Lissabird Makes Good

How Quickly We Forget

2011-02-10T08:40:00.000-08:00

The brain is made to forget pain. When it is chronic, you never really get a chance to forget it. However, my approximate year spent in remission from CRPS/RSD and Fibromyalgia was pleanty of time. I was not 100% pain free, but compared to where I started, the relief was more than a dream come true. So here I am in my third trimester of pregnancy, and to put it mildly-- I hurt. A fair amount of discomfort is normal at this stage, but I'm quite sure that my nerves are more active than they should be since this didn't happen with my first baby. I've been dealing with all of the classics neurological pain has to offer with the shooting, stabbing and burning pains popping up randomly all over my body. The worst part is that I can't deal with it like I used to. I wince, gasp, and shudder. I feel like a brand new pain patient trying to find ways to cope, and failing. I have lived in pain for more than two thirds of my entire life, you'd think I'd know how to do this. But really, this ability to forget is a beautiful thing. It's the only way we ladies would consider having more than one child after all, but I would sure like to have my coping skills back. At least for another 5-8 weeks.

How Things Change

2010-11-22T11:16:00.000-08:00

Christmas was the hardest day of my year for a long time. Even when I still lived at home, the day would dissolve in tears and screaming most of the time. After I ran away from home it only got worse. I was alone, and intruding on my boyfriend's family... just watching from the outside. I couldn't sort out the part of me that wanted to go home, and rest of me that never wanted to see my mom again. It was a terrible day, and I almost never looked forward to it. That's life with mental illness. Days that should be the best, usually suck the most.

Then a few days ago my three year old daughter was telling me everything she knew about Christmas. "There will be lights, and ornaments, and a tree!" she said. "Mama, is it time for a tree?"

I actually caught myself feeling genuinely excited to put up a tree and decorate the house. I'm not saying that having kids magically makes the day better. It could easily be a terrible day for all of us if I chose to wallow in the past like my mom did and destroy any future hope for peace and happiness. Life is all about the choices we make. And things really can get better.

Well Hello Blog World,

2010-11-11T10:51:00.000-08:00

I know I am not the first person to feel this way, but somehow it's November.

Updates...

Pregnancy is going well in terms of all the things I thought would go wrong. It took me quite a bit longer to get pregnant than I planned (note to self: planning such an event is just silly). I had hoped that I could slide right off the coat tails of remission to pregnancy, and control the pain better that way. I worried the longer it took that I would start feeling really crappy again at any time, but it didn't happen. There were days and weeks that were decidedly unpleasant, but on the whole my pain levels were the lowest I can ever remember. And they've pretty much stayed low in my new delicate state.

So I would say I'm doing great... except for the new Divine Comedy of Hormones that is taking place in my body. Thanks to hormonal irritation, my gallbladder has called it quits. No more red meat, dairy, or greasy things-- let's just say anything that actually tastes good. There's the eczema, sciatica, heart burn, indigestion, insomnia, and graceless emotional outbursts. But on the plus side, my butt looks amazing. No, really. Perhaps my hiney deserves its own blog post.

In other news, I've decided to give this business thing another go. A natural slow down in sales coincided nicely with my first trimester, near-comatose state, but I'm ready to make a run at this thing. In other words... Google gave me free advertising for a spell ;) There will be a few new designs for Christmas. Stay tuned.

I hesitantly put some paintings in the Etsy shop, and watched them do nothing for a while... But then! Someone I don't know gave me money in exchange for art and said really nice things about my work. Let's hope she still feels that way now that they've arrived. It was very stressful to put my paintings in a box and send them out in the world to be seen (and judged) by others. But here's to getting the opportunity to try it again.

Next up-- t-shirts and cute tiny baby things. I can't wait!

Check out my new digs over at lissabird.com

BFP!!!

2010-08-30T13:10:00.000-07:00

Good News, Everyone!

I'm pregnant :)

My stars, it's been a long time: about 13 months to be exact. I know that's just one month over average, but it felt like forever to me. The first time I was trying to get pregnant, I was excited, but not determined, because I didn't have the fever. But this time I was driven by this artificial goal of spacing my kids just right blah, blah, blah, and just really wanting a new baby. As a result, I went a little nuts.

After several months of just letting nature take it's course (and nature failing miserably) I researched the crap outta the whole process. Throughout my research I occasionally landed on personal blogs, and repeatedly found useful information and comfort, so I thought I should write down my winning combination.

Step 1: Get your crazy on.
Your well-meaning friends and family will tell you to relax. Once you've finished punching them in the face, then you're ready to bust out the basal body temp chart and get to work. I resisted the temperature game FOREVER because I simply couldn't remember to do it first thing, and I also thought it was loony. However, had I been doing it all along, I wouldn't have wasted so much time. Once I started, I thought it was interesting, and rarely forgot to do it. fertilityfriend.com makes it easier to chart.
Charting 101-- It won't quite predict ovulation (you can pee on a stick for that), but it will tell you when it's ok to stop trying each month. Useful info since you might ovulate later than you think... or not at all in my case. The chart will tell you that too, and then you can medicate accordingly.

Step 2: Embrace CM
That's cervical mucus. Read this-- http://www.babyhopes.com/articles/cervical-mucus.html

As you get older the number of days with fertile CM decrease drastically. I thought I would help the process along with Pre-Seed. http://www.babyhopes.com/pre-seed-lubricant.html?gclid=CJflpdmG4qMCFR9PgwodEnnJ1g

I only had to use it one month! I really think it made the difference.

Step 3:
Instead Cups... TMI?
They help keep the good stuff next to the cervix longer than just laying flat. Enough said.

Step 4:
Endure the two week wait until you can start testing. I didn't find anything that made this part easier... except Aimstrip Pregnancy Test Strips. I got a positive on 10 dpo!! (days past ovulation) http://www.babyhopes.com/aimstrip_pregnancy-test-strips.html

That's it I guess. I learned a lot more about my body and getting pregnant, but I think this is the really important stuff. I've been holding off the excitement, but I think this one is staying around :) I'm 8 weeks along and will have a new baby in April!

CAPS left and right, just like that Dooce lady.

2010-07-28T21:44:00.000-07:00

Haven't been here in a while...

But I have some big news worth firing up Blogger for: I can bend my ankle a tiny bit more. I know... I should have made sure you were all sitting down for that one. If that statement didn't knock you off your chair, then let me explain. RSD/CRPS caused my achilles tendon to shorten, which limited the movement in my ankle to just a hair past 90 degrees. That's not quite enough to walk normally. But over the last month or two I began to notice a change. The stairs got a little easier. When I danced, I found that I could bend my knee and my ankle at the same time (a little). Then finally, I thought I would try walking like a normal person (bending my knee instead picking my leg up, and swinging from the hip). IT WORKED! And it felt AMAZING. I haven't taken steps like that for 21 years. It takes too much concentration to walk like that all the time, but I'm practicing.

In the past I have spent countless hours in physical therapy, or doing exercises at home to loosen my ankle, but it never budged. Here's the thing. I haven't been in PT. This just happened by itself. I feel like the RSD just let go. I was HAPPY with the huge pain relief I got from my Body Project antics, but now my body is physically changing for the better, and reversing some of the damage chronic illness caused. Happy doesn't begin to describe what I'm feeling now.

Put the Hammer Down!

2010-04-28T18:39:00.001-07:00

My mother-in-law forwarded this letter to me since I've had a rather adventurous menstrual cycle this time around. Let's just say it was 44 days long, rife with prego symptoms, and then turned out to be NOTHING. Which is-- let's be honest-- just awesome when one is trying her darndest to get pregnant. Anywho, have a laugh:

This is an "actual letter" from an Austin , Texas woman sent to
Proctor and Gamble regarding one of their feminine products. She really gets
rolling after the first paragraph. This was PC Magazine's 2007 Editors'
Choice award-winner for the best letter sent via e-mail.

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for
over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the
LeakGuard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go
horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of
running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts.

But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary
Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough
to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I
can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a
little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? I'm
guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting right now.
As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through
my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be
transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.'

Isn't the human body amazing?

As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no
doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your
customer's monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know
about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our
intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You
surely realize it's a tough time for most women.

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America
is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants... Which brings
me to the reason for my letter. Last month, while in the throes of
cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my
uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive
backing, were these words: 'Have a Happy Period.'

Are you f------ kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of
your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling,
laughing happiness, is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything
mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James?
FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak, there will never be
anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and
Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to
the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to
end your life in a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you have to
slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say
something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the Hammer' or
'Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong'.

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective
immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I
have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though
I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss
your brand of condescending bullsh!t. And that's a promise I will keep.

Always. . ..

Wendi Aarons
Austin , TX

The Body Project: Update

2010-03-24T14:30:00.000-07:00

I really think I've done it! I think the Fibromyalgia is in remission, and the RSD/CRPS is still there, but it behaves itself most of the time. My feet still ache when they get cold, or I exert myself too much. And I get pretty achy at night, but I am 31 years old, so I guess that could be normal. Considering where I've been, and how severe my symptoms could be, I'll take a few age appropriate aches and pains. I am still overly sensitive to small injuries that really shouldn't be painful, so I guess my central nervous system could work a little better but believe me, I'm not complaining. I know that another disruption could easily happen, but I feel like I have the knowledge and the ability to reverse it again.

Speaking of being 31... I just had a birthday. I have been overwhelmed with caring for my sick family (and myself) so I have yet to post my thoughts about getting older.

They are brief, but here they are:
I am proud of myself and my choices.
I believe that I have created happiness in my life, and that I deserve it.
Good for me.

Great News Everyone...

2010-03-13T09:39:00.000-08:00

I'm sick.

No really, this is great news because I caught The World's Worst Cold from my daughter, and I didn't know it until my throat got a little scratchy.

Back in the day when my immune system was not the greatest, I got sicker/faster/longer than anyone else.

This time I was last to get it, and I'm not that sick. Here's the best part. The pain spike that always preceded and generally enhanced and lengthened illness-- the one that would send me to the bath tub 4 times a day, and to bed the rest of it since I couldn't tolerate the sensation on clothes on my skin, or even gather my thoughts enough to interact with other people through the fuzz of pain-- you know, that one? It didn't happen. Still hasn't happened.

2010-02-11T08:53:00.000-08:00

Valentine's orders are done! Thanks everyone!

But specifically:

Thanks to Rosie for eating pop tarts and watching Sesame Street happily while I worked.

Thanks to Kris for stepping over the mess Rosie left all over the house. I can clean it up now.

Thanks to Somer for the quality control ;)

It's working!

2010-02-05T09:30:00.000-08:00

Here's a message I found in my inbox this morning:

Lissa, wanted to say thanks for the awesome necklace- I LOVE it!! 2 people have already asked me about the "Live Love Breathe" and now 2 more people are schooled about CF. It's getting the word out there and making a fashion statement at the same time, haha
I bought a few more from you for some CF friends, we'll all be rocking them soon!

Allison

Come Over!

2010-02-03T11:38:00.000-08:00

Date:	Sunday, February 7, 2010
Time:	12:00pm - 4:00pm
Location:	Nobrow Coffee and Tea
Street:	315 E 300 S
City/Town:	Salt Lake City, UT

I will be at Nobrow Coffee and Tea this Sunday from 12-4 selling jewelry and paintings. Come by!

Me and My Crackpot Ideas

2010-02-02T08:36:00.000-08:00

I have a crazy theory.

My arms bothered me for the whole month of January. I thought wistfully back to December when my arms were peaceful and dare I say, nearly pain free, and wondered what had changed.

I wasn't even making much jewelry, so my hands were getting a nice rest. What happened?! Such is the life of some one with Chronic Pain, am I right? The insanity of searching for the cause of the latest pain flare can even get fairly amusing. So imagine how heartily I laughed when I sat down at my work bench yesterday to do a little carving and discovered an amazing idea. You see, I use a Flex Shaft-- which is a motor with a hand piece that spins various tools like a drill bit, or a bur. After a good session of carving the clay for my jewelry, my whole body is energized, for lack of a better word. I think the vibration encourages blood flow, and acts as a giant tens unit, or chord stimulator. Maybe it overwhelms my nerves with white noise, because after a solid 45 minutes I can't feel much of anything in my upper body.

My arms feel great today. It just goes to show, if you do what you love, unexpected benefits will follow.

Free tickets to Disneyland!

2010-01-30T20:45:00.000-08:00

I went to this website to find a volunteer opportunity and this is what I found! Life is funny sometimes.

TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!! Part 1

2010-01-29T20:35:00.000-08:00

Yep. That's my goal to donate from my jewelry sales this year. Last year we raised just over $6,000, so I'm trying to almost double my sales. I'm not quite loosing sleep over it yet, but I am shaking in my boots. Although, life is much more interesting if you set your goals high, right?

Why do I do it?! Because I can, I guess. I have been learning to make jewelry for a really long time, and now people are willing to give me money for the things I make (I am still blown away by this!). In the process I have been able to help spread awareness about crappy diseases like Cystic Fibrosis and ALS and raise money for research. I am extra excited about donating money directly to real people for needed medication or equipment.

I love that I get to help other people, but I do it for myself too. Being able to work when I can, and not when I have to is an enormous help-- not only in caring for my daughter, but it also helps my health. I love that I can work with my body and not against it. I don't have to make chronic pain fit into a 8 hour work day anymore, because believe me... it doesn't work well most of the time. I feel so lucky that this crazy idea keeps getting bigger, and I have big plans this year to help reach my goal.

January report... I expected this month to be slow after the holiday rush. I was grateful for the time off, and used it to work on new designs and my new Etsy shop. We have just about reached the $500 mark for January (I need to raise $800 per month to stay on track). That's not bad at all for the second slowest month in the life of an artist (sales are also slow in October as people get ready for the holidays).
So we'll see what February holds. Hopefully lots and lots of Red Heart sales!
(UPDATE!! January = $620... even better!)

Oh, Yoga.

2010-01-26T09:23:00.000-08:00

I skipped yoga last week because I didn't want to worsen the pain flare. But then I decided somewhere around Wednesday, that I should have gone because the stretching and the movement might actually break the cycle instead of making it worse.

Well I went last night. The class was easier than it has been, but I'm still pretty sore. My teacher does a great job of reminding us to find our own pose, and not to worry about how bendy or intense our neighbors are. I'm pretty sure that the Relaxin (my favorite hormone name, ever) never left my body because I can bend like a noodle. It's the power poses that get me. Here's hoping I can turn the corner soon, and start feeling great again.

New Project... because just I'm bursting with free time!

2010-01-25T12:30:00.001-08:00

I have opened a new Etsy shop! After years of encouragement from friends and family, I am finally going to start selling my paintings (cringe!) I have been making samples for a few weeks, and I'm pretty excited about them. I have yet to hatch a plan for boyish designs though... thoughts? Requests ;)

lissabirdbaby.etsy.com

I left my heart...

2010-01-21T21:21:00.001-08:00

I thought maybe I'd tell the story behind the new title picture.

The husband and I used to live in the Bay Area, so we made frequent trips to San Francisco when we didn't have anything better to do. We would ditch the car and often spent the entire day roaming some part of the city. When we first started these walk-a-paloozas, the pain in my legs got to be such a pain in the ass that I honestly considered my wheelchair options. I figured that I would only use it in place of long distance walking, but damn it I had made it without one this long- (many people with RSD/CRPS are not as lucky). So I stuck it out. Eventually, it got easier.

One of my favorite things to do in the city was chase a flock of wild parrots that lived on Telegraph Hill. The sidewalks get so steep up there that they are actually stairs. I'm assuming this is to prevent calf muscles from detaching altogether, but the endless stairs just hurt in a whole new way. I was walking up said stairs, but also planning to sit down right there on the ground in the very near future when I stumbled upon some public "art."

I now had a slightly more elegant reason to stop hiking while I snapped a picture of the steps. Even with all the gardens, bridges, and other really fancy things I took pictures of in that city, this one remains my favorite, because it was the most unexpected bit of encouragement when a girl really needed it.

Time for an intervention

2010-01-20T11:51:00.001-08:00

More than my average amount of free time

Plus

Hormone Replacement Therapy

Plus

Unrestricted access to hair cutting sheers

May equal disaster

The Progesterone is going great btw ;)

The Most Adorable Husband, Ever!

2010-01-20T11:15:00.000-08:00

Kris signed Rosie up for her first dance class, and every Saturday morning he skips and jumps with her. The sheer cuteness is overwhelming.

To Sleep

2010-01-19T08:38:00.000-08:00

There is very little that's more important to my ability to function than sleep. This seems like a really obvious thing to say. Everyone needs to sleep. But it wasn't until recently that I realized how much better I could feel after an actual night of sleep. For most of my life, I thought I was doing it right, but I would often wake feeling sore and exhausted, like I had been swimming laps between the sheets all night.

As I laid awake this morning, I was desperate to fall back into a cozy slumber, but knew full well I'd never get there since my daughter was also laying awake and whining, "I can't sleep momma..." I reflected on my college years and how careless I was about sleep. It was my first, "I wish I could write myself a letter" moment, so that I could tell myself to get some self respect, and go to bed.

Then I recalled Rosie's poor sleeping habits (all my fault, and I swear I'll get it right next time) but I must be crazy to want another baby. Between the general discomfort and insomnia at the end of pregnancy, and the nursing around the clock circus, I'm guaranteed to feel worse than I do this morning for the next few YEARS. But... one thing I've never (not even once) been accused of is being sane. Crazy it is. Still waiting for baby number 2.

Setback

2010-01-17T20:54:00.000-08:00

I knew I shouldn't have said I was feeling better out loud.

Open Lungs

2010-01-15T16:16:00.000-08:00

When my darling friend Somer told me about needing an oxygen concentrator (which helps her breathe... apparently her insurance company, which denied the claim, didn't feel breathing is necessary) I had an inspired thought. The small amount of money that I am able to raise would have a bigger impact if I gave it to actual people with Cystic Fibrosis in addition to funding research for a cure. So I created a Special Edition Red Heart, and attached a pretty hefty price tag to it. I figured I would sell two or three a month, and eventually it would add up to the $3,000 we needed to buy Somer's oxygen concentrator. Twenty-one Red Hearts were purchased in the first 24 hours. Less than two months later, we had raised the entire $3,000. I am constantly amazed by people's generosity.

I am excited to add this new design to my collection! $15 of each sale will be set aside to help someone else with CF breathe a little easier.

Rose

2010-01-14T09:09:00.000-08:00

I admire that Rose is so sure who she is and her place in the world.

"I want to take off my jammies!" She says.
So I help her get her feet unstuck.
"Take off my shirt!"
So I take off her onesie. I know this process is heading towards the blue Cinderella nightgown she has been wearing since Monday. No other set of clothes has been acceptable.
"But then you'll be naked."
She runs down the hall to find her "Lady dress."
"Can't you see that you're naked?" I ask.
"No, I'm Rosie."

I Mourn Normalcy

2010-01-13T22:42:00.000-08:00

I recently borrowed the first season of Felicity from a friend, since I am a sucker for almost any show on DVD. For those of you who had better things to do in the early 2000s, I'll recap: In the first few episodes, Felicity lays claim to her life, and starts making her own choices. She moves far away from home to go to college in New York, and discovers the joys of cereal machines in the cafeteria, dorm life, and general freedom in refreshing 47 minute increments. Unfortunately, every time I watch an episode, I dissolve into a ridiculous mess of tears and choke on my repressed teen-aged dreams.

A long time ago (longer than I want to admit) I stood in front of a cake I had made myself, and carefully arranged 18 candles in a seemingly random pattern. I called my mother in from the couch in the other room where she spent nearly every hour of her life. She slept there all day, and watched TV all night wedged in sagging cushions that were older than me. When the need struck her (at least once a day) she would settle in her nest of tattered blankets on that same damn couch, and explain in heart breaking detail how I had single-handedly ruined her life. In reality I had done nothing more than grow up, but since that meant I would soon leave her alone in her insane misery, it was an unforgivable offense.
When I yelled that my cake was done, my mom moved slowly into the kitchen, wrapped her robe tightly around her body like a security blanket, and complimented my frosting decorations in her best pretend-happy voice. The two of us sang a pathetically thin rendition of Happy Birthday, and when it came time to blow out my candles, I only managed to snuff out three or four before my breath caught in my throat. I stared at the still flickering mass of candles, trying to breathe, but knowing full well if I let it go, only sobs would follow. I gave the rest of the candles my best shot in a sad attempt to salvage my wish, but a heaving cry which shook my body was all that came out.
As I listened to my mother yell at me for next several hours, and played along with her drama explaining all the reasons she shouldn't kill herself on my birthday, I felt my future slipping away. I knew I would never be able to go away for college like I had planned, because I believed that her endless threats would become real, and I would find her dead on my first visit home.

I watched my friends move out. I stayed home. My mother got worse.
I stayed home. I watched my mother dissolve. My life got worse.

So there I was a week ago snuggled up in my basement and watching a mildly entertaining Coming-of-Age Drama, so far removed from the hell that was my reality for so long. I realized that even if I went back to college in search of that adventure, I would never find it. I will never be 18 again. It was just one more of those experiences in life that we envision happening a certain way-- the normal way-- that was taken from me by my mother's illness.
However, I actually think my lame fixation on Felicity's antics is a sign of progress. Instead of being so damn mad about my past as a whole, I have taken a moment to mourn this small episode, and hopefully to move on.

Next step in the healing process: Enact a Nationwide Labeling System for content which might unexpectedly act as a springboard for deep introspection, so that the damaged and the emotionally fragile among us can watch/read/listen accordingly.

In Progress

2010-01-11T13:23:00.000-08:00

I am a (mostly accidental) Genius

2010-01-06T18:15:00.000-08:00

I just went to visit my hormone guru, Dr. Foster to consult about my fertility woes. Things should be looking up from here.

Anywho, I told her all about my Body Project. She cringed when I said Lyrica and Cymbalta, but I explained about the ascending and descending pain pathway theory, and that my goal was to interrupt the pain cycle. She later said that L and C are fine-- she just saves them for people in really desperate situations, and she agreed that they were a good idea. She said, "I bet the doctor you went to is giving that combination to other patients now." I said probably not, since he refuses to treat Fibromyalgia.

Dr. Foster said that by flooding my brain with neurotransmitters and then going off the drugs and plunging into withdrawal, I essentially hit the reset button on my central nervous system. While I feel better than I can ever remember, I hesitate in recommending this strategy to the faint of heart. I was highly motivated to get off the drugs so that I could get pregnant again. Otherwise, I think it would have been much more tempting to go back on the pills, just to bring the awful withdrawal symptoms to an end. I read many posts online from other people trying to beat a Cymbalta addiction, and they were all very disturbing.

I also told Dr. Foster about the supplements I took, (mainly Fibro Response by Source Naturals, Glucosamine/Chondroitin, Omega Mom, and Vitex) and she commended me for approaching my pain with an inquisitive, open mind, and for doing my "homework." She said I did a good job helping my body heal itself (even if I used scary pills to do it.)

It was a lovely visit, and hopefully my hormones will get back under control soon. A little boost of Progesterone will also help ease inflammation, so I'm looking forward to feeling even better!

"one gets so miserably nervous when the Nazi's would take all those people"

2010-01-05T13:47:00.000-08:00

My husband's Grandmother Elisabeth came to America after World War II. She has amazing stories to tell about the German occupation in her home town in the Netherlands. We have all heard the stories so many times, sometimes we are impatient and don't want to listen. Goal for 2010: record the stories.

These are the letters that came from a relative, inviting them to come to America. We should remember how lucky we are.

Letter from Theresa Kennedy to Froukje and Children

From the desk of Mrs. Theresa Kennedy
335 E. 19th. ST.
Long Beach , CA.

Aug. 2, 1946

To the Widow of Albert Dykstra
(Froukje Dykstra Hager)
Hitsum - Friesland, Netherland

Dear Froukje and Children:

Mary and I have been talking and thinking about all eight of you. We are wondering what each of you will be doing when Zwaantje (Sally) is twenty-one years old.

How would all eight of you like to come to America? If nothing now wholly unexpected happens to me, to make it impossible to do so, I will sponsor your coming and pay the transportation of all eight of you to come to America, if you decide to do so.

To leave Netherland the country you love, and all the people you love is a difficult and serious undertaking. Think it through and talk it through carefully with your husbands' father, mother and brothers.

Do not hurry this answer to this letter. Take a long time to consider every side of this great change in your lives. To leave your relatives who are so dear to you, that is hard and sad. I have been thinking about all side. I can do this for you if nothing unforseen occurs, but no one knows the future.

If you decide you want to come to America, go to your American Counsul. Ask him what you need to do in order to get visas to come to America. Have your names put on the list of applicants. If your American Consul in Holland has directions for me to follow, which are different from what I will get from the immigration bureau here, I will be glad to get them and follow them.

Since I cannot be sponsor or pay the transporation of anyone outside of your family, I feel it will be wise for you not to tell outsiders of the contents of this letter. If anyone asks me to pay their way, I will have to refuse. I have already been compelled to do so in some cases.

Sincerely yours, Theresa Kennedy

Froukje's reply to Theresas invite to come to America

(Date unreadable)

Dear Aunt,

The 19 Aug, I received what for us was a very interesting letter. I have read the letter and re-read it again. The content was almost too beautiful to be true for such an offer. But Aunt, as you also write, it is something difficult. Especially for my own father and parents in law, where we now frequent every day. To leave, yes, who knows. they are getting older, that we perhaps for the last time separate. And yet even when it is difficult we accept your offer. When I look at the future of my still so young children and now no matter how hard they work they can't bring it farther than to a poor piece of bread. Klaas is soon now l8 years and an alert and strong boy and a best milker. As Uncle Gerlof said, will be able to earn a good piece of bread in a stable or so. Also Elizabeth and Pietje can already help to earn. The 4 younger children must go again to school, but Aunt that would be alright, he? What the future shall bring us there, we don't know, but we are full of hope, to us a new life. If nothing happens contrarywise and everything as are our plans, then maybe we can come inside a year. The bourgemaster of Franekeradeel gave me the address and I will right away write you, dear aunt so that when you receive this letter there shall directly follow another. We received the last l4 days, a total of 9 packages from you and Miss Rees and Miss Elms. That we have already beautiful cloths. All will be wonderful (heerlyk)when we can thank you personally. Mother Geertia finds if diffifult (liet er wel tegen op) and no wonder. The children have been grown up (raised) by them. Be heartfully saluted Aunt, and Maria,

Froukje Dykstra

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Letters from Froukje to Theresa Kennedy and Mary Rees

Dear Mrs. Kennedy,

We are all very lucky. All my girls have nice hair and are in good health. Here little children have had a terrible time- so many big sores on arms and legs from undernourishment, says the doctor.

I have a great help from my oldest daughter, even in keeping the children clean for them to grow healthy again. We are going toward summer and hope much good from that. But, Miss Rees, we have no sheets or pillow cases for what we had is gone for bandages first, then for towels and tiny shirts, etc., but America helps everywhere.

We live in a little village and when my daugher goes to get the packages, then it is full in the postoffice. All from American sent to us. I will give you a little example: A women came to me, she has more then three times my income, but didn't have a needle to sew with. Luckily I had received some needles so I could help her, and she was so happy that she could sew again! Then a girl came and said, "Mother just had one needle yet and I broke it and now we can't sew anything." I gave her five needles. She pinned them carefully on her hankerchief as something precious, and then to her mother. I just write this to show how little we have here yet to help the housework. Buttons, elastic, or suspenders, even if it is old it is all so welcome. I can hardly find words to thank you for all your kind sendings.

As soon as we get the material, I will send you some photos from us all 8. There are no films or they are so high priced. How happy were my children with their shoes and too the beautiful quilt, the children think that is so fine. Pietje (Peggy), my daughter of l5, had hardly a coat and now has that beautiful red coat and beautiful shoes too. How glad she was! I myself had hardly anything to wear and that beautiful black suit just fit me. Oh, what a relief! All the children now wrote a letter to Aunt Theresa, and will also write to Ms. Rees. Each evening one can write for we have only one pen. From the pieces of materials and the (table)runner we made a pair of pants fo the smallest boy and from the other a dress by putting a piece on top and on the bottom - did the same with a little coat and shirt, adding yellow sleeves and lower parts - ditto that for the nine year old. She looks real nice with her new clothes and curly hair. The pieces were nice and warm. I would sew more if I had more thread and yarn. We have offered up many times our night's rest as there is so much to do. My oldest daughter (Elisabeth) is so willing and always working to help and does it with pleasure. How lovely it is to be able to work again after such hard times - to accomplish something!

I will write you again and send you the heartiest greetings from a mother from the far away Netherlands and her children who are all so very thankful to you all.

Froukje Dykstra

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Letter from Pietje (Peggy) to Theresa Kennedy

Hitsum,
April 1, 1946

Dear Auntie,

It is Sunday morning and I thought I will write a letter also. The radio is going and it is so cozy in the room. I think it is so nice to write a letter to America. I received many things and am so glad with them. I could not even go out on Sunday, I had no shoes on my feet. And then Grandmother, Geertje did get the package from America. Uncle Gerlof came to tell me that Grandmother wanted me to come and then I got a beautiful pair of brown shoes. How very glad I was to get them Auntie. You can understand that. I keep them for Sundays, and also received a nice brown dress. That too was in that package and am wearing all that not while I sit and write to you. It is a lovely warm dress auntie, you know. And then I got that nice blue wool skirt. I will wear it with a white jacket, and a beautiful hankerchief. I received also, and my friends find it and all so beautiful. I have four friends. I am Pietje, l5 years, weight 95 pounds and am 174 cm. Auntie, we find it so very dear of you to be so kind to us. Mother of course think too and appreciate so much that you make those beautiful packages for us and we are so thankful for the beautiful and so useful things in them.

Now Auntie, I will tell you what I do. I was in the household school, but time became so bad that we didn't have anymore materials to sew, also no thread. I can sew very nice. I am now in the morning by the school principal. They are nice but kind of funny. By and by I will sew again when times are better. We had a lot of men hiding from those Nazi's in this village. Mother's brother was here hiding. He slept behind a wall with some straw. When we woke up in the morning my brother Rinze would knock on the wall and we could call out, "out you go to Smilde." Auntie, you will think they are strange words. It meant when the men from 40 to 60 had to go in the Smilde to dig ditches for them Nazi's to turn off the English and Canadians. and they made deep holes in the roads. The farmers had to give up loads of stuff t them, hay, cows, horses, cheese, butter, about EVERYTHING. You could write a book about those Nazi's. And I better quit.

Much love and best greetings,

Pietje
(English translated copy)

Letter from Rinze to Theresa Kennedy

Hitsum, Apri 1, 1946

Dear Aunt,

Mother says we all should write a letter to Auntie and then all will go clear to America of which mother tells us so much. I am Rinze, am 10 years, my birthday will be April 19. I am in the 4th class and I am small. I am doing my best in school because I would like to become a teacher. We were sometimes hungry in school, we got only 2 pieces of bread and get such nasty kitchen food. It is now much better and were are nice and warm in the school. I got an 8 for writing and in arithmetic sometimes a 7 and in geography a 9 and in reading a 7 1/2. I weigh 58 pounds. We now go to school with SHOES, it is here always so wet. We can't get wooden shoes, only the workers them them on the bon. I received a lovely cup from Auntie, in it we get milk or tea in the morning. We are longing for the summer, then it is here so lovely in the village. I was so glad when the Canadians came with the tanks. Although I am small, I know a lot of the war. When the Green police came here I was afraid of them, they were always after men. I ams so glad of those pieces of material, I got a thick pair of pants of it that I wear to school.

Now Auntie, I know a lot more but will write later on. I think it so lovely of you to send us those packages.

Greetings and many kisses.
Rinze,
(English translated copy)

Letter from Elizabeth to Theresa Kennedy

Hitzum, Holland
April 1, 1946

Dear Aunt Theresa,

I thought I would write you otherwise I would stay so far behind the other children. They all wrote to you and I thought that was so nice. I'm 20 and in April will become 21. Time goes fast Auntie. I have been in the household school three years now and have received two diplomas, one for householding and one for dressmaking. I always enjoyed it very much and always have had such a good time there. I was always very thankful to you Auntie, that I could go to school, because now I can make all kinds of things. I wasl also in Leeuwaarden with a Doctor to help in his household, but is became unbearable with anxiety for that Doctor was taken as a laborer to Germany. He was held by them for 6 months and when he came out there was such happiness. We would be in the house with curtains draw, the doors locked, just as if nobody was at home. At night there were so many times the Green Police around the house and the Doctor would hide and we would be watching. So that I went home to the peaceful little village of Hitzum. They were not so many soliders there and one gets so miserably nervous when the Nazi's would take all those people.......

We are so glad with the parcels you sent, and it is so kind for clothes are so scarce. I received 2 c oats from your packages, the light gray one looks so nice on me, also 2 dresses and all fitted exactly. I was so very glad for I had one one dress left because I had grown so fast. We say sometimes to each other, "That Dear Aunt, if she was here now we would HUG her." What a lot of work that must be to make all those packages, but if you could see the HAPPY faces! You will get also a photo from us all, but can't yet get the materials.

I hope your hand is getting better because we know about that too. Now Auntie I will end and will write to you soon again.

Heartiest Geetings.

Elizabeth
(English translated copy)

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Letter from Zwaantje (Sally) to Theresa Kennedy

Hitsum
March 27, 1946

Dear Auntie,

I am Zwaantje (little Swan). I am nine years old and I sit in the third class. I am 56 pounds. I am tall, 140 cm. In the beautiful little cups each morning we get tea or cholcolate milk. I have received from Auntie a roll of yarn. From it Hizza knit me one sock, and Pietje knit me another, and then I went with mother to Leewarden to Auntie Jantje's, and there I had so much fun. I went to the zoo garden and there I had also so much fun. Sunday we go again to Altewerp with mother and there again we will have so much fun. Once I sat there in the swing and oh, that was so luscious.

I have also four friends at school and I can knit. And we get now chocolate on the ration and oranges on the ration. When the soldiers were here we could hardly get anything.

And I have a doll's bed, but I have no doll. There are some for 10 Gulden. Mother can't buy that. First Lizza (?) had the doll bed, then Pietje had the doll bed, then Geertje, and now I may have the doll bed, but I have no doll. And we have two pussy cats. One is black and one is speckled. They are such dears. They love me so much. Uncle Gerlof has such darling cows and such darling sheep.

Now Auntie, I know no more. Now the hearty greetings.

Zwaantje Dykstra
(English translated copy)

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P.S. Some funny things in English but perfectly correct in Dutch) This letter was translated to English and all letters retyped by P.Kovell as best as I can make them out.
from: http://dutchnsuch.tripod.com/famletters.html#top

The Yoga Superstars (and me)

2010-01-04T20:51:00.000-08:00

Let me preface this entry with a Body Project Update:
All three of you might remember that I attempted to ease my neurological and muscular pain disorder by experimenting with a few gifts from BIG PHARMA. I wanted to see if I could break the pain cycle and help my body eventually heal itself. I took Lyrica and Cymbalta for about 6 months, and felt like a drug addict thanks to a multitude of side effects, but I was pain free for the most part. The RSD/CRPS symptoms in my left leg were still in full swing, but my other limbs, back, neck, and face felt fabulous.

Then I went off all of the drugs. It was awful. The HORRENDOUS withdrawal process followed by the WORSE THAN EVER pain flare made me feel like a fantastic failure.

But after about three months, it dawned on me that I was feeling better. I realized that it had been more than two weeks since I needed to take 1-3 baths everyday to cope with pain. I noticed that my energy level was creeping back up. Everyone, pain disorder or not, has bad days and I am no exception. I don't feel great everyday, but I have many, many, more good days than bad. I have been treating this tiny remission very gently, terrified that if I got crazy and walked too far (like, say, from one side of the grocery store to the other) that an unstoppable pain cycle would start all over again.

Then I went to Yoga. I was (am!) sore-- don't get me wrong. But it used too be that my sore muscles would aggravate my nerves, which would cause a burning so intense I couldn't tolerate my clothes. IT DIDN'T HAPPEN THIS TIME!!! Can you tell that I'm a little excited?

I even went back to yoga tonight. I was late, and got sandwiched between Yoga Goddesses 1 and 2 with their headstands and adept Flipping the Dog. At one point my right arm was shaking so violently under the strain of my 97th inverted pose that I had to hold it still with my other hand. But I was there. I finished the class, and I felt amazing.

Namaste.

Candy In One Hand

2010-01-01T19:48:00.000-08:00

I went back to yoga with my sister on New Year's Day. I dropped out a few years ago for some reason. There was that pregnancy thing... and then the baby. Somehow-- despite my rampant free time, readily available childcare, and abundant energy at the end of a day with my daughter-- my studio practice became just a fond memory from my past. I kept up at home, but it's never the same.

I knew that my sister had become quite the yogi in my absence, and was prepared to feel less than spiritual compared to her... but holy smokes. She was whipping out full back bands and crow poses like they're easy, or something. I spent more than my fair share of time curled up in a sad little ball, I mean resting in child's pose, when I should have been holding my unayanabonda (not even google knows how to spell that-- sorry.)

But the best part about my first effort to improve myself this new year is that I have not lost as much ground as I had feared. I can still rock the balance poses, I can follow the vocab, and the power poses weren't nearly as hard as I thought they would be.

The workshop as a whole was quite emotional for me. It's probably because I'm in the middle of the world's biggest hormone imbalance, but each time we chanted together my voice would break, and I'd fight back tears (for no apparent freaking reason!) Our teacher asked us to chant our strength and share it with everyone in the class. All told, I had a pretty great year, so I tried to keep my voice clear and strong to share my good 2009 energy and greet 2010... After about my 9th try, I finally managed an OM without swallowing sobs. I'm such a nerd, but 70 people chanting together was such a joyful noise, I couldn't help myself.

My new goal is to remember Ganesh, the Remover of Obstacles. Like him I will keep sweets in one hand, and leave the other one open, because if my hands are full I won't have room for something new a fabulous to come into my life.

I am so going back to yoga on Monday.

First object up the nose!

2009-12-01T14:33:00.000-08:00

After playing together all morning, I stepped away from Rosie for just a moment to get a little work done this afternoon. When I heard her crying, I went to investigate and found her covered in ink. Her entire mouth and nose were completely saturated with black ink, so I thought she had sucked on the marker and drawn on her face a bit. I scooped her up and carried her to the bathroom where I pointed out her face in the mirror. Rosie was enthralled with her black teeth, and we laughed about how silly she looked. But when it came time to clean off her face, she screamed every time I wiped her nose. As if I were watching an instant replay on tv, my mind flashed back to the original scene of the crime. I remembered seeing the marker next to her, but it was somehow missing the tip. I was increasingly horrified as I realized that the felt tip of the marker was still in her nose.

I collected my thoughts for a moment, before completely losing my head. I tried to get a good look up her nose but all I could see was a cascade of black ink. Her ink stained spit and snot was draining out of both sides of her nose and her mouth. I tried my best to pull out the tip, but my tweezers weren't wide enough to get a hold of it, and I was quite sure how aggressively I could try to get it out without hurting Rose. I plugged up the other side of her nose and asked her to blow, but it didn't do any good. I was now imagining the tip of the marker stuck millimeters from her brain like on the Simpsons, and struggling to keep my cool.

I decided to call the doctor, but could not find my phone anywhere. I then remembered watching Rosie toddle away with it earlier. After searching the house for the dumb phone and swearing to get a land line when all of this was over, I was soon left with no other option but to ask Rose what she did with it. I stared her in the face and repeated over and over as calmly as I could, "where is mommy's phone?!" She can usually find things, but not this time.

I ran to the computer, hoping that anyone was logged into chat and could call my phone. Luckily Genevieve was there, and received the most random IM from me, ever.
With the phone located (it was between the books on the bottom shelf downstairs) I called the doctor and whisked her down the street. Kris met us there and we proceeded to be completely embarrassed by her face full of ink.

When our normal pediatrician failed to pull out the marker tip, I felt a little better about myself. I had really tried to take care of this myself, for fear of being that crazy first time mom. Our Pediatrician went to grab the expert Puller-of-objects-out-of-children's-noses-er and he broke down laughing as soon as he caught sight of Rosie's face. He devised a plan that included a crazy hook tool and three of us to hold down the child. When he finally pulled the marker out of Rosie's nose, he asked if we wanted to keep it. Seriously.
Note: this picture was taken after trying to clean off her face twice.

Possible cure for MS could be one trial away - ABC 4.com - Salt Lake City, Utah News

2009-11-23T23:33:00.001-08:00

Possible cure for MS could be one trial away - ABC 4.com - Salt Lake City, Utah News

Posted using ShareThis

This sounds like potentially exciting news for everyone with autoimmune disorders, so I thought I would put up a link. Doctors at Johns Hopkins have found a way to "reset" the immune system and keep it from attacking the body. The problem is that they are struggling to find funding for the the last stage of trials. The patents on the drugs used have expired, so big pharma will have no part in funding this treatment which has so far CURED 90% of MS sufferers who have tried it.

In the ultimate David and Goliath narrative, a woman from Salt Lake has decided to raise the millions needed herself to help more people get this experimental treatment, and complete the trials in hopes of getting FDA approval. I decided to help, and recently asked her if I could make a pendant in her honor. She chose a phoenix for her design since a cure for MS would mean nothing short of rebirth.

Learn more about Michelle at CureForMS.org
You can donate there, or visit my Etsy Shop to pick up your own Phoenix pendant!

20 Years

2009-11-20T08:55:00.001-08:00

It's here, friends. The 20th anniversary of the accident that got me into this entire mess is today. I have been rounding up for a while now... "20 years of pain," I would say to myself, but I knew it wasn't completely true. As if 19 years was really that much better.

As of yesterday, I'm back at work on the dumb book, I mean the wonderful book about the last 20 years of my life. I have been ignoring the book for quite some time, but going through those all-too familiar words yesterday reminded me of an amazing revelation that came from the writing process. So even if I don't sell the book, at least I have some peace, right? I realized that being in this much pain since I was 10 years old hardened my spirit just enough to face all the crap with my mom that was in store. When doctors accused me of lying about the pain, I had to develop an inordinate amount of self respect and self love so that I could continue to defend myself. When my mother lost her mind to mental illness and tried to take me with her, I was able to save myself. (The infamous) THEY say that most people never make it out of family situations like mine. And just look how functional I am!! So at least I have that going for me... which is nice.

But if given a choice, I would choose no pain at all. (duh!) This is why I have to offer props to science! Another RSD Blogger recently posted some exciting news that was published in Scientific American about Glia cells being responsible for chronic pain. The frustrating part, is that I have been asking for one of the medications that is supposed to suppress the Glial response for over a year now, with no luck. Anyway, this is the article if you're interested. http://www.rsds.org/2/library/article_archive/pop/Fields_ScientificAmerican.pdf

So that's where I'm at today. I'm tired. I'm tired of pain, and having it be a factor in every choice I make from walking the dog to having children. I'm sad about all of it, but pain has been such an integral part of my being for so long, I know that my life would be completely different today if I had never stepped in front of that car. It's a question for the ages I guess. Without the pain would I still be here with my amazing family, or would I be stuck in my mother's insane alternate reality. That's a way-homer...

A Sad Day

2009-10-28T13:43:00.000-07:00

I knew this day was coming, friends. The day when I would be inspecting my pendants after they have already been fired and tumbled, and notice to my horror that I did not drill that all important hole for the jump ring.

It happened today. On all 12 pendants I fired last night. 12!

But I fixed it, and I thought I would attempt to share the wisdom I learned today with the next lost soul googling "forgot to drill hole in PMC before firing"

Though not as soft as the clay, silver is quite soft. It does not require much to drill a hole. In fact, the more speed or effort you put into it, the worse off you'll be. I had to purchase a 1.35 mm drill bit (I actually bought two in case one broke). I got it at my neighborhood jewelry supply store, but if you are not blessed with a store like Freshmans I bet you could just buy the smallest bit available at Home Depot. The bit did not fit in my flex shaft, so I also needed a collet pin. If you don't have a flex shaft, a regular drill should work if you can control the speed easily.
First make sure that you make a dent in the silver where you want the hole to be. I just used a regular hammer and nail. The dent will keep the drill bit from sliding all over your piece. When you're all set with the bit in place, start it spinning and run it through a chunk of beeswax to lubricate it. Then stop the motor. It doesn't take much wax, but it will help with the heat problem to be explained further down. Rest the tip in the dent and just barely start the motor. If you go too fast, the silver will get really hot, and de-anodize the steel. Then it won't be able to cut a thing. SLOWLY increase your speed until you see little curls of silver coming out of the hole. Keep it at this speed and hold the hand piece really straight, or you might break the bit. The slower you go, the faster it will drill the hole (and you won't wreck the bit by over-heating the silver). There you have it-- a hole!

We're afraid of losing this quality of care?

2009-10-13T11:51:00.000-07:00

Let me say a few things about the standard of health care in America.

I have CRPS (Chronic Regional Pain Syndrome, formally called RSD). Granted it is not a well understood disease, but compared to when I was diagnosed 19 years ago to today, general knowledge about CRPS has increased by leaps and bounds. Some doctors even call themselves specialists.

I have seen these specialists. I have been to Johns Hopkins and Stanford- both supposedly offering the highest level of care. But it wasn't until a pesky pain I have been dealing with in my foot for years finally got out of control, that someone took a basic x-ray of my leg. My family doctor told me last night that I have such severe Osteoporosis in my left leg that I could break my foot just by walking around on it. This could have been useful information to have before now. I probably have a stress fracture in my tibia, but I won't know until the MRI tomorrow.

I knew from poking around on the internet that Osteoporosis was a common problem among people with CRPS/RSD, but I figured that if this was really a concern for me, one of the many doctors I have seen would have checked for it. I even had a terrible case of it right after my accident and shattered my ankle in three places because I was trying to keep up with my friends. I have told that story to every doctor I have seen about my leg, but none of them ever checked to see if the Osteoporosis was still a problem.

One dumb x-ray a long time ago could have spared me this pain, hassle, and possible surgery. I guess what I'm saying here is that YOU are in charge of your own health care. Be educated and ask about possible complications. I have always worried about offending my doctors by mentioning research I have found on the internet, but no longer.

Deep Thouhts Dripping in Polypropylene

2009-10-02T16:50:00.001-07:00

For the last few weeks I have felt like my brain has been coated in plastic. With immense effort I can bend my thoughts through it, but if my efforts wane for even a moment, my thoughts are lost to me, and I end up on a freeway exit somewhere in Taylorsville, instead of my intended destination.

This is how I found myself last week suddenly approaching the entrance of a cemetery in Sandy which was several miles out of my way, and wondering if my car had actually driven there all by itself. I walked the rows with my daughter until we found the marker of my oldest and dearest friend for whom Rosie Alice is named. The stone bearing my friend's name was so much smaller than the one from my memory shaded with so much grief and guilt over time lost for petty reasons. Rosie and I picked the dandelions, made wishes, and cleared the grass clippings away. It was a nice visit, and I left feeling better than before I got there.

By the same turn of events, I was surprised to find myself driving up Big Cottonwood Canyon this evening at almost the same time my mother took the drive three years ago today. On October 2, 2006 my mother purposefully and violently ended her life somewhere in that canyon. For the first two years afterward I was barely able to drive past the mouth of the canyon. But today I felt happy to be there enjoying the colors, even though they were unfairly stunted by an early frost. When I turned around and started to drive Rosie and I back home, I was struck by the contrast of how my mother's body left the canyon that day, compared to my joie de vivre as I drove through the twists.

I feel like my plastic brain has an important message to convey through these unintentional visits: no matter how painful life can feel, with luck it is possible to turn around and return to a place of peace.

A Kiln Full

2009-09-08T20:52:00.000-07:00

These are my orders from just the last few days! It's barely been two weeks and we've already raised over $300 for MDA/ALS Division. Thanks to everyone who has helped to spread the word.

Now I get to wait three hours for them to be done... it's going to be a long night.

Exciting Things Afoot

2009-09-02T15:20:00.000-07:00

I've added a new necklace to my collection. It is in honor of my friend Lance, who is living with ALS (also known as Lou Gehrig's Disease). The ALS division of the Muscular Dystrophy Association gives so much support to people with ALS that Lance asked me to help him give back. We are donating $10 of every Dancin' Lance pendant to the MDA/ALS Division. In fact Lance, Bree, and I will be on the Labor Day telethon on Monday (ack! tv!) to talk about the necklace. Quite exciting, indeed. click to see it on Etsy!

I am also preparing to go back into the booth sitting business. I thought that when I said farewell to art shows and farmer's market, that I had spent my last long hot day in a booth, but on September 12th I'll be back (baby). My cute husband will be participating in a marathon relay which benefits the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. I asked if I could set up a random table and sell Love to Breathe pendants... but I was informed that there will be a whole expo, and they offered me a booth space for free! I'm quite busy preparing for the event, and I hope to see a big response from the runners and their friends. Beat the rush, buy one here.

And finally... I picked a new charity for my mommy jewelry proceeds. Friends of Maddie provides support for parents with children in the NICU. Heather keeps an amazing blog about her daughter Madeline, who lived a short but beautiful life. Caution, don't read this blog without lots of tissues handy. I was wrapped up in it last night, and it was all I could do to not wake Rosie up for a hug, and to reassure myself that she was still happy and healthy.

I made this necklace for Heather B. Armstrong (different Heather, different blogger...), crossed my fingers that she wouldn't think I was stalking her, and dropped it in the mail. She (or possibly her assistant) recently sent me a post card to say thanks! Followers of Dooce, keep your eyes peeled for a hint of silver around her neck. (I hope, I hope, I hope!).

The Formal Livingroom

2009-08-28T20:51:00.001-07:00

I totally get it now.

Just a few short hours ago I was informed that my husband was coming home early. I glanced around the house which had recently suffered a nuclear Rose attack, and panicked. Not that Kris would even care if the house was messy as long as Rosie is happy and healthy, but I still like to feel a little bit useful beyond the baby-playing.

So I started gathering the wet pull ups, and searching my brain for how they ended up on the couch in the first place. I gathered up the blast of alphabet cards and shoved them back in the diaper bag. I swooped up the dirty baby clothes, tiny mate-less shoes, stuffed penguins, blocks, and kitchen clutter. I vacuumed the dog hair from every corner, and off all the furniture. It was ridiculous, especially considering I do this EVERYDAY!

When I was a lass, several of my friends had fancy living rooms that we were not allowed to play in. I always thought it was silly to have a whole room full of things no one could touch and furniture no one could sit on. I can still remember their mother's exhausted, half crazed faces as they begged us to please, just leave one room alone.

But here I am wishing that I had a place where I could sit down and relax without first having to sweep a layer of baby away. My hands are up and I'm dangerously close to declaring my bathroom a dog and baby free zone.

The Music and You and the Gift of the Trees

2009-08-16T08:15:00.000-07:00

I wish pain behaved more like a house guest who won't go home for whatever reason, but with some bargaining, might be convinced to grab a hotel room for the night, and maybe do the dishes before she leaves.

I attempted every intervention I knew to ditch the pain last night before the Xavier Rudd concert (!! I'll get to that in a moment, but must finish complaining first) but still found myself lying the grass in front of the Delta Center, showing the husband how to adjust my old lady hip so that, just maybe, I could put an ounce of weight on my right leg. But really, who needs the right leg anyway-- especially when the left has been enhanced with RSD!

The adjustment mostly worked, but I still needed to use Kris's body like a crutch. I dragged my sorry joints to the bathroom, unassisted past the door and clinging to the wall even though it offered no support, to pull the leaves and grass out of my formerly cute party hair. Then I got to face the indignity of walking (I use the term loosely) to the end of the line at the door. I hate to limp in public.

Once the music started all was (almost) forgotten. The first time we saw Xavier was in San Francisco. We were there to see The White Buffalo, who opened that night. There was giant lump of something on the stage which was covered by a tie dyed bed sheet. Once the Buff was done we simply had to find out what was under the sheet so we stayed. It was drums, digeridoos, and four or five guitars all attached to a giant frame so that Xavier could play them all at once. Before the show, we had downloaded a live show from Australia, and Kris and I had both assumed it was a full band, but it was just this dirty surfer with awkward hair. The digeridoos were so big they touched the floor, and shook the building when he played. It was amazing.

When we moved home to Salt Lake, I worried that I would never get to see Xavier again. Lander and I traveled to Denver to catch a show a few years ago. Detailed here. Last year marked his first show in Salt Lake. There was a pretty good sized crowd, but this time, everyone came back and brought five more friends. We were squished right up against the stage.

It was the husband's birthday as well last night, so my cute sister thought ahead and taped four sheets of paper together with "Happy Birthday Kris" scrawled across them. At a strategic moment I held the banner over his head and waited for Xavier to glance at us. We were only about 5 feet away, so it was hard to miss. At the end of his set, I held up the sign again, and jumped this time for emphasis. Xavier took it from me, and stretched it out for the whole club to read. Then he pulled Kris on stage, gave him a huge hug, and wished him happy birthday. The whole place went nuts! After Kris got down off the stage, he crumpled in a pile a revelry, and absorbed the good will of the crowd. Awesome birthday! Amazing show! Clever sign-making sister!

Handmade Wire Bail

2009-08-08T09:49:00.000-07:00

I got a lovely request from another artist on Etsy to explain how I made the bail pictured here:

I'm really not sure I can adequately explain the process, but I will try. It takes a few practice runs, so I would suggest not using sterling to start out. I still get it backwards now and then, and have to start over.

I use 16 or 18g round wire. Flush cutters (they leave a straight cut, rather than a V) make it look nicer, but if you don't have them then snippers and a file will work too.

I use a length of wire that's about 5 fingers long. It makes the wrap at the end easier if you have a bit of a tail. (You can save the tails and sell them to a silver refiner!)

Using round nose pliersand staring the middle of the wire, wrap it twice around in a loose V pattern.

Cross the ends.

Bend the longer tail so that it is going straight down. This piece will be the middle of the wrap.

Wrap the shorter piece around 1 1/2 times, and snip the tail. You want both cut ends to meet each other in the back.

The next part is easier to show in pictures:

This last picture shows a mistake! If you pull the tail around it won't meet the other in a continuous spiral. This will make sense once you try it. So if you have this problem, then just move the tail to the other side and wrap. Don't forget to hang your object,(it sounds dumb, but I have done it many times) and make sure that it is hanging towards the front, and the cut tails are in the back.

Here's what it should look like:

I used wire with a copper core, so that's why you can see a little pink, but you can sort of see the tails come together in the back.

You can pinch the loops at the top all the way together, or open them wide. You can also play around with how big to make the loops.

I hope this helps!

The Body Project: coda

2009-08-06T14:01:00.000-07:00

So I thought I was done with the drug experiments since I'm trying to get pregnant and all, but in between cycles I've been taking my vitamins with gusto. This month I decided to try an immune system booster after reading about the research they're doing over at Stanford. They are using a prescription drug to boost the immune system of people with Fibromyalgia. They used to think that the cause of autoimmune disorders was an overactive immune system, but now they're wondering if it's the reverse. Considering how often I got sick (and stayed sick) I never thought it made sense.

I popped over to whole foods on Tuesday (in order to secure the 15% discount on vitamins, because I'm broke) and picked up a supplement for immunity support. It's only been a few days, and it may all be just a big coincidence, but I feel better today than I have in months. I have lots of energy, the pain feels manageable, AND I'm not dealing with all of the nasty side effects from the Lyrica and Cymbalta (hello extra 15 lbs... welcome to my hips! Please, stay a while!!)

Still taking the (Source Naturals) Fibro-Response and LOVING IT!
Whole Food's brand Immune Support and Glucosamine/Chondroitin

My Marthon

2009-07-31T14:35:00.000-07:00

A house in St George near the finish line of Lander's first marathon.

Last night Lander and I packed up the baby and drove up the canyon for dinner. On the way up we passed a runner, with the most muscular legs I've ever seen, powering her way up the constant climb. We were both infinitely impressed by her pace and obvious strength. It was a clear demonstration of endurance and ability, and for more than a moment, I wished I could do that.

This morning I woke up to a seemingly endless list of things to do. Most of the things I did were hardly interesting enough to explain, and I certainly couldn't squeeze any jokes out of my two trips to the grocery store, or the chair match between me, my toddler, and the printer. Throughout the World's Most Boring Activities Part 682: Revenge of the Smart Women in Business Grant Application, I ignored the pain in my body. I pushed the exhaustion out of my consciousness. I felt like that woman from last night. Only I was attempting to reconcile mommyhood, housewifery, and the art of succeeding in business (while trying as hard as humanly possible) with the constant drain of chronic pain and the all-consuming exhaustion that comes with it. I mentally awarded myself a Finisher's Medal once I reached the end of my to do list. Too bad no one at Smith's recognized the feat of strength they were witnessing. Perhaps it would have been more inspirational if I had been wearing one of those cute little running skirts.

Return Ticket to Agent Town

2009-07-16T14:10:00.000-07:00

I read a bit of advice a while back which loosely said, "find a publishing deal first, then an agent. You won't like the kind of agent you're likely to find without a deal." This is in reference to the plethora of good-hearted souls out there who claim to be publishers, but really just want to charge editing fees and take all your money without ever publishing your work. So I started approaching publishers directly.

I thought I had found the publisher for me! She was looking for "socially relevant personal journeys." The only way my book could be more perfect for her list was if I could have somehow rigged the book itself to play, "Don't Stop Believin'" (Journey's greatest hit in case you happen to not be old. Just thought I would explain the joke to the kids. And now I'm done.)

I sent her my first query, but she sent it back covered in red ink. She carefully explained everything I did wrong, but invited me to fix the query and send it back. She said I needed a strong marketing platform since the "Coping Memoirs" genre is so saturated. I was elated to have another chance, but I knew I lacked a gimmick.

I decided to focus on the sheer drama of my life, hoping that a good story could still sell a book these days. I explained the car accident, the pain, my crazy mother, the rampant abuse, rebuilding my life with nothing but $25 bucks and a cracker (do you think it's enough...) Just when I thought I had put it all back together there was the miscarriage, and my mother's suicide two weeks later. As I stuck what was left of my mother in a drawer and asked the Universe, "What's next?" a surprise baby came along to carry and care for just when I felt sure that my soul had already left the building... I could go on, but the James Frey police might come after me.

She said my query was better, but she still wasn't interested because the way I have survived this life was not revolutionary enough to sell to the media. Too bad I didn't rise above my grief long enough to buy a Julia Child's cook book or some other inane set up that seems to sell books.

I have thought about this for several days now. At first I just wanted to tell her that the very fact that I did survive AND became a contributing member of society IS revolutionary. But now I have decided to find comfort in the idea that I'm ordinary. It means that if I can go through this much garbage and come out a better person in the end, anyone else can too.

More research has led me to plenty of books about regular people coping with crappy things in ordinary ways. But those publishers won't accept work directly from the author, so now I'm back in the hunt for an agent. In the meantime, I plan to cook tofu everyday and journal about how it changes my life, and then I'm going to attempt the impossible and run a hundred mile foot race with no ability or training so that I can come to terms with my grief, blah blah, blah.

"pressing your money into hands that are still caked with dirt"

2009-07-10T15:35:00.000-07:00

This response was left by my eloquent young husband Kris Lander, in the comment section of my previous post about Industrial America. I thought I would post it so that no one missed it. I keep telling him that he should write more often.

I asked, "why do I hold things like the arts, food, and all other indulgences which are good for soul apart from industry? Why do I think it's ok for the car manufacturers to make decisions based on the bottom line- that they would be ridiculous to continue making a part by hand, when a machine can drastically cut costs, but I am offended when the same principle is applied to dinner and diamonds?"

Kris Said:
I think the reason why you hold a double-standard when it comes to dinner and diamonds is this: You can control the origin of your dinner and, to a certain extent, your diamonds.

If you need a new car you can't help where it was manufactured. The sticker on the window may tell you the origin of the parts, and the countries where they were assembled, but if you want a new Toyota Venza you don't have the choice between the Venza built and assembled in Mexico and one built and assembled in Japan. There's only Venza. Sure, you could opt for a car that's built and assembled in the USA, but that may not always be a practical or financially feasible decision. (As an aside, Marketplace had a story a few days ago that said the majority of new car buyers are no longer willing to pay a premium to buy an American-built car).

When it comes to corn and chicken breasts you do have that choice. And, increasingly, you don't even have to shop at another store to make the choice. Organic milk sits side-by-side with the rBST laden SuperMilk. Organic apples and pears are next to conventionally grown apples and pears. The choice to choose organic is as simple as putting a different item in your cart, and opening your wallet a little wider. (Another quick digression: shouldn't produce grown using organic techniques be labeled as "conventional"? It wasn't until relatively recent times that farming involved huge quantities of nitrogen, pesticides, petroleum, and genetically modified seeds. Perhaps these foods should be labeled as "Industrially Grown").

The same holds true when it comes to jewelry. You could go to the mall and pick out something bright and shiny from Claire's or Nordstrom's. But, you can just as easily walk through your neighborhood farmer's market or arts festival to find something equally bright and shiny, and as a bonus it's probably unique. Or at least unique enough that you probably won't see other girls wearing the exact same piece.

The other bonus to purchasing organic foods and handmade jewelry is that you often see your money changing hands with the farmer or artisan. When you buy a basket of strawberries at the farmer's market chances are you're pressing your money into hands that are still caked with dirt. When you buy handmade jewelry you know the person on the other side of the counter is directly involved in the production of that jewelry. You don't get the same feeling when you buy a new car, or pick up a family-sized package of toilet paper from Target.

corn as far as the eye can see

2009-07-10T11:54:00.000-07:00

Since I found myself in the car in the late evening yesterday, I settled in for Marketplace, one of my favorite shows on NPR. Of course they were discussing the fall of the American auto industry... a topic we are all too familiar with around here since Lander's employer collected most of their revenue from car dealerships. The story was about a machine from Canada which cut the price of a particular part, which used to be handmade here in America, from $14.00 to $2.50. The reporter tossed the term "handmade" about like a dirty word, and in this context, I agreed! I actually started questioning my devotion to all things handmade, or locally produced, and felt like I was somehow responsible for holding the entire American economy in the gutter.

Progress!

I embrace technology in almost every other aspect of my life. Why then, would I shun mass made jewelry still stinking with the smell of sweat shops and child labor? Why would I support tiny farmers over the industrialized super farms with all of their pesticides and monoculture?

I do appreciate my own hypocrisy. Somehow, I think it's just fine to buy my clothing, toys, computers, and cell phones, etc. from China, but as long as I don't shop at Wal-mart, I buy organic food, and I make my own jewelry by hand, I still get to feel all superior. Most of the time it is very difficult and expensive to purchase everyday goods like food, clothes, diapers, and toilet paper which won't offend my body, my morals, or my carbon footprint. No matter how much I wish this weren't the truth, I don't think it will ever change, especially considering the sad state of our economy. Sales of locally produced, or organic food are plummeting. Skinny wallets have sent many of us running back to ConAgra with all their subsidies, artificial additives, and cheap ingredients which put cost ahead of nutrition and taste.

I guess the point to all of this rambling is this: why do I hold things like the arts, food, and all other indulgences which are good for soul apart from industry? Why do I think it's ok for the car manufacturers to make decisions based on the bottom line- that they would be ridiculous to continue making a part by hand, when a machine can drastically cut costs, but I am offended when the same principle is applied to dinner and diamonds?

Birth

2009-07-09T08:13:00.000-07:00

As I less-than-patiently await birth stories from at least four of my blog buddies who just had new babies (you'd think they're busy, or something) I thought I would post my own story from, what seems like, a lifetime ago.

“I know one flower which is unique in all the world.” --The Little Prince

Towards the end of my pregnancy I was so fat and tired and miserable that I googled "signs of labor" and "inducing labor" every day for two weeks straight. I had been having contractions for about a month. They didn't hurt much, but sometimes they were very regular, so I ended up in labor and delivery twice for false alarms.
At the hospital they have a separate room for observation. They pretend like they send everyone there to determine if real labor has started, but I'm pretty sure it's just for the first-time moms like me who wander in calmly and say, "Yeah, uh...I think I might be in labor...but I'm not sure."
I had no idea when the baby was actually due because I had two different due dates in September that were about two weeks apart. Since Rosie was a bit of a surprise we didn't know when she might have been conceived. I understand that it's all guesses anyway and I would have been able to go with the flow, but my mother-in-law, Peg, had to be out of town for a week right in the middle of the two due dates. I really wanted her to be there for the birth. Not only did I want her to see her first grandchild being born, but I also wanted somebody who had done it before to be with me. None of my friends had had babies yet.
When Peg left town I was already dilated to a three. I technically had two weeks left until the most likely due date, but I was still positive that Rosie would not wait that long. The whole week Peg was gone I was full of mixed emotions. I was so so so ready to not be pregnant anymore, but I didn't want Peg to miss the birth. She would be home Friday morning, so I was desperately hoping Rose would be born that day. Saturday, September 15 was my mother's birthday. It was the first one since she killed herself, and my feelings about her death were still quite raw. I did not want my baby and my mother to share a birthday.
On Thursday evening I went to visit my sister's new apartment. It was in yet another hundred year old building in a cool old neighborhood downtown, so of course there were a thousand stairs to her door. I climbed them slowly, but secretly hoped the effort would send me over the tipping point and straight to Labor and Delivery. Waiting is just about my poorest skill and not even being sure when the waiting would end was the worst test of my anemic patience, ever.
"I have figured it all out," I said as I caught my breath between flights of stairs. "Peg gets home tomorrow around 11:00am. That means I can go into labor tonight at midnight and spend the average 8-15 hours in labor. That leaves her plenty of time to get here before Rose is born."
“Midnight, huh?” Amy said. “That's a very clever calculation.”
“Thanks. I thought so too.”
At midnight on the dot I woke up screaming. The tight pain in my tummy, back and legs was the most consuming thing I had ever experienced. Eight minutes later, almost to the second I had another contraction. I got out of bed to gather my last minute items for the suitcase that had been gathering dust by the door for a week. Kris stared at me with so much excitement, but I was anything but excited, "You must put on pants. We're going to the hospital, now," I said.
"They said in class that you have to wait until they're five minutes apart."
"I'm not waiting."
Another contraction started while I was getting my toothbrush so I steadied myself on the sink. I wasn't breathing, I couldn't speak, I couldn't signal when it was over like we had practiced. Things hurt me more than they should because my central nervous system is overly-sensitive to pain. My nerves amplify even the tiniest pain message. A pinched finger or a stubbed toe can be excruciating to me, but as a result, I have a lot of practice dealing with terrible pain, so I had been wondering for months what labor would feel like to me, and now I had my answer: crappy.
I only had to endure one contraction in the car because the hospital was close. I stood at the front desk with my suitcase, pillow, and a determination to get an epidural within the next ten minutes. There was no way they were sending me to the observation room again, and I was so happy when they didn't even try. Maybe the fact that I couldn't sign my own name on the form was an indicator of my general discomfort and urgency.
When I got in the room I was almost dilated to a five already. They still made me wait over an hour to get the epidural...something about IV fluids. I was so unprepared for the pain. I tried to do the little breathing patterns we had learned in the birthing class... the same patterns I had neglected to practice more than once. What was I thinking?
Then suddenly I had something else to focus on besides the pain. My baby was in distress because the contractions were so strong and close together. The nurse had me turn to one side, and then the next to try to lower Rosie's heart rate. I flipped over and over like a pancake, and eventually her heart rate settled.
When I finally got the epidural I hated the way it felt. It was nice to just watch the nearly constant contractions go off the chart in intensity on the monitor and not feel them, but I hated that I couldn't move. My legs were heavy and floppy and required my husband to move them for me.
Two hours later, my second exam revealed that I was already completely dilated so they quickly called my doctor. Of course he was unable to make it in time, so a woman I had never met introduced herself to me and said she would be delivering my baby. Then she broke my water. What's one more stranger with her hands up my skirt at this point?
"I'm going to go start your paperwork and then when I get back we'll start pushing."
"Are you serious?" I said.
"We'll push for about an hour, and then we'll see where we're at."
I braced myself for what sounded like a long morning. It was about 4:00 am, and Peg was only just boarding a flight home. But I didn't have to wait long.
As the nurse checked me one more time, she called to her assistant behind her, "go get the doctor, now!"
Then to me as calmly as she could muster, "looks like we're ready to go." It had barely been ten minutes since the doctor had left. The nurse went to put my legs into position for me when I realized that I could move them myself. I started to feel the contractions again, each one stronger than the one before. I was actually happy that my epidural was wearing off though, because I wanted to feel the birth.
Bob excused himself to go call Peg and let her know that her first grandchild was about to arrive. She was beside herself that she could not be there.
After one peek the doctor said, "I guess we're starting now. That didn't take long." I had no idea what they had been waiting for in the first place, but before I knew it the doctor was teaching me how to count and push. I couldn't believe it was happening already. I felt like a little girl again- small, scared, and being dragged along by the hand toward something I didn't want to do. I wasn't ready.
I pulled my legs into my chest and felt the next contraction coming, but this time I had a job to do so the pain was not too bad. I focused on pushing for ten seconds straight. I was supposed to keep my chin down but I kept watching in the mirror. It was fascinating.
I had given up on he he he hoooo a long time ago, but then Amy told me to breath into the spaces between my ribs just like we had practiced at yoga so many times. I breathed into my back and ribs and it calmed me. I suddenly felt more prepared that I thought I was, like maybe I could do this after all.
I only pushed for about 15 minutes before the doctor told me to stop. One last slow push and then there was Rose. I saw a head, and a shoulder and an arm and I said, "oh my God, it's a baby."
"What did you think was going to come out of there?" the doctor said.
The nurse plopped the baby on my tummy and Rosie squinted at my face. She had more black hair than I had ever seen on a baby, dark skin, and blue eyes. She was beautiful, and so tiny. She was only 6lbs. 3oz. I was shocked because an image of Rose had been forming in my mind over the last few weeks, and my vision looked just like her.
They took her away suddenly. Rose hadn't started breathing yet, so they carried her quickly to the warming bed and started a flow of oxygen just in front of her nose. Kris hesitated to go but I released his hand and told him to follow.
My nurse called the NICU for a consultation, but before they arrived Rosie finally took a breath on her own! "Oh, she's a doll!" the NICU doctors said and cooed at her for a few minutes before they were called away again.

I got to nurse her before they took her upstairs, and I was cheered because it went pretty well. As soon as they finished sewing my body back together, I followed her to the maternity ward.
Subsequent feeding sessions, however, were very difficult. She wouldn't latch and I couldn't keep her awake. I was so frustrated and I felt like such a failure already for not knowing how to feed my child. I had even read a book and gone to a class to learn how, but I just couldn't do it. We eventually resorted to Kris dribbling formula down my chest so Rosie would think it was coming from my breast and want to suck. It took forever to even get half an ounce in her like that.

I felt alone and clueless and for the first time I broke down in tears. Kris made me scooch over on the bed and just held me until I was ready to say out loud that I wanted my mom. I wanted someone to teach me and help me be a mother myself.
It wasn't all frustration and tears though. Between the feedings we got to stare and coo at the most beautiful baby ever born. We marveled at what we had made together and wondered about our new life as parents. We got to show her off to our friends. And when Peg's plane finally landed, Rose met her only Grandmother.

The day after Rose was born was my mother's birthday. We were still in the hospital learning to care for our baby. I was closing my eyes hoping to get a little sleep but it wasn't working. Kris was holding Rosie. I heard a catch in his throat and a few quick sniffs. She was so beautiful and amazing that she made her new dad cry- a feat I had only witnessed a handful of times in ten years. I kept my eyes closed and tried not to intrude on his moment with our new baby. I was thinking of my mother of course. It was only then that I realized that my mother's last words to me were, "Thank you for the rose for my birthday." That's just what she got this year.

Udon Noodles With Seame Crusted Tofu

2009-07-06T18:23:00.001-07:00

photo credit: The Vegan Dad

My darling husband used to cook for me all the time, so I have never needed to hone my kitchen skills. Back when I was actually employed and worked pretty late every night, I would almost always come home to a fragrant house and a beautifully plated meal on the table. Those were the days, people.

These days, Lander apparently has better things to do when he gets home like playing the baby he so dearly misses every minute he's away at work. So I finally gave into my maternal guilt, tightened the apron strings, and bellied up to the cook top. However, I had no idea what to do next.

I was determined to actually cook a meal tonight without the microwave. I have thus far mastered the art of opening bags of frozen vegetables (which is no easy task-- sometimes I even have to use the scissors.) And I am a pro at the classic Lander meal consisting of chicken, a vegetable, and rice, which I relished every time I crashed the nuclear dinner table at Kris's parent's house. But tonight I attempted to branch out.

Once again, Lander gave me more credit than I deserved when he suggested a yummy recipe from http://vegandad.blogspot.com/2009/06/udon-noodles-with-sesame-crusted-tofu.html

I wandered the aisles of Smith's, wrestling my squirming child, and gathering the ingredients to the best of my ability. I managed to get home with most of the ingredients in tow. I felt fancy as I tossed the tofu in sesame seeds, but it only went down hill from there.

The tofu bubbled in the oil but never really turned golden brown like in the beautiful picture on Vegan Dad's website. When I tried to flip them the white piles of goo just fell apart and congealed into sesame covered mush. I thought more heat might do the trick, but I only managed to start a beguiling collection of tiny third degree burns on my arms and face, and coat the kitchen in a slippery layer of oil splatters. As I nursed my wounds, I reflected on the good old days when Lander did all the cooking. I recalled watching him drain and press the tofu, as I sat uselessly watching Buffy and sipping wine. Oh, how I miss Buffy.

Rosie missed her bedtime waiting for me to finish cooking. I left out the green onions because Somer told me to, and I forgot the hoisin sauce, so it was slightly lacking in flavor. The noodles were sticky, and we've already discussed what happened to the tofu. In summary: a complete failure, but stay tuned for future adventures in house-wifery. I'll master this yet.

Vacation! All I Ever Wanted

2009-06-28T13:18:00.000-07:00

We recently flew to Huntington Beach, California to visit Rosie's favorite uncle, Josh. We all decided to celebrate our anniversary with some moderately good Seaside Mexican food on the snazzy little HB main street. Rosie made eating out just as adventurous as ever with the screaming, the spills, and suddenly proclaiming "all done" before the beers were half gone. Kris and I have come to accept that for the next 18 years, we are essentially banned from restaurants which serve meals over $9.99, because it seems that fancy people don't appreciate the occasional lemonade bath for their Jimmy Choos. But since Josh is still childless and fancy free, this weekend has been a crash course in parenthood. If only we could be better stewards for his journey since being prepared takes 97.2% of the stress out of outings with children. But as it is, we rarely remember to bring snacks, sippy cups, or diaper wipes along with us.

Once we were back home from dinner we started the bed time dance where we insist that it's late, and Rose is tired, and she in turn assures us that she's fine and it's time to play. Being taller and slightly smarter, Kris and I eventually prevailed, but less than an hour later Rosie woke up screaming. I almost left her to work it out for herself, but I figured she probably didn't remember where she was, so I went up to comfort her.

Once I got the door open I heard gagging and coughing interspersed with the screaming, and instantly started panicking. Rosie started to throw up a little so I scooped her up, ran down the hall to the bathroom, and held her over the sink. "I need help! Rosie is choking!" I screamed.

Kris and Josh came bounding up the stairs. Kris assessed the growing pile of pink puke in the sink, and the pathetic gagging sound Rose was making. We watched her gag and cough and cry for a moment, feeling completely useless. When I could no longer take it I halfheartedly stuck my finger in her mouth to see what was in there. Finding nothing, I looked up at Kris with sheer panic on my face. He took Rosie from my arms, and one triumphant finger sweep later, the puke fountain flowed freely. Gobs of stinky pink and white goo filled the sink. I suddenly realized it shouldn't go down the drain so I tried to hold it back with one hand while picking up chunks to identify what could have made her sick. As the puke oozed through my fingers, I remembered that Josh was also standing there, and could go get some paper towel. I glanced through the doorway and saw Josh's wide-eyed face completely drained of color and washed in horror. Above all else, Josh was concerned for Rosie, but combine the puking with the crying all night, waking up at 5am, inconvenient napping and generally stickiness and it has become clear that we have set back any future Lander cousins another few years.

Happy 8th Anniversary Love!

2009-06-24T08:32:00.000-07:00

The last 12 years have been amazing. I feel so lucky to be married to the sweetest man, and the best father I know. Thank you so much!!

California here we come...

We'll Say "Hi" to The Compound For You, Somer :)

2009-06-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

We're going to the beach! Kris, Rosie, and I will leave tomorrow evening for Huntington Beach to visit Josh. We couldn't be more excited! Here's a few pics from our trip to Newport last year. Rosie was just about ten months old and took her first wobbly steps at the beach house. She didn't walk on her own for a few more weeks, but it was fun that the whole fam was there to witness her genius.

Rosie in her Aunt Billie and Uncle Mike's pool in Vegas

Wearing our commemorative "Hot Sake" shirts to celebrate Ricki's line in Iron Man.

Swimming in the buff in her sombrero-shaped beer cooler. Ultimate embarrassing baby picture, right? I'm pulling this one out on prom night.

Practice.

So little!

Tonsils

2009-06-22T07:13:00.000-07:00

My parents said that I was practically born with tonsillitis, but the doctors waited until I was four to take them out. Apparently, I would wake up at night gasping for air, my throat too swollen to breathe.

The first time I realized something bad was going to happen to me, my dad had taken me to a movie, and kept apologizing over and over. “I'm sorry you have to have a tonsillectomy,” he said. The lect-to-me part and all the guilt in his voice made me think it was his fault. I had no idea what it meant, but I thought about it for the whole movie. My mom apologized all the time too. I started to think my parents were plotting against me. If they were both so sorry, couldn't they just not lect-to-me my tonsils?

Most of my childhood was marked with constant confusion. My sister recently found a picture of me from when I was about five. “Look at your face!” she said. In the picture I was trying to smile, but my eyes were huge and radiating fear. It was enclosed in a frame made of cardboard and a few remnants of macaroni and gold spray paint. “I must have been at Sunday School. I never really understood Sunday School,” I said, peeling off a loose noodle. People should explain things to kids better.

It became clear to me that I would have to stay overnight at the hospital when my mom took me to K-Mart to pick out my own pair of hospital jammies. They had purple, pink, and orange tulips on them and ruffles at my feet like clown pants. I couldn't wait to wear them. I would lay them on my bed, straighten the tiny purple bows, and dream about the day that I would finally get to wear them. In retrospect I was clearly being manipulated.

When the big day finally came, I got to go on a tour of the hospital. I had my jammies in a bag over my shoulder and the promise of endless ice cream and popsicles filled my mind. The nurse gave each child on the tour a plastic medicine bag. In it was either that weird mirror thing doctors strap to their heads in movies, or a pointed nurses cap with a big red cross on it. All of the boys got to be doctors, and the girls were nurses. I handed my medicine bag back to the lady, once again confused about why she thought I wanted to be a nurse. “I want to be a doctor,” I informed her. I was thinking big and bucking stereotypical gender roles at age four. I often wonder what happened to that gumption. I had the surgery and felt pretty miserable for about a week. Soon I could breathe and swallow like a champ, but at the end of all of my suffering I learned the cruelest lesson of them all: life is not fair and when you're not paying attention your sister will eat all of your ice cream.

So about six months ago at one of Rosie's checkups, I was complaing that she was sick ALL THE TIME and wouldn't eat or sleep. Our doctor pried open Rosie's mouth and said, "Oh my!" as if she couldn't control herself. Once she had gathered her thoughts, she added in a much calmer voice, "Rosie's tonsils are simply huge."

They were swabbed for strep, but showed no infection. Her tonsils had just grown to be too large-- known as kissing tonsils. The Doctor explained that they were making it too hard for her to breathe at night, so she woke up all the time. And they were so big that she couldn't swallow enough food to nourish herself, which is why she hadn't gained any weight for almost six months. Feeling like THE WORST MOTHER, EVER, I promptly made an appointment with an ENT who droned on about having to wait to do the surgery until kids are at least two, so they can be reasoned with if they refuse to drink fluids. I thought in my head that we could be waiting for years, in Rosie's case, since she's as stubborn as the dykes are tall in her native Netherland home. But as soon as the doctor caught sight of the tonsils in question, he said, "my, that's an impressive presentation," and told us to schedule surgery immediately. He also said we could put tubes in her ears at the same time to help with her constant ear infections.

So I took my poor baby (who couldn't breathe, eat, or hear) home and waited nearly a month for the surgeon's schedule to clear up. It was agonizing. I spent most of the time playing out in my head what it would feel like to hand my baby over to a stranger and watch her get carried into an Operating Room where I couldn't comfort her.

When the day finally came, Kris's parents surprised us at the hospital, and waited through the whole morning with us. It was such a relief! Between the copious toys in every corner of Primary Children's Hospital, and the nurses who blew bubbles and sang, Rose was fascinated with the whole process. When the Surgeon came to take Rosie away he even let her take her monkey and her blankey with her, so somehow, it felt a little easier.

The surgery was over in just a half hour, so one of us got to go back to recovery sooner than we had ever imagined. Kris is the best dad, ever, so I knew he would be aching to comfort Rosie. He practically ran down the hall to go get her. I had to wait another 30 minutes before I got to see her. When I finally got to go back I expected to see a beautiful reunification of father and daughter, but instead Kris had a mix of heartache and terror on his face, and was covered in the blood that Rosie had coughed up. She was still choking on her sobs. Kris said that Rose was so mad she would focus very her on deliberately pinching him between all the screaming.

It got better from there, though, with only a few more traumatic moments. Once we figured out that the IV in her foot was making her miserable, and adjusted it for her, all was well again. We all got a little sleep, but Rosie woke up at about 3:00am convinced that it was time to play. Kris and I pulled her through the halls of the hospital in a wagon for hours. We watched Bambi, which only made her giggle and yell, "bunny!!" rather than lulling her back to sleep. By 5:00am, the nurse said we could just go home.

After another day of rest and occasional bouts of the grumps, Rosie was a new woman! Now she can breathe, eat and is starting to put some chub back on her tiny bones. I feel so lucky that one of the best children's hospitals in the country is just up the street from my house. This whole experience could have been so much worse than it was.

While I'm very excited to stop explaining why my 21 month old baby is barely the size of an average one year old, the best result of the whole experience is that Rosie giggles all the time now. A laugh from Rose used to be a very rare treat. She was always pretty happy, just doing the best with what she had, but I think she felt too sick to giggle and play like a normal kid. I just hope we can get the next kid's inevitable case of Tonsillitis nipped in the bud even sooner.

Vocabulary

2009-06-19T23:06:00.000-07:00

I have been feeling really guilty about forgetting almost the entire Spanish language, so I jumped at the chance to put a Word-A-Day gadget on my google homepage. Here is the list I saw this evening:

Between my in depth analysis of my unique pain-causing anatomy, my mother's death, and my attempts to understand it all, this vocab list is like a synopsis of my book! (except the hardware store-- I have no idea where that came from.)

Caution: poop story (it had to happen eventually... this is 33.3% mommy blog)

2009-06-18T13:39:00.000-07:00

"Did you poop?" I asked Rosie.

"No!" scamper scamper scamper.

But she totally did. She went in the bathroom and shut the door and everything. If only she would sit on the potty instead of costing me .30 cents every time she craps life would be easier to deal with right now. I have always been afraid of potty training, but much like a 42 week pregnant lady who may have once been afraid to give birth, I say - let's do this now!!

Anywho, there I am holding Rosie's feet in one hand, and wiping her poopy bum with the other. I was mentally chanting, "don't puke, don't puke," since I wouldn't have a hand free to catch it and would have ended up with a much bigger mess. I glanced at the wall cube which holds the world's Most Random Collection of Stuff, but occasionally also holds diapers, to find that it was bare. There were none in the drawer. The diaper bag. The stroller. No. Diapers.

It was then that the poo smell overwhelmed my tender gag reflex. I didn't actually puke since my teeth hurt too much to chew food, so there was nothing to come up, but yucky heaves shook my body.

Rosie said, "bwess you mommy."

Feeling (almost) instantly better I snatched a swim diaper from the closet and declared the problem solved.

Rosie with her friends Eli and Emerson Ashton

2009-06-16T16:53:00.000-07:00

Rosie has been a little late in saying her own name according to her grandma. I wasn't terribly worried considering she seems to know the names of EVERYTHING else.

Since I was attending a baby shower last Saturday, I decided to wear my R necklace made in Rosabella's honor. Fun and yummy food was had by all at Ashley and Lily's shower. The world is ready... come on out baby!

When I got home, Rosie pointed to my pendant with interest. I told her that it has an "R for Rosie," as I poked her tummy. She smiled and said, "for Rodie," and patted her tummy.

Fascinator!

2009-06-11T17:14:00.000-07:00

A bride asked me at a show back in January, "do you work with feathers."

"Of course I do!" I said. Not true, but how hard could it be?

It turns out it was a lot more challenging than I expected to even find pretty feathers rather than the cheapo bag at the craft store. But once I found those, it was actually kind of fun.

New self discovery: I'm allergic to feathers.

A Baby Story

2009-06-11T07:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was listening to Rosie and her dad playing in the basement. He was trying to fix a computer for a friend, and just as he was downloading the last update, Rosie pushed the power button. He was understandably irritated, and told her "NO!"

She crawled her way upstairs and found me hard at work on my rewrites. Her face was very serious and she proceeded to tell me the story. "Dada. Button. No."

Rosie dances with Mr. Xavier

2009-06-05T16:42:00.001-07:00

MVI_1265
Originally uploaded by lissabird

Peace II

2009-06-05T14:09:00.000-07:00

I have vowed to single-handedly sell out The Depot on August 15th 2009 when Xavier Rudd will once again grace Salt Lake with his presence. I want to make sure that he comes back every year! We first stumbled upon his music at a show in San Francisco. When we moved back home, I was worried that we would never see him again.

This is a story from my book about traveling to Denver a few years ago just to see him one more time. It goes like this.

Peace, Part II

I had been in a snit for the previous month or two or six. Kris and I were supposed to climb Mt. Whitney with friends. We had made all of the plans long before we knew about the baby, but in a flash my whole life was changed forever and I felt a little picked on. I couldn't go be with my friends and see a little more of the world. My life felt small. My tummy felt sick. My future felt lonely- Kris was still planning to go.
I suggested a trip to Denver to see one of my favorite musicians- Xavier Rudd. He was playing a show on our wedding anniversary, and Salt Lake wasn't on his tour schedule at all, so Denver was our only chance to see him. He's amazing. He plays the guitar, the didgeridoo, and a slew of drums and other noisy things all at the same time. I sent Kris a text about the show. "We should save our money" was the message I received back. Note to self: Don't discuss things in text messages when they are really important to me.
I let it stew in my head for a few weeks. I didn't know how to explain my feelings without sounding crazy. But the thoughts sat around in my pregnancy-enhanced brain for so long that they got huge and dripping like giant anime monsters from the sea which came pouring out of my mouth one night.
"You would rather go spend precious vacation days from work with random people than spend them with me! You would rather spend money on that, but there's a trip to Denver we could go on together and you say we have to save money!" Of course, this is what I meant to say, but when I get upset I cry. Sobs interrupted my brilliant argument. Kris and I hadn't had a fight for a good year or more so we were due. There was yelling, more crying and in the end Kris informed me that I was crazy. Wasn't that obvious, I wondered. Did he not notice that I was pregnant? I thought I had a free pass for crazy.
A few weeks later on Mother's Day, I got plane tickets to Denver to see Xavier without a single mention of my temper tantrum. On the day of the flight I woke up to terrible pain in my feet. Most days I had been feeling like my body was being held together with used cellophane tape covered in paper fuzzies. I tried to convince myself that I was strong-- wrapped up in duct tape, or at least masking tape, but I knew it was going to be a bad day.
I had been trying not to think about the pain complicating my pregnancy. So far it hadn't been too bad, but I felt as if I were losing my balance on the edge of a cliff. What was it going to be like tomorrow? Next month? There could be a genetic predisposition to chronic uncontrollable pain, so the biggest question of all is: will my baby ever be in pain like this? No one could tell me answers to any of my questions. I feel selfish for wanting to have my own children knowing they could end up like me. These fears still swirl through my head on a daily basis no matter how hard I try not to think about them.
I bundled my crazy thoughts, suppressed them the best I could, and got out of bed. We had to be to the airport soon, and my less than stellar walking was only going to slow us down.
As we took off on our flight my feet just got worse. They became more and more swollen and tender as the day went on. We were trying to see the sights in Denver before the show that night, so we went to the art museum. It was huge and amazing. We walked one floor of it. Kris walked, and I hobbled from bench to bench craning my neck to see the art without standing. Each step to the next bench was like walking on five inch red-hot nails. They pierced clean through my feet and sent pain screaming up my legs. It was too much. I wanted to quit. I wanted to go home, but I didn't go all that way to sit in hotel room. I knew I had to make a choice that I had been putting off for years.
I went by myself to the customer service desk trying to build up the courage to ask for a wheel chair. The line was too long and my pride was too strong. It took a second trip with Kris by my side. When I asked him to go with me, he reflexively said, "you don't need a wheelchair- you're so tough!" But he studied my face for a moment and then helped over to the customer service.
The man brought out an old crooked chair with a broken left foot rest. My heart sank as I inched my way into the chair. The brown vinyl folds swallowed my body, and my self respect. It had been 19 years since the accident and 17 years of walking on my own despite any challenge. All brought to a whimpering vinyl-clad halt.
Kris pushed me from wall to wall through the galleries. We struggled with doors and corners but eventually we got it down. People stared. I made a mental note to call my best friend, Bree who has been paralyzed for about 10 years. She wants to tape a sign to her chair that says "Pictures with gimp $3.00" to stop people from staring at her.
I made it through the museum with a little less pride than when I started, but I got to see all of the lovely art all the way up to the top floor. I was still worried about the concert though. I knew I couldn't stand for hours at the show no matter how much the rest in the wheelchair had helped. As the start of the concert drew near, I felt heavy, like a weight bringing Kris down and anyone near me. When we got there, the club was packed. We figured if we had to stand- we might as well stand in front so we elbowed our way to the stage and waited.
I started my search for a place to sit. I do it without thought. When there isn't a bench handy, I seek out corners where I won't get stepped on in shopping malls, or empty displays in grocery stores. I always envy the old people who have a chair built right into their walkers. I spied a cinder block by the stairs and took a seat.
Mr. Security said I couldn't sit there, I was blocking the stairs. Kris was quick to my defense, "she's pregnant man, give her a break." I pointed to my belly swollen with 7 months of baby. To our surprise Mr. security said, "Why don't you sit over there then?" and pointed to the crowd barrier in front of the stage. I swear angels were singing and a spotlight from heaven shone down on the little bench built right on the front of the crowd barrier. I was so embarrassed, but I couldn't pass up the best seat in the house. I took my seat right in front of the stage and tried to blend in.

Soon Xavier walked out with bare, tattooed feet, and crazy surfer hair that looked fresh from the oceans of his native Australia. He greeted the crowd and soaked in our good will before he sat down. He gave me the warmest smile I have ever seen.
He took a seat behind about 20 different drums, a kick box, a keyboard, and three didgeridoos. They were suspended around him in some sort of frame so that he could play them all at the same time. He picked up his guitar, started a rhythm on the drums, and blew out the first low, shaking notes on the didge. Baby girl started kicking harder than I had ever felt her before.
Song after song we danced together. The stress and indignity of my day vanished as I bounced in my seat with my hands on my belly. Baby girl twisted and kicked almost in rhythm.
A woman dancing near me leanded over to say that Kris and I were beautiful. She admired me for taking my baby out to hear the music and take in the energy of the crowd. "Live your life," she said and kissed my cheek. It was surreal. Live my life indeed.
At the end of the set Xavier walked to the edge of the stage, knelt down and reached out for my belly. He touched my tummy, and I touched his hands. I wanted to say come to Utah next time, but I was speechless. When he came back for an encore, he dedicated the song to me. "This is for the girl with beautiful healthy pregnant cheeks.

Body Project: Epilogue

2009-06-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

Oh my, I have had a bad week. I knew it was coming though, and it is my own fault. I speak, of course, of withdrawal. My first taste of Cymbalta withdrawal came when I ran out of pills a few months ago, and I didn't make it to my doctor's office to pick up more before they closed on a Thursday. I thought it wouldn't matter if I missed just one dose, and then ran in to the doctor on Friday morning.

I woke up in a cold sweat. My jammies and sheets were soaked and I was freezing. I couldn't see, but this is normal for me in the morning. But even after I put in my contacts I still couldn't see a thing. It was like my brain and my eyes were failing to communicate. Every time I moved it felt like I was swimming in Jell-o and leaving trails of sparkling tracers in my path. My body was buzzing with an electrical charge, and waves of simultaneous nausea and pleasure were fogging my brain into near-inactivity. The best part is that with the flood of Serotonin and Norepinephrine I wasn't feeling an ounce of pain, however I was way too sick to appreciate it.

All of this would have been fine if I could have just slept the day away, except that I had to take care of my child and drive myself to the doctor. I don't know what I was thinking when I got in my car! I clearly wasn't thinking straight, but I felt compelled to go and get another dose of Cymbalta just to end the withdrawal circus. I drove as carefully as I could, and eventually I made it. I dragged myself and my squirmy baby to the top floor office (who puts a pain clinic on the third floor?!) only to find the lights off and the door locked. That's right. I had forgotten that the office was closed on Fridays. I could not figure out what I was supposed to do as I pondered the idea of spending the entire weekend in such a state.

I fumbled through the rest of my day somehow, and was attempting to attend my friend's birthday party, and pretend I wasn't all strung out when my sister called me on the phone.

"Why don't you just call the after-hours number?" she said.

Of course that was the right idea, and of course I hadn't thought of it. It had required immense amounts of concentration just to put my sandals on.

So there I was, begging the inept PA to call in a prescription for three pills. I would have to pay out of pocket, since he had not completed my Prior Authorization forms for the insurance yet, but by that point I was willing to pay, or do anything for another dose. I have never felt more like a junkie.

After handing over more than $6 per pill, I finally took another dose and fell asleep. All was right with the world again the next morning.

A week later I stepped down to half the dose, and got to spend another day at the withdrawal circus, but it was not as bad.

Back to the present: I have been going off all of my pills one at a time as I prepare for the Baby Project. Dropping the magic Fibro-Response Vitamin was the hardest, because without it, the Lyrica doesn't work at all (the vitamin by itself does not work either. There must be something about the combination.)

Being in pain again after experiencing relief for the first time in 20 years has been cruel. Since I was only 10 years old when the pain started I was actually able to form my adult life around the pain. I was not an athlete forced to give up my passions. I learned how to be a college student with the pain, instead of feeling ambushed in the middle of my studies by sudden illness. I rarely felt like I had lost anything to pain, but rather that I lived my life in spite of it. I would never turn down an invitation or a challenge because otherwise, I would never get to do anything. I felt like I had overcome so much and was able to live a rich life.

Then the pain went away most of the time. I could act without thinking about the pain consequences I would face later that night. I had boundless energy-- even enough to enjoy evenings out with friends and family. I had NEVER realized how easy life is without pain. Now that the pain is back, I have lost my ability to cope with it. When I try to go out in the evenings with friends, I barely have the energy to speak anymore. I have finally realized how much of my life the pain has taken from me, because I got to live without it for 8 weeks.

I have been left to wonder who I am. Am I the quiet, withdrawn person I have been for most of my life... that is when I am not making a Herculean effort to fake enthusiasm. Or am I really the girl who was funny, charming, and brimming with energy? Was that dose of personality just a side effect of medication, or was it my true self finally able to surface from the murky ocean of pain? But enough about my hyperbole-enriched identity crisis...

In case you are new around here, I have to stop all of my medication because I am planning to get pregnant again soon, and I obviously can't take them. Kicking the Lyrica was a snap-- I didn't even notice it was gone. I left the Cymbalta for last. The Cybalta alone was not providing any relief at all. The pain and my mood were both terrible. I think that means that my energy level and mood have more to to do with pain level than a separate case of depression. I have been excited to get it out of my system since it wasn't helping, and I really don't like putting useless chemicals in my body. But I have also been dreading the withdrawal.

It has been really bad, but I think I'm almost done with it. I have been perusing google lately, and have found several sad stories of people who desperately want to stop taking Cymbalta, but cannot face the withdrawal. They feel trapped, and like me, they had no idea it would happen before they started taking it. I am going to contact the FDA about my experience. If they get enough complaints, they will be forced to investigate. Perhaps Lilly (Big Pharma) will be forced to tell doctors about the severe withdrawal symptoms, so patients can make an informed choice before taking the drug.

I have put a lot of thought into adoption or using a surrogate so I could continue my medication, but I simply do not have enough money. I think it is cruel that the system has made it so hard for people who cannot have their own children to adopt, when there are lots of babies that need homes.

If I can get pregnant quickly, then I will hopefully be able to enjoy the remission of RSD and FMS that often comes with pregnancy. The theory is that they are both autoimmune disorders. Since the immune system is suppressed during pregnancy so that the body will not reject the baby, the symptoms are also suppressed. (This is why the RA drug Enbrel might help RSD, but I have yet to find a doctor who will prescribe it for me. I think I will make that my next body project after the baby.)

I hope that I can find an affordable source of donated breast milk, so that I could go back on the meds right after the birth. After all, I can't imagine taking care of a toddler, an infant, and dealing with the pain. But that is a bridge I will have to cross later. I am confident that I will get to the other side with flying colors because that's how I roll.

I know it will all be worth it.

The Me Generation

2009-05-26T13:10:00.000-07:00

Lately, I feel like I have read several articles about how self-obsessed my generation is. That we think our every thought or action is interesting enough to post on Facebook. That we construct entire shrines to ourselves on Myspace.

I have been feeling guiltiest of all for thinking my life is interesting enough to write an entire book about it.

The book has been through many incarnations. I have abandoned my efforts on Authonomy.com since none of the authors who have won the popularity contest have been offered publishing contracts. (For anyone interested... I almost won. I made it to the top 20 before they changed the rules.)

I am (occasionally) working hard on a major re-write. I am trying to make it read more like a novel with dialogue and description. It's hard and slow work, which is why I am rarely motivated to do it.

This is my new introduction. Any thoughts?

Ever since I walked in front of a speeding SUV 20 years ago, I have lived in constant pain. I remember keeping a smile on my face for my fifth grade class picture, even though my leg was on fire. Sashaying at the prom on a bed of red hot nails. Fighting to hear my college professors over my muscles and nerves screaming to be stretched and soothed. I remember neglecting my crying child because I did not have the strength to hold her.
Each day I depleted most of my mental and physical energy in my efforts to bend my life around pain. To make all the complexities of a joyful life fit into the tiny cracks and crevices of my mind and body that were not already filled to brimming with agony. I convinced myself that I was successful. I truly believed that the pain had not stolen my life from me, or turned me into a whisper of the person I should have been.
The brain has the most astounding ability to forget pain. But if it never goes away, you can never forget it. I never thought that pain could be an afterthought rather than the single most important factor in my every choice or action. Lately, I remember compensating for the pain for the last two thirds of my life, but I don't actually remember the burn anymore. I never thought that I could forget it.

I have been to more doctors than I care to admit-- not even asking for a cure, because that seemed impossible. I was just looking for an explanation. Every doctor said something different, but they all came to the same conclusion: there was nothing they could do. After spending two thirds of my life coping with this mysterious pain, I got so desperate, that I was willing to ask anyone for help. So there I was at a salon party, watching my friends sign up for free facials and waxes (Brazilians were extra). I forsook my shabby brows when I saw that I could get a free psychic reading. I thought the option seemed out of place at the salon, and I always try to keep an ear pressed to the door of the Universe, because I'm just positive that she speaks to me. Relax, kids. I don't hear voices, and I'm not crazy (probably not, anyway). Believe me, an occasional conversation with the sticky web of life that connects us all is not the biggest reason I should sport a straight jacket to all public functions-- that would be my mother's fault.
I asked the psychic about the pain. One of my doctors had just explained that genetic deformities in my muscles and bones could be the problem, and getting myself flattened by an SUV only made it worse. In other words, I had just been told that my body was made for pain.
I did my level best to not obsess about the spiritual implications of this theory, but let's face it: once an idea gets my pants all in a bunch, I just can't straighten them back out without some serious thought. I became convinced that I had been saddled with this hair shirt of a body on purpose. I had never, until that moment, felt like I was being punished by this pain. It's a popular question in the mountain of paperwork I always had to fill out at pain clinics:

41. Do you feel abandoned by a higher power? Yes No
42. Do you feel misunderstood by friends and family? Yes No
43. Do you feel that you are being punished? Yes No

I always circled no. The doctors were so impressed with me. I even got a glowing recommendation from a pain psychologist saying that, “she has such a positive attitude,” followed by the equally shiny, “I admire her goals, and her plan to accomplish them.” But suddenly, I had lost that shiny attitude.
The psychic had me cut the deck of cards in her hands, laid them on the table, and then proceeded to tell me loads of generalized nonsense about them. I waited with a pit in my stomach, wondering if I could even say the words out loud, and questioning why I ever thought this was a good idea. When I was positive I couldn't stew any longer, random word soup peppered with “pain, punished, and penance,” came bursting out like emotional projectile vomit.
She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “I really couldn't say why you have suffered all this time.” She seemed to be searching for something helpful to say. And then it hit her. “Maybe you could just ask the Universe if you could be done.”
At first I was offended by the simplicity of her conclusion, but as I previously explained, random thoughts get stuck in my head like a bad song. The longer I chewed on her words, the more I saw wisdom in them.
I had to let it go. I had to take action to find a solution. I had to tell the Universe that I'm done. I embarked on a journey to rid myself of pain, vowing to examine my past, present, and future for clues and a possible solution. Most difficult of all: I vowed to believe that someday I could live without pain. I never dreamed I would be so successful.
But let's start at the beginning.

A Rather Lengthy Essay That Won't Be Interesting to Anyone Without Chronic Pain

2009-05-18T09:41:00.000-07:00

Well kids, I have reached the end of my six month body project. I'm wondering if I should extend it a little longer and see if I could soak up even more benefit, but I'm anxious to start on the baby project ;)

I am so excited to say that, at times, I experience 100% relief from my symptoms. I'm not claiming to have cured Fibromyalgia, because if I miss a dose of medication, push myself too hard, or lose precious sleep, the pain can be overwhelming. I was hoping that the more time I spent pain free would allow my brain to repair my natural pain defense system which has been abused by so many years of RSD pain in my foot. In the last week or so I have noticed that I can go longer between doses, and I can take less and still fell great. So perhaps it is working. If I could decrease my overall amount of of pain, it would ultimately make my pregnancy more comfortable since I can't take this cocktail of pills while knocked up.

I'm hoping that this little post will find it's way to the front page of google, so that the next troubled soul searching for answers won't have to sort through as much crap as I did. There are a lot of misconceptions about Fibro. I admit that I was guilty of thinking it was just a diagnosis for whiny women, and that I am still embarrassed to tell people that I have it, because I know what they might be thinking. Caution, the feminist soap box is about to come out of storage: nine out ten people with Fibromyalgia are women. To me, that clearly means that our hormones are involved, but for others (including the male-dominated medical profession) it apparently means that women are crazy anyway so this pain they complain about can't be real. I realize that there are a few ladies out there giving the rest of us a bad name. One afternoon at the bead store, I was lucky enough to overhear the following conversation.

Bessie: (shouts across the entire store) So my son asked me if I could watch my grandson after school. Don't get me wrong, I love the kid- but I says 'I'm not doing it unless you pay me. My time ain't free.'

Bertha: (from the other side of the store) That's right!

Bessie: It's not like I quit my job for fun. I've got the Fibormyalgia you know.

If I hadn't been there on business trying to match the color of bridesmaids dresses for one of my brides, I would have bolted for the door immediately in hopes of easing my turning tummy.

I don't know why I feel it's somehow different to discuss my pain disorder with entire blogging community. Probably because you all have chosen to read my ramblings. My purpose in all this really is to help other people feel better, so on to the results of my Body Project.

First a brief description of the problem, as far as I understand it. It's all about dopamine and endorphins, which regulate the body's response to stress or pain. Pain messages are chemical signals which travel up the spine and pool at the "pain gate" until there are enough to open the gate and travel to the brain. The brain then identifies the problem and responds by moving your hand away from a hot iron, or whatever the source of pain is. Then it releases endorphins to close the pain gate and block the signals so that the pain is decreased, or no longer felt at all. Dopamine is also released which increases sensations of pleasure and well-being.

But if the source of the pain or stress is ongoing, the system breaks down and levels of endorphins and dopamine become too low. The "pain gate" gets stuck open. Now pain messages flow freely to the brain. The body starts to send more chemical messages to get the brain to respond, so pain stimulus like a stubbed toe hurts way more than it should. This is called central sensitization. Researchers have actually convinced people to get spinal taps in the name of science. They measured lowered levels of neurotransmitters like dopamine in the spines of people with Fibromyalgia, as compared to people without it.

Dopamine is supposed to be replenished during sleep, so if the source of stress or pain interrupts sleep, then it becomes a self-perpetuating cycle. You can even sleep through the night without waking, but a body dealing with too much stress or pain never enters into truly restorative sleep.

Researchers have also studied oxygen levels in the muscles of people with Fibromyalgia and found that the blood is not replenishing the muscles with oxygen during exertion, resulting in pain. Chronically sore muscles bombard the brain with pain messages... and now we're back to the beginning of this mini science lesson.

There are two drugs normally used for Parkinson's disease which raise dopamine levels, but they are not FDA approved for Fibromyalgia. So finding a doctor who will prescribe them off label, or an insurance company to pay for them is difficult. For those determined to fight for them, the drugs are called Mirapex, and Requip. I've been told that they have terrible side-effects, and most people do not tolerate them well.

Perhaps as this brand new research on the connection between Fibromyalgia and dopamine is more widely accepted, there will be a better solution. But until then I have combed the internet and found a combination of drugs which increases other neurotransmitters in my brain, giving me 100% relief at times.

Here's a list of what I take:
Lyrica: (prescription) This is an anticonvulsant, and the first drug to be FDA approved to treat Fibromyalgia. It slows pain messages to the brain so that it can respond appropriately and doesn't receive too many at once. I take 50mg 2-3 times daily. One in the morning, one at night, and sometimes in the afternoon depending on how I feel.

Cymbalta: (prescription) This is a SSNRI (Selective Serotonin Norepinephrine Reuptake Inhibitor). It is the second drug to receive FDA approval for Fibro treatment. An SSNRI basically keeps the pain-fighting neurotransmitters in the brain longer so they are more readily available to close the pain gate. I take one 30mg pill at night. When I moved up to 60mg, I lost my sense of taste, and was too stoned to drive.

Both of these drugs help me sleep better, so that my brain naturally replenishes dopamine.

Flexeril: (prescription) It is a muscle relaxant which has helped me immensely. Less pain in the muscles means the fewer pain signal to deal with.

Ultracet: (prescription) This is a lower dose of Ultram plus tylenol. I threw up every time I took regular old Ultram, but I can take Ultracet with no problems. It is very effective on break through pain. But I only take it occasionally.

Now here's the important part: the vitamins. There are a few theories out there that part of the initial problem which eventually breaks down the dopamine/pain response system could be nutritional. I read about so many different supplements which are supposed to be helpful, and I was willing to try anything, so I ended up taking two or three handfuls of pills three times a day. One day at the vitamin store I found a supplement by Source Naturals called Fibro Response. Since it had Fibro in the name I picked it up and read the label. It had all the different supplements I was taking separately, all in one! In particular Magnesium, MSM, and the B vitamins are very helpful for energy, muscle and nerve pain. It also has co-enzyme Q10 and other naturally dopaminergenic supplements (meaning they increase dopamine in the brain). I didn't realize how much it helped me until I ran out of them on a Thursday. They are not cheap so I figured I would wait until Tuesday when vitamins are 15% off at Whole Foods! By Saturday I was really in pain again. The Lyrica, Cymbalta etc. were no longer working without the vitamins. As I move from the Body Project to the Baby Project I will have to drop the scary prescriptions. I'm excited to see if the vitamins alone will continue to relieve my symptoms.

Now that I have the pain under control, I am able to do light exercise which also increases dopamine naturally.

I take a few other things which may or may not be relevant to other people. I take Glucosamine/Chondroitin for neck and shoulder joint pain.

I also mentioned my theory that estrogen must be involved, since most of the people with Fibro are women. I had a raging case of estrogen dominance which cause a slew of problems. I fixed it with progesterone hormone therapy, and I maintain level hormones with Vitex, which has been taken by women for eons to regulate their cycles.

I wish I could give out a prize to anyone who finished reading this! It ended up being much longer than I intended. If anyone is moved to try this combination of pills, please let me know if it works for you, or if you have improved upon it somehow.

I simply must go now because my daughter is pouring a substance which sounds suspiciously like rice all over the kitchen floor, and an impatient bride in Chicago is expecting 9 bridesmaids necklaces to be finished today.

http://www.sourcenaturals.com/products/GP1116/

The Time of My Life

2009-05-09T16:50:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting on my patio watching Lander finish up the yard work. Suddenly it hits me: I've never had more fun! I couldn't figure out why sitting on my patio admiring the yard was suddenly so pleasant- I've done it a million times. I searched my mind for clues as to why I was enjoying myself so much, so that I could hang on to that amazing feeling and possibly replicate it in the near future. Coming up blank, I took stock of the rest of my body. The reason I was experiencing the most amazingly calm, and pleasurably stimulating moment in almost 20 years: no pain. Not a drop! And here you thought it was Lander's formidable gardening skills, and impressive physique ;)

Good Intentions

2009-04-29T12:52:00.000-07:00

I have a basket in the corner of my living room that's overflowing with good intentions. Or rather it's overflowing with Newsweeks (which I used to devour and wait impatiently for the next to arrive, but no longer have the time or energy to read), National Geographic (which I feel I should read so I will be a better person), and Self (which my sister feels I should read so I can get my slammin' pre-mommy bod back).

Last night I found myself in the tub decompressing from a horrifying personal episode, which is definitely not blog-worthy, for fear of being that person who shares way too much (it might already be too late for that however). I had brought a 3 month old Newsweek along with me and discovered an article which is rather pertinent to my life. The article, "Charity: The Psychology of Giving" can be found here: http://www.newsweek.com/id/187010.

It is about the bystander effect— the idea that "if I hear someone calling for help, and I am the only one around, I am more likely to help than if there is someone else with me who also hears the call but does nothing." We all know there are people and causes that need help, but since my neighbor doesn't donate time or money, I don't need to worry about it either. Besides, the problems are too big. What good would my $10 do anyway?

Almost a year ago I decided that it was time for me to try and do something. That's when I teamed up with my friend Somer to make the Love to Breathe pendants. I donate 100% of my profits to research Cystic Fibrosis, a life-threatening lung disease. Since then I have been so honored to play a small role in the lives of so many people. They send me stories about loved ones they have lost, or friends and family members who are still fighting to breathe a little easier. People wear my jewelry in tribute and in solidarity. I hope that when they wear one of my pendants, they might inspire their neighbors to no longer be a bystander.

http://lissabird.etsy.com

"Have you been gardening in those pants?"

2009-04-21T15:37:00.000-07:00

A while back Kris's socially-inappropriate grandmother looked down her nose at my jeans with designer tears and factory-installed frayed seams, and asked me if I had been gardening. I had no idea why she would ask me that, until she gave a nod to my pants. In her mind, I suppose, one would only wear such ragged things to do chores. One would certainly not wear them to Sunday Dinner. I explained that the kids these days pay extra for pants that come with holes.

As I was actually gardening in the very same pants just now (which is why we are now discussing my pants and Kris's aging grandma) I got to thinking about how spoiled I am. Grandma waited out Hitler in the Netherlands, which was occupied during WWII. She understands poverty and hard work on a level that I never will.

I rarely keep my pants long enough, nor do I regularly perform the type of tasks that might wear holes through the denim. How ridiculous is it that I would pay more money than Grandma would spend on groceries in a month, for a pair of pants that look like they are about to fall apart?

Lissa Needs...

2009-04-10T08:22:00.000-07:00

As per Maren's suggestion, I thought I would ask google what I need. I typed "lissa needs" into google and then reported the first few hits here.

Lissa needs an injection of SOMETHING... you mean there's an injection to cure insanity?

needs one to hand to someone and never has a stash.

Lissa hasn't written any blogs

Lissa needs an oxygen tank. A HUGE one.

lissa needs the sun.

Funny thing is, I must have left the oxygen tank for my torch open a bit, because it is flat empty. Lissa does need an oxygen tank... but only a medium one.

artificial peace

2009-04-06T12:31:00.000-07:00

I took this photo in the Presidio in San Francisco while I waited for Kris to finish the Nuts Across the Bay 12K in 2005.

It's like there's a politically inspired cease fire between my peripheral nervous system and my brain. Both sides are still angry, but they have been forced to get along by your friends and mine: Lyrica and Cymbalta. This duo is potent. I know that the Cybalta is supposed to take up to six weeks to fully work, and I'm still building up my dose, but I can already feel a change. Namely-- blithering intoxication. This would not be a problem if I didn't have a darling child to care for. I would love to drift into this drug induced stupor, but then who would burn, I mean cook the fries and chicken nuggets?

Besides my inability to follow conversations or drive my car, there is also a lovely numb sensation most of the time. That is unless I think about the fact that I feel numb. Then it subsides and the pain comes back to center or my attention. So I have to think about not thinking about the pain. If that makes sense.

Apparently neither my nerves nor brain seems to want to let go of it's nasty inflated pain signals. I'm pretty sure the drugs just help distract me from it all so that the fun numbness can invade my consciousness. This false sense of relief leaves me feeling nervous that at any moment the pain could come charging over it's borders, ending the cease fire for good.

It's official

2009-04-02T16:33:00.001-07:00

Ever since I got an official fibromyalgia diagnosis, I have been lost in thought over the implications. Before I started to research it, I had a pretty bad impression of it-- just like most of the people I know.

My darling neighbor occasionally hosts his nephew, who travels to Salk Lake to see a specialist. My neighbor whispered under his breath that his nephew has... (with a quick scan of the street) "the fibromyalgia." He seemed embarrassed to tell me about it. I almost cried when the rhuematologist said, "FMS is a good fit for your symptoms." Not exactly a confidence-boosting delivery of the big news. But I just didn't know how to feel about suddenly being one of the crowd who has to explain that, "it's a real disease, no-- really it is."

People in pain have always faced skepticism (I am already intimately aware of that). Then add to that the fact that most of the people with this disorder are women, and our male doctors calling us all hysterical rather than admit that they don't understand or know how to treat the pain makes a lot more sense.

They say it's just a label, but now that I have the official fibro diagnosis, two things in my life have improved already. Medication is one. My Lyrica experiment is going shockingly well. I would say that I have had an 80% improvement in overall pain. I never thought that would happen. I am about to start Cymbalta this evening, which was only recently approved by the FDA to treat FMS. I watched a webinare (which is apparently a word now) and it explained with 8x10 color glossy picture with circles and arrows on the back of each one (not really) about ascending and descending pain signals. When I told my doctor that Lyrica works on ascending pain and Cymbalta works on descending pain messages, he said after a pregnant pause, "you're right! Those will work well together." So an understanding of the mechanisms of this pain, as well as access to new and exciting medication is my first benefit.

Allowing myself to be exhausted is the second. For 19 years and 4 months I have gone above and beyond to prove that I am fine! I may have pain, but I am fine, and I can do anything and everything the rest of you can!

But lately I have allowed myself to recognize that sometimes I am overwhelmed with exhaustion. When that happens I sit down. This is new for me. I think I like it. Thank god for hulu.

Zen

2009-03-12T20:35:00.000-07:00

I've been in quite a mood over turning 30 today (sorry Somer!). I didn't say I have been in a bad mood-- just a mood. I haven't been sure how to feel about it.

My cute husband took me out for dinner tonight (where I tried sushi for the first time. Just a CA roll-- but please don't take this tiny victory away from me!) When we returned to my sister's house to pick up the baby, she informed me that I was snippy during a phone conversation earlier that day. I came to the profound conclusion that I must have been feeling bad about the whole ordeal. Then she produced Eclairs from Dick's Market and I instantly felt better. After she stuck some candles in my eclairs, and spent a theatrically long time lighting them, it came time to make a wish.

"I don't know what to wish for!" I said, panicking slightly about all the wax sheeting onto the world-famous chocolate frosting. For so much of my life I have always had desperate wishes on the tip of my tongue.

My sister was just as surprised as I was. "Really?" she asked. "You don't need anything?"

"..."

"Well then-- hooray for having no wish! Blow those candles out!"

some crazy thing I did while I was still in my 20s

2009-02-16T20:36:00.000-08:00

That's the back of my right calf. It was an uncomfortable experience, but not terrible. The healing process, on the other hand, has been ridiculously painful.

My artist is not from around here, so I went to see her at the convention this weekend. The people watching was fantastic. It was just the ticket for ignoring my leg. But even better than that, was gossiping with my sister. She should rent out her services.

Magic

2009-02-13T13:39:00.000-08:00

I make lots of jewelry from silver clay, and I haven't always been successful with my creations. I have kept a growing collection of dried up little mistakes in a baby jar for a few years now. I had read that it is possible to reconstitute silver clay, and I had even tried a few times with no success. But this time, my friends, I was desperate.

Normally I order my clay off the internet so I can save a few dollars, but it always takes almost a week to get here. I had lots of clay, until a rash of orders for my heart themed jewelry came through this week. A few days ago I got the sweetest email from a lady who had just lost a friend to CF. She ordered 3 necklaces to wear in his honor. I was so touched that I could be involved in her life in this way. But I was one pendant short of filling her order, and my clay wouldn't be here until Wednesday.

I went to the only store in town that sells my clay and found that the shelves were bare. The aging hippie with long grey hair who runs the store was unapologetic. I was on my own. When I got home, just on a whim I poured distilled water into the baby jar full of mistakes, and let it sit overnight.

Next day I found a jar full of mush and started stirring. I stirred and worked the mush for hours. I spread it out on a plate and turned it over and over like putty. Finally it turned into a sticky ball. Then I rolled it in my hands until it turned into clay again! I feel like I have created something from nothing, although physics would disagree. Being an artist often means pretending to know what you're doing and trying new things. Sometimes it doesn't work out- see previous post... and sometimes you feel like you have brought something entirely new into existence and it is thrilling.

Look kids, ribbons!

2009-02-11T12:17:00.000-08:00

I've been wondering all this time where you all find those cute blog backgrounds. This morning I noticed a little link in the corner of Somer's blog, which I swear was not there previously...

In other slightly more interesting news, I have scheduled my tattoo appointment! The most amazing artist, Megan Hoogland, will be visiting our fair city this weekend for the tattoo convention, and she has made some time to accommodate my I'm-turning-30-and-acting-out behavior. http://www.meganhoogland.com/

Futility

2009-02-08T14:32:00.000-08:00

I have had a new idea for a pendant kicking around my brain for months now, but I was nervous about trying something new. I wanted to make a necklace with a big gold heart in the center. There is a product I discovered for adding 24k gold accents to sterling silver, but it's $55/gram. I couldn't really visualize how much a gram of gold paint would be, but I knew it wouldn't be much.

I decided to take the plunge and buy some gold. The actual pendant went fine, but I was trying to make it absolutely perfect. Every edge was even and pleasingly round. The simple engraving of the word "Breathe" looked great (for once.) After drying for 2 days, I fired it successfully. It tumbled to a gleaming shine for another day. Then it was was time to apply the gold. No turning back.

The gold arrived in a tiny plastic pot, which was shrink wrapped. Upon a close examination I noticed that there was a layer of gold powder between the pot and the plastic and estimated that that was probably about $23 worth. I opened the shrink wrap over paper so I could gather my $23 and pour it back in the pot. I carefully unscrewed the lid, not wanting to waste any more, and I expected to find the container half full, at least. But there was hardly enough to cover the bottom. I had to mix in the liquid medium to turn it from powder to paint, but the two substances were immiscible- they would not mix. The best I could do was tiny grains of gold suspended in the liquid, not at all like the paint I was expecting. I suppose it was ridiculous of me to think that the metal would dissolve.

I stuck my paint brush in the gold slurry and was horrified to watch it slurp up at least $30 worth. I tried to brush it onto the heart, but it was like pushing the last few cheerios around the bowl. I couldn't get an even layer. I knew I just needed to start again because globs of gold were in all the wrong places, but I didn't want to waste a drop of it so I collected them all and tried to return them to the pot.

When I was nearly satisfied that there was not a grain out of place, I set the piece on the kiln lid to dry. The shelf had to be preheated which meant I couldn't lower the piece into the 1650 degree kiln on the shelf- I had to use tiny tweezers, but I implemented my beefy welding gloves to get it done.

First firing- Apparently there was a little liquid medium left that didn't dry and then boiled, sending my carefully placed grains of gold flying.

Second firing- Pretty good coverage, but there were a few holes in the middle and the gold did not stick to the side.

Third firing- Finally covered the holes and the sides.

I buffed it to a pleasing shine. I textured the silver. I polished the gold I put in the lettering. It was just about perfect. I decided to polish the gold one more time and noticed that it was lifting up a little. It would probably be fine, but in a pursuit of perfection I decided to fire it one more time.

Fourth firing- The kiln was really hot but I figured that maybe my previous firings had been too cool, and that's why the gold wasn't sticking. I put the piece in and set my timer for 7 minutes. I started to panic as Lander and I played Purple Haze on Guitar Hero. The drum part was quite boring, so I had a lot of time to think about the kiln. I went to check on it even though there was still 2 minutes left. All I found was a red hot puddle in the middle of the shelf. With a broken heart, and fighting back swells of inadequacy and self pity, I but my gloves and eye protection on and tried to lift the shelf out of kiln. It tipped slightly and the puddle separated into tiny balls that rolled off and splattered all over the bottom. If only my kiln had a cleaning cycle.

Body Project part III: Baby Blues

2009-02-03T10:38:00.000-08:00

I feel like everyone I know is pregnant, and being pregnant myself is all I can think about. I decided to put off my next pregnancy for 6 months because of... you guessed it: pain. I can't explain how many things this pain has taken away from me, and I hate it when I am forced to change major plans like having a baby because of it.

I have taken this time to give the Lyrica a try and to focus on my health so that I can be as healthy and strong as possible for the next pregnancy. The pills are a great help, but if I forget to take it the pain comes back full force. I was hoping that reducing my pain levels with the pills would help to break the cycle of pain causing poor sleep and stress on the body, creating more pain. I was hoping that I could go without the medication eventually, if I got my body in order over the next few months. It's only been a month but I'm already feeling hopeless and like I'm wasting my time. I have been dealing with this for so long that it really seems impossible that it would ever go away.

The book I read about curing Fibromyalgia says that if I can eliminate my triggers then my symptoms will go away. It's so simple- why didn't I think of that?! Unfortunately the trigger that caused this whole disaster is the RSD/CRPS in my left leg, and that is never going to go away, since I don't have the guts to try the Ketamine coma any time soon. So now what do I do?

The lyrica gives me a significant reduction in overall pain levels and that is really exciting. Nothing I have ever taken before has worked this well, and I feel so lucky that it works for me. I have more energy these days, and it's only now that I feel better that I fully realize how limited my life has been. Since Lyrica causes birth defects in little mice, I have to stop taking it before the next baby. My biggest worry is that spending all this time without my full customary level of pain is going to ruin my ability to deal with it.

So this pretty much sums up my worries about when to get pregnant. Don't even get me started on if I should do it! What is I do have FMS and what if it does have a genetic component? Those are pretty big ifs to base such an important decision on.

Rosie is Cooler Than Me

2009-02-02T11:27:00.000-08:00

My 1 1/2 year old daughter, Rosie, gets just about anything she wants from strangers because she is beautiful. Free balloons, trinkets, adventurous rides with the Jazz bear, and an introduction to the team. She is so brave and in command of her scene, where ever she is. I just know she could be an it girl when she grows up if she wants to.

Now, I'm positive that I am the first mother to worry about what my daughter is going to think of me when she grows up. I was never a part of that queen bee, alpha-girl crowd, nor did I want to be. But what if Rosie finds her place in that society and she is not at all amused by her wanna-be-artist-bohemian mother?

The only thing I'm sure of is that I am officially grounded from watching Gossip Girl.

Go Team!

2009-01-27T16:12:00.000-08:00

I would like to take a moment and thank all of the people who have helped me sell 111 necklaces for Love to Breathe. Thanks to Somer and Peg for selling their hearts out, and to everyone else who has been so supportive of our venture. We have raised $1,110 for Cystic Fibrosis research!

Update

2009-01-27T14:51:00.000-08:00

It was a virus, complete with a puking baby, and nearly everyone we came into contact with that week also getting sick and cursing us.

Body Project part II: Lyrica

2009-01-18T11:29:00.000-08:00

I have always been angry when I go to the doctor looking for a real solution for this pain, and all I get is a slip of paper with some new name of the same old pill that just causes me more problems than it solves. I have tried so many things: Desipramine, Amitriptyline, Paxil, Prozac, Midirn, Morphine, Methadone, Hydrocodone, vitamins, minerals, a myriad of "natural" treatments... I'm sure I've left out half of the pills I have tried.

I am about a month into my 6(ish) month project to heal my body, and get ready for baby number two. I have been on Lyrica, and for the first few weeks it worked really well. Some of the pain was still there, but it was much easier to distract myself from it. Rather than being a constant thought behind everything I did, I could actually go a few hours without thinking about pain. That hasn't happened to me in almost 20 years.

Then I got the Flu. My body takes even the tiniest amount of illness as an open invitation fall to pieces. My pain levels have been pretty severe and unchanged by the Lyrica for almost two weeks now. I don't know if it's just the flu even though I'm not sick at all anymore, or if this means that my dose has stopped working and I should take more, or that Lyrica has entirely stopped working for me.

In other news, I read a book. It's called The Fibromyalgia Solution by David Dryland MD. I haven't gotten to the solution part, but the first section which explains the causes and symptoms of FMS felt like having a conversation with an old friend. Everything was so familiar and reassuring. I have to set up an appointment with a rheumatologist to find out more about it.

The Time I Was Suspected of Being a Battered Woman

2009-01-17T00:49:00.000-08:00

If you've ever met my husband, I'm sure you have just burst into peels of laughter, but for those who haven't had the pleasure of meeting him, Lander is the sweetest man, ever.

This all starts with a gmail chat with said sweetest man ever. I was busy doing this new work-at-home mom thing, attending to jewelry orders, dreaming up marketing schemes, and taking care of Rosie when Lander says, "I'm coming home. I don't feel well."

Wondering how I could check on the status of Hell and their current level of rock solid ice, I tried to be nonchalant with, "really? This is new," I continued. Lander comes from a long line of proud Fresians in the Netherlands, including a Grandmother who waggled her tongue at occupying German Soldiers and sneaked food to hiding Jews. His is not a race of people commonly known to let a little sickness hold them down- you know, finger in the dykes, holding back the ocean and all that.

When Lander arrived home he was actually a shade of green I didn't think possible for the human face, and quickly set about puking for about 12 hours straight. Deep heaving puke sessions colored our night, and made getting out of bed the next morning challenging. But he did- and then he went back to work. I was dumb-founded. I would have stayed in bed for the next three days if I could get away with it. I come from a shifty stock of people, apparently.

In truth we were wondering if his illness was just the pork chop we got on special the night before, or a virus that was rumored to be going around his workplace. Either way, we thought for sure that I would start turning green soon enough, and that he would need to come home and care for the baby in my place.

A few days went by and I wasn't sick yet, but Lander lost his voice due to the stomach acid bath he gave his vocal cords. He sent me a text from work, when all he had left was a whisper, and asked me to finally make him a doctor appointment.

I was busy trying to get myself and Rosie ready to go to the doctor. I was going to meet Lander there and talk for him until I remembered that I still hadn't found my car keys. Rosie really likes to play with them, and no matter where I put them she always seems to find them and turn on the panic alarm. I have looked in all of her places she likes to put things, but my keys are no where to be found. I think she threw them away. Kris was rushing home to pick us up before his appointment. I went to carry the vacuum down the stairs to appear like I was a gifted housewife and could keep that damn house clean for once, when as if in slow motion I found myself suspended in time and space over the stairs. I thought back a few moments and remembered my silky sock slipping off the edge of our narrow Sugar House stairs. Perhaps people's feet were smaller in the 50s so they didn't need deeper stairs, but at any rate, I concluded that I was once again falling down the stairs and there was nothing I could do about it, so I just waited to land. And I did, with my left arm somehow underneath my body. It really hurt. I poked around and tried to move my fingers and all that, wondering if it was broken since the pain was crushing my soul a little. My body does not respond appropriately to pain stimulus, since my central nervous system tends to be a little overly-dramatic. When I started to involuntarily cry a little, Rosie climbed up the stairs to see what I was doing. Then she sat in my lap and hugged me. It was really cute, even if I had to cry to get my daughter to hug me.

Since we were going to the doctor anyway, I decided I would just ask him to poke my arm a little and tell me if I needed an x-ray. My bleeping insurance co-pay recently doubled, so I really didn't want to pay it twice that evening.

After hearing the story of Lander's illness the doctor swiftly decided it was e coli. "And who was responsible for the undercooked meat?" the doctor asked, looking at me and the ice pack on my arm.

"No- it was totally him. I don't cook," I explained.

With a few more jokes at Lander's expense, the doctor was about to let us go. "Can I just bother you for one more minute?" I asked. "Right before we came I fell down the stairs and hurt my arm. I'm sort of wondering if it's broken." I showed him the cuts and bruises already forming across my ulnar bone.

"You can just sign in and we'll look at it," he offered.

"My co-pay is really high. Please?" He started to poke my arm, and I could barley stand to let him touch it.

"They call this a night stick fracture..." and then he held his arms in front of his face in a mock defensive stance. "If you want to come back tomorrow, we'll take an x-ray, but I don't think it's broken."

It occurred to me that he might have been trying to get me alone so I could tell him what really happened to my arm. He continued in a slightly accusing voice, "really you can come back tomorrow." He meant, I could come back tomorrow, alone. I guess I did seem suspicious. I wouldn't let him make a record, and the injury on my arm was not a logical result of falling down the stairs. I was just being cheap, but I think some doctors tend to think the worst of people. He made me feel guilty even though I was not lying about the source of my injury.

***

The next day I found myself with my head out the car door, puking on the side of I-80. An ill-advised hot dog hastily eaten at a down town movie theater on the opening night of the Sundance Film Festival is probably to blame. But it seems too coincidental that Lander and I would have both gotten food poisoning within days of each other. Here's hoping that it's true, and we don't have a puking baby to look forward to in a few days.

wear 'em proud

2008-12-23T11:53:00.001-08:00

Peggy sent me an email this morning about a great idea she had. Spread the word!

She said:

"As a show of solidarity in the fight to find a cure for Cystic Fibrosis, may I suggest that we all wear our "Love to Breathe" necklaces on Christmas day? The positive vibes coming off so many incredble women on such a special day will certainly make a difference! If you like the idea, please pass this message along to anyone else you know who owns a necklace. I believe there are over 80 of us so far.

Happy holidays!

Peggy"

A Strategic Plant

2008-12-19T12:20:00.001-08:00

I have been going to the post office every two or three days over the last few weeks to mail necklaces across the country, so I have gotten pretty cozy with the people who work at the desk. There is a new guy who is young and seems to be passionate about his job at the post office. When I got to the post office last night there were only a few people in front of me in line, but as I waited more and more people filed in with stacks of packages overflowing their arms. I thought about how that new guy must feel, still a little slow and unsure of the procedures, and facing a huge line of anxious Christmas-infused (for better or worse in some cases)people. Then I noticed that I couldn't really see his face because it was obscured by a rather large potted plant. My personal theory is that he has positioned this plant to strategically block his view of the daunting line. We all need such a plant. Just think- peaceful green leaves partially obscuring the tedious tasks that lay in wait, and lending focus to the present moment.

Or maybe that's just the only place the plant would fit on his desk. Perhaps I'll ask when I go back tonight.

Body Project: part I

2008-12-18T11:28:00.000-08:00

After another surprise pregnancy last month that went away as shockingly as it came, (that's miscarriage number three folks) I have been really wanting baby number two. Trouble is- my body doesn't seem to agree. With the pain a bit out of control, I suppose now is not the time, but I am having trouble accepting this. Nothing makes me angrier than when the pain takes something away from me- especially this.

I finally got to go to my follow up appointment with my pain doctor. While I was so excited about his honesty and apparent concern previously, it was like a whole different doctor showed up to my appointment. He didn't remember me, or even take the time to look over my chart. It went roughly like this:

He squinted at the computer screen and then at his watch. Finally he looked at me and said, "We did the spinal block a few weeks ago?"

I nodded.

"How did that go?"

I was a little shocked that he hadn't written down my reaction. "It made the pain significantly worse. Remember I called you?"

"Ah, yes. Any relief yet?"

"No."

"The sensitivity must be better, you're wearing shoes."

"It's snowing outside."

"Well let me see your foot." He poked at me for while and then decided that I should go back to physical therapy. The dumping ground for mysterious complaints.

"I have been to therapy. While it helps a little, I can't afford my copay. It more than doubled last year to $40. My therapist likes to see me 2-3 times a week." He looked at me with disdain, like he had no way of understanding how I could compromise my health over a little money. "I can do the therapy at home and maybe go in once a month. I know how to stretch my foot. It just really hurts for hours after."

"Perhaps I could prescribe something to help with that."

"That's my next question. I've been planning another pregnancy soon. But would it be worth it to wait a few months and go back on the Lyrica to give my body a break? Can that break the pain cycle?"

"Yes, actually." he sounded shocked that I would have such an idea.

"But is it worth it to put off my baby plans?"

"Now that's a tough question. You don't want to go into a pregnancy with all of this pain." He chuckled and then continued, "that will just add a whole bunch of new problems."

"I had all of this pain with the first pregnancy too." Surprised, he thumbed through my chart again.

"Well then I guess you're pretty tough." I was getting so annoyed by this point, and he could see it on my face. "Lets take care of this problem in your foot first. You need to have the attitude, 'I AM going to get better!' Your attitude is very important."

"I really don't mean to have a bad attitude. It's just been 19 years. I've tried pills, therapy and surgery and no one else could fix my foot. What is going to change?" To diffuse the tension I moved onto my other questions. "What about the snail toxin stuff."

"Prialt- that is only for people who have exhausted every other option." I felt like I had tried just about everything and that maybe I didn't understand why he wouldn't consider me as a candidate for it. I was starting to suspect that he didn't remember much about my symptoms. "There are better options like a spinal cord stimulator."

"But that only helps one part of the body, right?"

"It will affect everything below the waist." Now I was positive that he didn't remember that I have pain everywhere.

"What about my hands, arms, shoulders, back and face?"

"Um," he finally glanced at the picture of a naked man that I had colored in the waiting room to illustrate my pain.

My frustration finally spilled out of my mouth: "I have pain in my whole body!" I felt like I needed to say it again. Slowly. "My whole body." And then just for good measure I added, "for 19 years."

"Why do you think that is," he asked ME. Really.

"Uh... In Maryland, they said I had Thoracic Outlet Syndrome and Carpal Tunnel." He proceeded to define the disorders. "I know what they are. I had surgery to correct both, but who knows if it helped. At Stanford they said the RSD spread."

"I don't think so." He tapped my elbows and my wrists, "does that create the pain you are describing?"

"No."

"It's not your nerves."

"I feel random burning pain that could be anywhere in my arms and gone."

"Nerve pain does not behave that way. It is constant"

"I have the same pain in my legs. Does that mean it's not RSD in my foot either?"

"No. This is RSD, no question." as he pointed to my foot. "But I don't know why your arms would hurt."

There was a knock. The nurse opened the door a crack and a cheery voice chimed through, "your next appointment is here."

My face must have twisted up with all of the frustration I was trying to keep silent because he said, "I believe you. And I will figure out what is wrong."

I felt like I had been violently thrown back to square one. He started listing all of the different types of doctors he was referring me to.

"I know you have to see your next patient, but wait, you have really never heard of pain like this?" He had been practicing forever. I couldn't believe I was really the first person to have these complaints.

"There's a lot of reason people feel pain. There's Depression..."

I was desperate. I had ask again. "While you were talking my shoulder was burning here, and then it moved. And then here. Now it is here." Finally he reached out and poked my arm. I flinched and jerked it away.

He continued to pinch my arms. "Does it hurt here, here, here?" My arms were burning like he'd just stirred the fire.

"That is muscular pain."

"It's my muscles, not my nerves?"

"We need to rule everything else out. You need to see a rheumatologist, hand specialist, and a neurologist. I'm writing down possible Fibromyalgia in your chart. Let's do the Lyrica and send you to a few other doctors. We'll talk again in three months."

My head was spinning.

"Are you alright?" he said.

"No. You have brought into question the last two-thirds of my life. Fibromyalgia? and RSD? Does that even make sense- that I could have both?"

"It does," he said quickly as he ushered me into the hall. Make a follow up appointment here," he lead me to the desk, and disappeared down the hall. He came back with an arm full of Lyrica samples.

I have taken the stuff before. Pain has always been the first thought on my mind for what feels like my whole life. The Lyrica knocked it down a few slots in my consciousness to the point where, if I was sufficiently distracted, I could forget about it for a while. In the end, though, I couldn't take the nausea, confusion, blurry vision, risk of birth defects, cancer... the list goes on. When my lame insurance company refused to pay for it, I gave up and stopped taking it.

I left the office in a whirlwind of emotions. Mostly, I felt sadness about putting my baby plans on hold. I felt irritated that I have been waiting for science to make a magic pill that will make all of my problems go away, and I was desperately hoping that Lyrica is not the best I'm going to get. I felt frightened about going back to the undiagnosed stage. But I did feel a little excited about putting all of the energy and resources I can muster into my health for a little while. Maybe great things will happen.

An Honest Doctor

2008-11-24T17:45:00.000-08:00

If you have spent a lot of time in hospitals and doctor's offices, you surely thought I was trying to be funny, but no- I have actually met an honest doctor.

A few weeks back I was playing hide-and-go-seek with Rosie. Being much too big to play this game in my tiny kitchen I smashed my toe into a cabinet while crawling on the floor. Tears welled in my eyes and the pain took my breath. I had to focus on catching my breath and not screaming. A fun characteristic of CRPS (Chronic Regional Pain Syndrome) is pain that is out of proportion to the severity of the injury.

I have had CRPS since 1989 when I was hit by a car. It was really out of control back then, and I couldn't walk for almost a year after the accident because of pain and tightness in my foot. Treatment helped the sensitivity so that I could put weight on my foot again, and so that my physical therapist could loosen my ankle enough to walk. But the pain never went away, and has spread to the rest of my body over the last 19 years. Even though I have dealt with a great deal of pain over the years, I have always been grateful that the more serious symptoms of the RSD did not return. Until now.

About a week after I squished my toe I noticed that it was getting harder to go up stairs. My ankle just didn't seem to bend enough. A few days later I was going to the store and had to take off my shoe and sock even though I was driving, because they were bothering my skin. The stiffness and sensitivity gets worse everyday. I already can't walk as far I used to without sitting down. I am really starting to panic. I am worried that in the next few months I will no longer be able to walk at all.

I went to a new doctor to get the same spinal blocks which helped so much the first time. I had the block last Wednesday, but it has only made the pain and stiffness worse. My doctor finally returned my calls this evening, and told me he didn't know what to do next. He could have lied or blamed me, but he simply said he didn't know what to do. It was actually nice.

Why Memoirs Are Important

2008-11-18T11:24:00.000-08:00

I am in the middle of reading Angela's Ashes, and I am enjoying it immensely. When it came out I was not in a good place in my life, and I felt like that last thing I needed was to read about more pain and suffering. But after three different people compared the way I have told my life story without self pity to Frank McCourt's book, I thought it was finally time to give it a read. I can only say that I wish I had read it sooner. It has sparked a lot of deep thoughts, and I thought I should write them down.

There is a force in nature that maintains balance in all things. Some might call this power God. I am just one girl, and I wouldn't pretend to know the shape and reach of this force; whether it is some omnipotent being who gives and takes and judges. I only know the balance I see in the world. It is our job to maintain this balance by caring for ourselves, those around us, and everything we touch.
To each of us our sorrows are deep and real, and many of us pray for relief. The Universe hears all of us crying and grasping tight at her skirts like infants, begging to be picked up, carried along, comforted. Our troubles exist in the same time and space as all others, and compared to the pain of some, our lives would feel blessed, but we are not always open to that knowledge. If only we could hold up our sorrows to the light cast off by every other creature, maybe then we could see that right now may not be our time of greatest need. We might even notice the problems of others near us and realize that we can help.
Putting your own suffering in perspective by knowing the lives and challenges of others is a gift of clarity and peace. I believe that this is why memoirs are important. Reading other people's life stories has helped me to appreciate the many things in my life that have been blessings, and to understand the things that have caused me pain a bit better.

I am so honored

2008-11-10T20:44:00.000-08:00

Taste of Salt Lake was fabulous this weekend. There were so many people there, it must have been a record amount of money raised for Cystic Fibrosis research.

I donated two pendants to the auction, and each one was paired with a painting by Somer Love. They sold for around $300 each! I never expected them to do that well. Several people also picked up my business card that night, so I have had a pretty steady stream of orders. It was a great night.

http://www.lovetobreathe.com
lovetobreathe.blogspot.com

Back in the Saddle Again

2008-11-07T09:25:00.000-08:00

I have nursed my wounds long enough (too long, I'm sure.) Yesterday I sent out yet another query letter to yet another agent. This will be the 39th agent I have queried. I finally counted and I feel better because it felt like I had received over 100 rejections.

I have a new vision for the project, which means a lot more work, and a lot more writing. Fingers crossed kids!

Live, Love, Breathe

2008-11-02T11:28:00.000-08:00

For Christmas last year I received a calendar from my friend, Somer Love. Each month featured people, young and old, who are living with Cystic Fibrosis, a terminal lung disease. Somer graced the month of May, so I was very excited to hang it up. As I read the stories each month, I was inspired by how each person faced their challenges with cheer and strength. Then I got to August and saw darling 12-year-old Haley Palmer. She raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for CF research by making and selling bracelets. I thought, “I know how to make jewelry... If she can do it, maybe I can too.”

Somer and I put together a line of pendants based on the theme from Somer's paintings, “Live, Love, Breathe.” Each one is handmade from pure silver, and signed on the back. 100% of profits are donated to Love to Breathe for CF research. With the help of several dedicated friends who wear the pendants and spread the word, we have raised over $500 in just three months.

Haley Palmer has since succumbed to her battle with Cystic Fibrosis. I am saddened to have never known her, but I will follow her lead. I can only hope to be half as successful as she was. Haley said that you can't make footsteps on history sitting down. So stand up and support our efforts to cure Cystic Fibrosis.

Next weekend we will enjoy another fabulous Taste of Salt Lake. I can't wait to dine on food from all of the finest restaurants in Salt Lake. Two of my pendants have been donated to the silent auction, but you can by your very own at lissabird.etsy.com.

Princess Rosabella Eliza Alice

2008-10-31T10:35:00.000-07:00

Halloween 2007

I had just had this beautiful baby girl six weeks before Halloween, and of course I wanted to dress her up in pink from head to toe. Her dad wanted her to be something hard core like a ninja or a Volcan (since she already had the right hairstyle.) Of course we did nothing about finding a costume until Oct 30th. That morning as Lander was leaving for work he kissed my forehead and said, "Rosie can be a princess if you want." Hooray!

I rallied my sister and the three of us set off to find a costume. If you wait until the absolute last minute, costumes are 75% off at Toys R Us. Amy and I found this cute pink princess dress that was clearly marked 3-6 months for $6.89. After we wrangled it over Rosie's floppy new baby frame in the store, we realized that it was a bit big, but would probably be fine with some strategic safety pins.

No one has accused Rose of being a large child, or even regularly sized, but I thought she was getting so much bigger lately, thanks to her mac & cheese diet. I was positive that her princess dress would be too small this year, but I dug it out of the disaster area- I mean storage closet just to check. It's actually still a little big.

I've got something to say

2008-10-28T08:40:00.000-07:00

I cozied up with the latest installment of Boston Legal on the DVR this morning, only to find my home state of Utah being ridiculed. Since I lived in California for several years, I am adept at defending our strange, but beautiful state. In fact moving away from Utah only taught me to love it more. I am so happy to be back, and I wouldn't want to live any other place.

So I thought- yes! I have something to say on that blog thingy. I can tell people about what a wonderful place this is to live. But then I remembered the day that NPR told me that my fellow community members have sent millions of dollars to California in order to suppress basic human rights. In fact $19 million dollars have been donated by members of the LDS faith to take away some people's civil right to be considered EQUAL under the laws of our country. That is about 40% of the total funding for Proposition 8, a ballot measure in California that would once again make gay marriage illegal.

It was not very long ago that America had laws which took away the civil rights of its citizens based on their skin color, or their gender. I remember learning about slavery, Jim Crowe, and women's fight for sufferage, and wondering how moral people stood by and did nothing. I believe that in the not too distant future we will look back on our country's effort to punish yet another group of people for being different with the same shame we feel for Jim Crowe laws, but here I stand doing nothing.

So it turns out, I don't have anything nice to say about Utah today. I don't mean to disparriage every member of the LDS faith. In my experience they are kind people, who are genuinely concerned for well-being of others. In every group there are those who take their beleifs to the extreme. However, for a group of people who were once persecuted unfairly by the government, one would think they would pause to think a little more deeply in this instance.

Authonomy, I want my life back

2008-10-27T08:41:00.000-07:00

About two months ago, Kris sent me a link to a new website called authonomy.com run by HarperCollins. It is a place for writers to post their work and get feedback from a lively community of other writers and avid readers. The top five books that receive the most support get sent to an editor at HarperColins each month. Most of you will remember my constant and annoying plea for votes. My book was doing great until they changed the rules in the middle of the game. Suddenly votes from friends and family didn't count as much as votes from regular users of the site. I dropped from 17 to 55 in one day. It was heartbreaking.

The book is back up to about 25 these days, but I'm convinced it will wallow there forever if I don't start working the system. I need to get active in the forum and make some friends, but I find their conversations and arguments silly. I can't imagine spending any more time on that site than I already do.

I did receive the nicest comment shortly after the last agent rejected me, which made me feel a lot better.
A perfect stranger who didn't have to say a thing about my book said this:

Lissa. I think this is a wonderful read.

I'm sure that everyone believes their lives to be worthy material for a biography or film or both, but often as not, even when the material is strong enough, the presentation is not. I found this well written, easy to read, and somehow familiar? Not that I have heard this story before - how could I?! - but the style and flow seemed very... comfortable as a reader. The sort of thing you could pick up and return to as if you hadn't been away from it for a while.

For some reason I found myself reminded of Angela's Ashes - yet neither your writing style or plot are actually anything similar! There was just something about the 4 chapters I have read that gave it that feel of being more than a run of the mill biography, where someone preaches about their life as being either special or extraordinary.

So I've shelved this for a while. Books are meant to make you think. I have always felt a good book is one that you think about after you have finished it, and not just one you can lose yourself in when reading it. I find the American style so different for many reasons, (Mom v Mum, etc etc), and thinking about the differences between our childhoods is thought provoking enough for me. Also, the ending to chapter 4 caught me, so I know I will try and come back to read more - another good sign.

A lovely book, and you have my best wishes with it.
Jason

I love it when strangers are nice. For all of authonomy's faults, a few people there have inspired me to continue my quest to be published. So I will rewrite my pitch for the 9th time and start sending it out to agents again.

If you want to take a look, you can find some of my book here:
http://www.authonomy.com/ViewBook.aspx?bookid=1375

Keep on Keepin' on

2008-10-26T20:01:00.000-07:00

Picture it: A book signing at Borders Books and Music about two weeks ago.

My target: Richard Paul Evans.

I dragged Kris and Rosie to Murray on an insane mission. For weeks I had been obsessing over finding someone who knew Mr. Evans, hoping for an introduction. I was coveting his book agent, and hoping for a recommendation that would send my manuscript to the top of her slush pile. After another tenuous connection to Mr. Evans fell through, I decided to just make my own. Since I had been studying his website in an not-at-all-stockerish way I knew that he had a book signing coming up.

The line was much shorter than I had anticipated, leaving me very little time to muster up the courage to talk to Mr. Evans. As people trickled through the door, I let them go in front of me, not wanting an audience.

Finally it was my turn. A few chapters of my book shook in my hand. I opened my mouth and begged the Universe to let something intelligent come out.

"Um," I said. I was off to a great start. "I wrote a book... about my life..." I swear I went on and on for roughly 17 minutes. I couldn't stop myself. The look on his face was painful. He set his pen down on the table and sat back in his chair, simply waiting for me to stop talking.

Then he said, "I don't read manuscripts anymore, since someone sued me a few years ago."

My eyes popped out, and I shook my head. "I would never..."

He held up his hand and finally smiled. "I can still recommend you." He picked up his pen again and wrote down his agent's phone number in New York.

I called the next day, and was told to email the whole book. Then I waited.

And waited.

Most agents had sent me a quick reply that they were too busy, so I tried to convince myself that a 14 day delay was a good thing.

Then the email finally arrived. She was too busy. Best of luck.

I think I can, I think I can...

2008-10-24T10:22:00.000-07:00

I'm terribly afraid that I have nothing to say. I suppose we'll find out, huh?

I could rant about trying to publish my book. It seems like the dumb book is all I can talk about in person. Now my friends, you can treat yourselves to a healthy dose online too. I know I am selfless. I live to please.

I could talk about pain... I don't know that I have a lot to say about it. I've had chronic pain for 19 years, and I hardly breathe a word about it. I have decided that I am not doing myself or anyone else any favors. Perhaps someone else can learn from my experiences, so I will do my best to write about them. Maybe even I will learn from them.

Of course I could just talk about Rosie, Lander, Steve and the rest of the fam. This could be a one-stop Lander gossip tell all. But there's rarely any gossip, so don't get too excited.

See- I've said nothing at all, but I have filled up this little box. I will take my vague sense of accomplishment and run (figuratively, of course.)