Hi Mom,
Today is the first birthday in which you are not with us. A year ago, you weren't with us either, lying in your hospice's bed, but I could still hold your hand. Today, I turn to pictures and the memories those invoke, and to the voicemail message Dad will not change, to remember what it was like to have you here - in the flesh. Big smile, twinkling eyes, and a relentless sense of humor.
I can't tell you how much you are missed.
Today I will make Rice Crispy Treats (your favorite!) with the kids, and share stories of how much you loved them. And I'll show them pictures of you as we talk about "Grandma Dottie." Jack will see me cry and ask me why I'm sad, and I'll tell him: "I miss my Mommy."
This is what grieves me most. That my children are too young to carry memories of you in their hearts. You were such a good Grandma. So excited to send care packages of clothes and toys, to hold snoozing babies, and to share pictures of them to anyone who would look, so that you could ooh and ahh as the proud Grandma that you were.
The other day I pulled out a package of socks that you had found on clearance and sent in a care package for Claire. I imagined you finding them and putting them in your cart. You wrapping them up in a shoebox, writing a note, and getting it to the post office . . and I was overwhelmed with grief. To hold these tiny socks that you once held with love. Who knew socks could trigger so much?!
I do think the world lost something good and noble in your passing (and we really need good and noble right now). But I will do my best to carry your generosity forward, to see the humor in difficult situations, and to realize that our time here is so brief. Best to spend it on work that is meaningful . . .on adventures . . .on time with family and friends - where laughter is plentiful, games are played, and the weight of this world doesn't feel so heavy.
I love you, Mom. Happy Birthday.
Jun 14, 2017
Jan 20, 2017
Driveway Angels
I have a journal that I write favorite
quotes in, and as I was adding to it recently, I came across this gem from a
book I read a few years ago:
“What is truth? No wonder jesting Pilate turned away. The truth, it has a thousand faces – show only one of them, and the whole truth flies away! But how to show the whole? That’s the question . . . .” - George to Fox, in Thomas Wolfe’s You Can‘t Go Home Again
Even reading it now, how do I begin to process a raw and painful year such as the last one? A year of conflict and turmoil and stress 30 feet deep, and yet – still – a year with reprieves of beauty so transcendent, my heart hurts in the best way when I remember them? I’ve been putting off writing about some of this, knowing that once I have it on paper I’ll have to make peace with myself (which is no small task). And I’ll have to own the slivers of truth as they are - slivers. The whole will remain as mystery, so no tidy answers or assurances here; just a life making its way through this world.
Maybe it will be easier to begin with the beauty. Those moments when I felt tied to something sacred, despite the pain and shock circling like a shark.
Thankfully I had the life rafts of my husband, father, brother, and sister-in-law when my mother was dying, and the life rafts of my parents’ neighbors. On one of the weekends we were in WI staying with my dad, I awoke early and walked my brother’s dog down the length of Tabot Street. On my way back, I saw Sue standing in her driveway with the morning’s mist rising from the grass, wearing a white nightgown. At first I was nervous to see her, mainly because I wanted to be alone in my grief.
You see, I had been trying to prepare myself for another day at the hospital, where I would see my mother trapped in a body she could no longer move, where I would hope to see a thumb raise or an eye blink, where I would try to tell myself to believe in miracles.
But ultimately, I spent a lot of time wondering where my mom was.
Was she still in her physical body, with her thoughts firing (but unable to pass through the thalamus because of the damage wrought by her strokes)? Basic questions, like, was she understanding what we were saying to her? Did the strokes damage the parts of her brain that most contribute to her personality? Did they also take her memories when they blocked oxygen from getting through?
These led to more complicated questions regarding her soul. Firstly, how does one even define soul? Is it the essence of someone? Is that "essence" a person's sum of memories, loves, and personality? If something beyond those, was Mom’s soul still lingering there, in her broken brain, until her lungs would expel their last breath?
I grew up with the teaching “Love the Lord your God with all of your heart, soul, and mind” (the greatest commandment!) and there I was, trying to discern if one could exist without the others. Think about it . . .in the event that Mind can no longer function due to extenuating circumstances, what are the action plans for Heart and Soul? Aren’t they interdependent on each other?
And so it was with this turmoil that I reluctantly approached Sue in her driveway. We started talking, and I started crying, as I shared all of the responsibility, guilt, and self-loathing I felt for having Mom in this mess. I had been so distracted with daycare drama, with sleep deprivation, with stuff at work, that when Mom told me about her leg hurting, I thought she might be dehydrated and I encouraged her to drink more water. Deep vein thrombosis wasn’t anywhere on my radar (though how many times had I been around those conversations when I worked in Day Surgery?).
But instead of joining in my regret and shame, Sue quietly held me as I shook with sobs, and repeated two things:
“Your mother loves you so much.”
“Your mother is so proud of you.”
With the mist rising and the day beginning, we both cried and hugged each other, sharing a holy moment bathed in love and grace.
Thank you, Sue, from the bottom of my heart/soul/mind. You were my life raft that morning, and your compassion saved me.
“What is truth? No wonder jesting Pilate turned away. The truth, it has a thousand faces – show only one of them, and the whole truth flies away! But how to show the whole? That’s the question . . . .” - George to Fox, in Thomas Wolfe’s You Can‘t Go Home Again
Even reading it now, how do I begin to process a raw and painful year such as the last one? A year of conflict and turmoil and stress 30 feet deep, and yet – still – a year with reprieves of beauty so transcendent, my heart hurts in the best way when I remember them? I’ve been putting off writing about some of this, knowing that once I have it on paper I’ll have to make peace with myself (which is no small task). And I’ll have to own the slivers of truth as they are - slivers. The whole will remain as mystery, so no tidy answers or assurances here; just a life making its way through this world.
Maybe it will be easier to begin with the beauty. Those moments when I felt tied to something sacred, despite the pain and shock circling like a shark.
Thankfully I had the life rafts of my husband, father, brother, and sister-in-law when my mother was dying, and the life rafts of my parents’ neighbors. On one of the weekends we were in WI staying with my dad, I awoke early and walked my brother’s dog down the length of Tabot Street. On my way back, I saw Sue standing in her driveway with the morning’s mist rising from the grass, wearing a white nightgown. At first I was nervous to see her, mainly because I wanted to be alone in my grief.
You see, I had been trying to prepare myself for another day at the hospital, where I would see my mother trapped in a body she could no longer move, where I would hope to see a thumb raise or an eye blink, where I would try to tell myself to believe in miracles.
But ultimately, I spent a lot of time wondering where my mom was.
Was she still in her physical body, with her thoughts firing (but unable to pass through the thalamus because of the damage wrought by her strokes)? Basic questions, like, was she understanding what we were saying to her? Did the strokes damage the parts of her brain that most contribute to her personality? Did they also take her memories when they blocked oxygen from getting through?
These led to more complicated questions regarding her soul. Firstly, how does one even define soul? Is it the essence of someone? Is that "essence" a person's sum of memories, loves, and personality? If something beyond those, was Mom’s soul still lingering there, in her broken brain, until her lungs would expel their last breath?
I grew up with the teaching “Love the Lord your God with all of your heart, soul, and mind” (the greatest commandment!) and there I was, trying to discern if one could exist without the others. Think about it . . .in the event that Mind can no longer function due to extenuating circumstances, what are the action plans for Heart and Soul? Aren’t they interdependent on each other?
And so it was with this turmoil that I reluctantly approached Sue in her driveway. We started talking, and I started crying, as I shared all of the responsibility, guilt, and self-loathing I felt for having Mom in this mess. I had been so distracted with daycare drama, with sleep deprivation, with stuff at work, that when Mom told me about her leg hurting, I thought she might be dehydrated and I encouraged her to drink more water. Deep vein thrombosis wasn’t anywhere on my radar (though how many times had I been around those conversations when I worked in Day Surgery?).
But instead of joining in my regret and shame, Sue quietly held me as I shook with sobs, and repeated two things:
“Your mother loves you so much.”
“Your mother is so proud of you.”
With the mist rising and the day beginning, we both cried and hugged each other, sharing a holy moment bathed in love and grace.
Thank you, Sue, from the bottom of my heart/soul/mind. You were my life raft that morning, and your compassion saved me.
Apr 11, 2014
Surrender
Now that I'm on maternity leave, I have snippets of time to think and write again. Currently my 1 month old son is sleeping in his Baby Bjorn (these carriers are genius), so I thought I'd put these two hands to work.
I've been trying to formulate just what I want to say in this post for some time now. I think that overall, I feel thankfulness, wonder, and yet, a deep awareness for those struggling to get pregnant, or for those not having the ability to have children at all.
When Jeff and I first started trying, we got pregnant within 2 months. It took us by complete surprise that events would move that quickly, but after 2 days of celebrating, I began to miscarry. The initial numbness moved to grief, and I joined the ranks of many, many women who experience this kind of loss (or to some, maybe relief). There was a lot of self-blame - and even moreso over the following months when the pregnancy tests kept coming back negative. I was convinced that I was doing something wrong to discourage life in me - my diet, stress at work, my age and previous health history - some of this I would share with Jeff, and some would just privately play on repeat in my head.
It was a strange thing . . .the shame I carried. Despite all of the ovulation testing kits, pregnancy tests, and basal temperature charting, etc., I found that despite my diligence and determination, this was one area I couldn't learn or master; I was at the mercy of nature/God/life.
Seven months passed and we decided to go to our provider for further consultation. After testing was completed for both of us, we were told that we had a 4% chance of getting pregnant. This news was both heartbreaking and relieving - though the answer was more severe than we anticipated, it was still an explanation for what we had been experiencing over the past few months. In an odd way, the shame and responsibility I had been carrying had lifted some, and Jeff and I could move on with realistic expectations.
That week I did investigate IVF options and even reached out to some providers I knew in the area. The procedure wouldn't be covered by insurance so we were looking at a minimum of a 15K investment that had no guarantee for a successful pregnancy. Jeff and I decided that maybe we would be a couple that grows old together and travels the world instead, and we made our peace with the situation as best we could.
A couple of days later, Jeff booked tickets to San Francisco so we could get away and relax. I was cleaning out our bathroom and came across extra ovulation kits and pregnancy tests. Ready to be done with them, I threw all of them out except for one last test. In a moment of flippancy, I thought "What the hell? Maybe it will provide some closure." To my COMPLETE surprise, the test read a very blurry positive. I was skeptical, was this one last cruel joke? I contacted my friend at work who insisted I skip the meeting I was supposed to call into to go buy a digital pregnancy test.
It so happened that my car was getting its oil changed, so I had to bike to the closest Walgreens. On the way, I was cursing the suburban hills on my single speed bike (built for flat Minneapolis streets). All said, the new test confirmed I was pregnant. I laughed over the irony of it, and then I cried. This was really happening.
I've titled this post Surrender because when I reflect back on the sweetest moments - the genuinely life-altering ones - they've come only after I've completely given up. Which is so counter-intuitive, right? I mean, all we're told growing up is that you have to dream big, work hard, strive, strive, strive to accomplish your heart's desires. All the talk about goals and action plans, etc. . . .I get their purpose, but are we doing a disservice in not also communicating the benefit of simply being and existing where we are, in this moment? I do understand that there has to first be a struggle for surrender to follow . . .the two need each other. But I think the act of surrendering needs more positive attention. It might not always return us something we want, but it at least puts us in a place free of forcing some outcome. Nature/God/life can unfold, and we can experience it less chained to expectations, or dare I say it, hope.
I've been trying to formulate just what I want to say in this post for some time now. I think that overall, I feel thankfulness, wonder, and yet, a deep awareness for those struggling to get pregnant, or for those not having the ability to have children at all.
When Jeff and I first started trying, we got pregnant within 2 months. It took us by complete surprise that events would move that quickly, but after 2 days of celebrating, I began to miscarry. The initial numbness moved to grief, and I joined the ranks of many, many women who experience this kind of loss (or to some, maybe relief). There was a lot of self-blame - and even moreso over the following months when the pregnancy tests kept coming back negative. I was convinced that I was doing something wrong to discourage life in me - my diet, stress at work, my age and previous health history - some of this I would share with Jeff, and some would just privately play on repeat in my head.
It was a strange thing . . .the shame I carried. Despite all of the ovulation testing kits, pregnancy tests, and basal temperature charting, etc., I found that despite my diligence and determination, this was one area I couldn't learn or master; I was at the mercy of nature/God/life.
Seven months passed and we decided to go to our provider for further consultation. After testing was completed for both of us, we were told that we had a 4% chance of getting pregnant. This news was both heartbreaking and relieving - though the answer was more severe than we anticipated, it was still an explanation for what we had been experiencing over the past few months. In an odd way, the shame and responsibility I had been carrying had lifted some, and Jeff and I could move on with realistic expectations.
That week I did investigate IVF options and even reached out to some providers I knew in the area. The procedure wouldn't be covered by insurance so we were looking at a minimum of a 15K investment that had no guarantee for a successful pregnancy. Jeff and I decided that maybe we would be a couple that grows old together and travels the world instead, and we made our peace with the situation as best we could.
A couple of days later, Jeff booked tickets to San Francisco so we could get away and relax. I was cleaning out our bathroom and came across extra ovulation kits and pregnancy tests. Ready to be done with them, I threw all of them out except for one last test. In a moment of flippancy, I thought "What the hell? Maybe it will provide some closure." To my COMPLETE surprise, the test read a very blurry positive. I was skeptical, was this one last cruel joke? I contacted my friend at work who insisted I skip the meeting I was supposed to call into to go buy a digital pregnancy test.
It so happened that my car was getting its oil changed, so I had to bike to the closest Walgreens. On the way, I was cursing the suburban hills on my single speed bike (built for flat Minneapolis streets). All said, the new test confirmed I was pregnant. I laughed over the irony of it, and then I cried. This was really happening.
I've titled this post Surrender because when I reflect back on the sweetest moments - the genuinely life-altering ones - they've come only after I've completely given up. Which is so counter-intuitive, right? I mean, all we're told growing up is that you have to dream big, work hard, strive, strive, strive to accomplish your heart's desires. All the talk about goals and action plans, etc. . . .I get their purpose, but are we doing a disservice in not also communicating the benefit of simply being and existing where we are, in this moment? I do understand that there has to first be a struggle for surrender to follow . . .the two need each other. But I think the act of surrendering needs more positive attention. It might not always return us something we want, but it at least puts us in a place free of forcing some outcome. Nature/God/life can unfold, and we can experience it less chained to expectations, or dare I say it, hope.
May 28, 2013
Underworld
So I've been reading a new book I picked up at Half Priced Books in Apple Valley - Underworld, by Don DeLillo. His layered storytelling and writing that moves like poetry; how he organizes the connecting pieces . . .it's like a favorite song. I'm loving it like I loved Steinbeck's East of Eden.
Here are some quotes/teasers for you:
"What richness of subject, two living things changing before our eyes, going from dumb clamor, from milk slop to formed words, or starting school, or just sitting at the table eating, little crayoned faces pumped with being."
"I noticed how people played at being executives while actually holding executive positions. Did I do this myself? You maintain a shifting distance between yourself and your job. There's a self-conscious space, a sense of formal play that is a sort of arrested panic, and maybe you show it in a forced gesture or a ritual clearing of the throat. Something out of childhood whistles through this space, a sense of games and half-made selves, but it's not that you're pretending to be something else. You're pretending to be exactly who you are. That's the curious thing."
"The tremor had hit at cocktail time when I was standing in the hospitality suite with a number of colleagues, who peered over their drinks in the slow lean of the world."
And finally:
"Pain is just another form of information."
Okay, and here's one more (my favorite so far):
"This was my wretched attempt to understand our blankness in the face of God's enormity. This is what I respected about God. He keeps his secret, his unknowability. Maybe we can know God through love or prayer or through visions or through LSD but we can't know him through the intellect. The Cloud tells us this. And so I learned to respect the power of secrets. We approach God through his unmadeness. We are made, created. God is unmade. How can we attempt to know such a being? We don't know him. We don't affirm him. Instead we cherish his negation."
Go and read DeLillo, in this slow lean of the world . . . .
Here are some quotes/teasers for you:
"What richness of subject, two living things changing before our eyes, going from dumb clamor, from milk slop to formed words, or starting school, or just sitting at the table eating, little crayoned faces pumped with being."
"I noticed how people played at being executives while actually holding executive positions. Did I do this myself? You maintain a shifting distance between yourself and your job. There's a self-conscious space, a sense of formal play that is a sort of arrested panic, and maybe you show it in a forced gesture or a ritual clearing of the throat. Something out of childhood whistles through this space, a sense of games and half-made selves, but it's not that you're pretending to be something else. You're pretending to be exactly who you are. That's the curious thing."
"The tremor had hit at cocktail time when I was standing in the hospitality suite with a number of colleagues, who peered over their drinks in the slow lean of the world."
And finally:
"Pain is just another form of information."
Okay, and here's one more (my favorite so far):
"This was my wretched attempt to understand our blankness in the face of God's enormity. This is what I respected about God. He keeps his secret, his unknowability. Maybe we can know God through love or prayer or through visions or through LSD but we can't know him through the intellect. The Cloud tells us this. And so I learned to respect the power of secrets. We approach God through his unmadeness. We are made, created. God is unmade. How can we attempt to know such a being? We don't know him. We don't affirm him. Instead we cherish his negation."
Go and read DeLillo, in this slow lean of the world . . . .
May 22, 2013
Oh Sweet Alone Time
Greetings to you from my basement in Eagan, MN. The husband and sis-in-law are upstairs watching TV, and I'm downstairs buying half of iTunes. It is GLORIOUS.
Today's purchases include The National, The Avett Brothers, Keri Noble, Over the Rhine, Josh Garrels and Sara Bareilles. And this Keri - is this the same Keri Noble as the one on the Cities 97 morning show? If so, how are they not playing more of her music?
The National has me feeling defeated this evening, but is still serving its cathartic purpose. I love them for all of their melancholy and lack of anything straightforward. Good music for you mildly depressed 30-somethings!
Over the Rhine is its usual perfection. Favorite band, hands down. Their song Failed Christian is a repeater, but understand this recommendation comes from a once seminary student more interested in researching those who went apostate than spending time with Calvin or Luther's exhortations.
Sara is a surprise . . .poppy, but her content not so much. Interesting depth and contradiction that works. Her song Sweet as Whole - fantastic. I'll be singing this song in my head at work for the next month.
And Josh Garrels, Million Miles reminds me of how much I love my husband. "Feel the wind blow/ through the window/ I know/ that we'll make it through . . . " Thank you.
Today's purchases include The National, The Avett Brothers, Keri Noble, Over the Rhine, Josh Garrels and Sara Bareilles. And this Keri - is this the same Keri Noble as the one on the Cities 97 morning show? If so, how are they not playing more of her music?
The National has me feeling defeated this evening, but is still serving its cathartic purpose. I love them for all of their melancholy and lack of anything straightforward. Good music for you mildly depressed 30-somethings!
Over the Rhine is its usual perfection. Favorite band, hands down. Their song Failed Christian is a repeater, but understand this recommendation comes from a once seminary student more interested in researching those who went apostate than spending time with Calvin or Luther's exhortations.
Sara is a surprise . . .poppy, but her content not so much. Interesting depth and contradiction that works. Her song Sweet as Whole - fantastic. I'll be singing this song in my head at work for the next month.
And Josh Garrels, Million Miles reminds me of how much I love my husband. "Feel the wind blow/ through the window/ I know/ that we'll make it through . . . " Thank you.
Oct 21, 2012
From City to Burbs
That's right. We're going burbs.
Currently I'm drinking tea in a fairly vacant living room in our Minneapolis house. It is the last weekend of living here, and Jeff and I couldn't be more excited to move on to our next adventure.
At first I thought I would be sentimental. This 1927 Craftsman Bungalow has a lot of charm with the built in buffet, crown molding, lovely wooden floors and arches. Located near beautiful city parks, friendly neighbors, and close to downtown . . .why on earth are we moving?
Lets just say we're over the city life. As wonderful as it has been, I'm so ready to get into my car and drive away from it all. Ahead of us: space, a house with less maintenance required, beautiful regional parks with my favorite kind of running trails, and close access to lakes that aren't crowded with people. Attached garage, new roof, furnace, windows, etc.--ALUMINUM SIDING--it's enough to make this girl giddy.
And the irony is that you don't appreciate these features until you've gone to war with your own fixer upper. Storm windows from the 40s, windows with broken sash chords, windows that don't open, actual window replacements, ice dams, no AC, the endless fight against mold in the basement, weeding, more weeding, pruning, raking, pruning, raking again, painting stucco that should never have been painted in the first place, grinding out roots from your sewer line because of all those damn trees in your yard, efflorescence because of previous water damage when house was vacant, rusted out gutters, replacing gutters, concrete floor scraping/painting/maintenance in the basement, the same for the porch, putting plastic over your 19 drafty windows in the winter, taking it down in the spring, and on it goes.
For this next house we just get to move in and unpack. After that, we can play outside and spend more time with friends again. We get our lives back!
Currently I'm drinking tea in a fairly vacant living room in our Minneapolis house. It is the last weekend of living here, and Jeff and I couldn't be more excited to move on to our next adventure.
At first I thought I would be sentimental. This 1927 Craftsman Bungalow has a lot of charm with the built in buffet, crown molding, lovely wooden floors and arches. Located near beautiful city parks, friendly neighbors, and close to downtown . . .why on earth are we moving?
Lets just say we're over the city life. As wonderful as it has been, I'm so ready to get into my car and drive away from it all. Ahead of us: space, a house with less maintenance required, beautiful regional parks with my favorite kind of running trails, and close access to lakes that aren't crowded with people. Attached garage, new roof, furnace, windows, etc.--ALUMINUM SIDING--it's enough to make this girl giddy.
And the irony is that you don't appreciate these features until you've gone to war with your own fixer upper. Storm windows from the 40s, windows with broken sash chords, windows that don't open, actual window replacements, ice dams, no AC, the endless fight against mold in the basement, weeding, more weeding, pruning, raking, pruning, raking again, painting stucco that should never have been painted in the first place, grinding out roots from your sewer line because of all those damn trees in your yard, efflorescence because of previous water damage when house was vacant, rusted out gutters, replacing gutters, concrete floor scraping/painting/maintenance in the basement, the same for the porch, putting plastic over your 19 drafty windows in the winter, taking it down in the spring, and on it goes.
For this next house we just get to move in and unpack. After that, we can play outside and spend more time with friends again. We get our lives back!
Feb 11, 2012
Lyme Disease Leftovers
I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease in September of 2008. The disease’s characteristic rash had developed on my leg, and I ignored it for several weeks thinking it was a spider bite that would eventually go away. During that time, I was also beginning to feel a lot of fatigue. Old injuries made themselves known again: a swollen ankle from an old sprain during a high school basketball game and jaw pain (picture me flying over a bike's handlebars and the chin is the first point of contact with the ground—I ate yogurt & apple sauce for a week). The swelling and general discomfort I explained away too, thinking them a response to the stress of my new job. In no way was I connecting the dots, despite having heard about the disease throughout my childhood in WI (where deer ticks abound!).
Thankfully I have an observant husband, then fiancé, who demanded I go to the doctor and—Lo & Behold—Lyme Disease! Text book case with three weeks of antibiotics, taken 3x a day. Cured, right?
History repeats itself . . . .
Since 2008, my knees feel like they belong to a 50 y/o woman and there are times when I’m lying in bed and my entire body aches, preventing sleep. My energy is low, despite yoga and including more “super foods” in my diet. I’ve changed jobs so there is less stress, and yet, why can’t I shake this?
After receiving a Lyme Disease article emailed from a friend, I decided to revisit the research around Lyme Disease (thank you, work, for access to Up To Date). To my surprise, I might be another textbook case for Post Lyme Disease Syndrome. Symptoms include malaise/fatigue, chronic joint pain (usually in the knees (this arthritis wears away cartilage, too—which if you’ve heard/seen me go up and down stairs…)), and fibromyalgia. Other articles suggest that people who develop the syndrome have immune systems that respond differently to the bacteria than others who have been bitten and are cured after their initial round of antibiotics. These unlucky folks have what is called “immune dysregulation.”
I love Wikipedia’s definition for immune dysregulation: Immune dysregulation is an unrestrained or unregulated immune response. An inappropriately robust, or weak immune response.
Inappropriately robust, indeed. I have a mother with an autoimmune disease (MS), so why should I be any different? Apparently our systems run in different crowds than others.
So is there a silver lining? Yes—antiinflammatory therapy, and in most cases, the arthritis will spontaneously resolve itself 5 years after the diagnosis.
Fall can't come soon enough.
Thankfully I have an observant husband, then fiancé, who demanded I go to the doctor and—Lo & Behold—Lyme Disease! Text book case with three weeks of antibiotics, taken 3x a day. Cured, right?
History repeats itself . . . .
Since 2008, my knees feel like they belong to a 50 y/o woman and there are times when I’m lying in bed and my entire body aches, preventing sleep. My energy is low, despite yoga and including more “super foods” in my diet. I’ve changed jobs so there is less stress, and yet, why can’t I shake this?
After receiving a Lyme Disease article emailed from a friend, I decided to revisit the research around Lyme Disease (thank you, work, for access to Up To Date). To my surprise, I might be another textbook case for Post Lyme Disease Syndrome. Symptoms include malaise/fatigue, chronic joint pain (usually in the knees (this arthritis wears away cartilage, too—which if you’ve heard/seen me go up and down stairs…)), and fibromyalgia. Other articles suggest that people who develop the syndrome have immune systems that respond differently to the bacteria than others who have been bitten and are cured after their initial round of antibiotics. These unlucky folks have what is called “immune dysregulation.”
I love Wikipedia’s definition for immune dysregulation: Immune dysregulation is an unrestrained or unregulated immune response. An inappropriately robust, or weak immune response.
Inappropriately robust, indeed. I have a mother with an autoimmune disease (MS), so why should I be any different? Apparently our systems run in different crowds than others.
So is there a silver lining? Yes—antiinflammatory therapy, and in most cases, the arthritis will spontaneously resolve itself 5 years after the diagnosis.
Fall can't come soon enough.
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