows, the scene switched to breaking news.  I saw what appeared to be a bright light go across the sky.  Perhaps there was a plane crash, I thought.  Then I heard the words, “meteorite hits Russia injuring more than 500 people.”  The picture looked just like something from the sci-fi movies that have become so popular.   I fumbled to find the remote and change the channel as quickly as I could only to find the pictures on the next channel as well.  I quickly turned off the TV and tried to lose the images from my mind.

My Grandmother’s stories of meteors hitting the earth and Russia being the center of all evil came crashing into my mind much like the meteor hitting the earth.   Her interpretation of the book of Revelations may leave Biblical scholars scratching their heads, but as a child, I only knew her words.   She warned of the moon turning red, stars falling from the sky, loud noises, and more as God destroys our evil world.   There was something in the story about good people disappearing into heaven before that, but I knew I was not good enough to be among them.

I decided to turn my mind to more productive thoughts.  Where the h*** were there those radar things?  I mean we watch planes on radar all the time.  We can see tornadoes, hurricanes, and even thunderstorms forming.   Was someone asleep at the big screen at NASA?   Don’t we have plans in place to blow up a bunch of rocks falling from the sky?  Or, I have I just watched Bruce Willis save the world in the movie Armageddon one too many times?  Luke Skywalker or Captain Kirk would be appalled to see this.

This morning I told my daughter about my middle of the night wake experience and before I could say more, she laughed and asked if I saw the meteor news.  She wanted to tell me about the “Left Behind” books and Moscow, and meteors, but I reminded her that I don’t like to talk about those things.    People who know me well know that I don’t like to hear, see, or talk about such things.  Maybe we are facing those end days talked about in Revelation; I don’t know.  I do know that today I can walk outside my house, look at the sky, and know that I have faith in a God who is in control.   I have a mortal body.  One day it will die.   I just hope it isn’t from a cataclysmic event like a meteor falling on me, however.

I have a friend who reads my blog and from time to time will tell me, “I can’t believe you shared that in your blog for everyone to read.”   There seems to be some fear that I may have a future employer reading my blog posts who will quickly file my application away and send off the polite “we will call you if we have anything” letter.  Perhaps some overly cautious suitor will check out my online profile and decide I am far too complicated to pursue. He would be right.   I am willing to take that risk and continue to share my stories.   Humor, sharing my stories, and prayer are the best weapons I have to fight those lingering fears…………. and stray meteors.

Broken Hearts

The fact is: Heart disease kills one in three women each year – that’s approximately one woman every minute. But it doesn’t affect all women alike, and the warning signs for women aren’t the same in men. What’s more: These facts only begin to scratch the surface. To learn more, click here. 

In 2003, the American Heart Association and the National Heart, Lung and Blood Institute took action against a disease that was claiming the lives of nearly 500,000 American women each year – a disease that women weren’t paying attention to. A disease they truly believed, and many still believe to this day, affects more men than women.

Stemming from that action, National Wear Red Day was born. It’s held on the first Friday in February every year to raise awareness about heart disease being the No. 1 killer of women.

From time to time I write about an issue that is important to me.  Many of my friends support issues that have touched their lives in some way.  One friend who gave birth to a premie supports the March of Dimes.  Many of my friends support suicide education and prevention  programs.  Other friends support causes such as MS, MD, Cancer Awareness programs, and AIDS awareness programs.  I have two issues that stand out for me.  One is mental health (including alcohol and drug awareness) awareness programs.  The other is the American Heart Association.  National Wear Red Day is  a reminder for women to check health checkups, take preventive care when it comes to heart disease, and know the signs of a heart attack or stroke.

Before March 7,2008 I never really thought much about heart disease.  It has always seemed like an issue for old men. None of the women in my family have ever had issues with their heart.   My father died from complications of heart disease, but he was a man after all.  Truth is, I didn’t really know many people who had died from heart attacks.

On the morning of March 8th, 2008, a phone call changed my life.  My friend’s voice cracked as she told me that my best friend had died the night before.  I didn’t understand.  She was only 57 years old, just a year older than me.  She died from a massive blockage in the arteries of her heart.  An ambulance was called but she died before they could reach her.

I have always heard that you can’t die from a broken heart.  I thought I might for a long time after that.  She did die from a “broken” heart. No one really knows why or how her heart was in such bad shape.   She dealt with many health problems over her lifetime and had undergone gastric bypass surgery a year earlier.  She had lost a lot of weight and was leading a more active lifestyle that she had in many years.  It just didn’t make sense.

I share this story with you today because there is something we can do to help ourselves and other women. We can support each other when we are dealing with the stress of living life. We can encourage our friends to eat better, exercise, quit smoking, and get yearly check ups.  We can share information about health checkups and about the signs and symptoms of heart disease and stroke.

I still miss my friend more than I can tell you.  I don’t know if some test might have found her problems or if she ignored signs of a pending problem.  I only hope that sharing this information will help  keep the women in my life heart healthy.