Friday, March 21, 2008
A rose by any other name . . .
Somewhere along one of the dustier trails, I began to treasure my anonymity more than my ego. That's when I adopted a pen name. Those of you who know me well will have little trouble identifying my story in "Horse Lovers," the most recent "Cup of Comfort" anthology. You probably know the story anyway. And that's enough.
I am, however, a shameless promoter of the book in general. It's good reading that can be enjoyed in small segments, coming from authors of many different backgrounds. It should be available about the beginning of April in some Walmart and Target stores as well as other places. I got some feedback last time that "Cup of Comfort" books are available on-line.
I am, however, a shameless promoter of the book in general. It's good reading that can be enjoyed in small segments, coming from authors of many different backgrounds. It should be available about the beginning of April in some Walmart and Target stores as well as other places. I got some feedback last time that "Cup of Comfort" books are available on-line.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The long and winding path . . .
And just when I thought my uphill trek through the woods was ending.
I spent the winter recovering from sinus surgery and a complicated shoulder injury. After six weeks of physical therapy and two steroid injections into my joint I finally took a breath. I could reach above my head, sleep at night, and envision four-wheel trips into the hills. It was enough to make me smile. Before I finished celebrating, though, I had one final trip to the neurologist's office.
I made an appointment with him last autumn believing maybe he had the answer to the question that kept getting me down. Literally. Why did I keep falling and stumbling into things? It was no big deal, really. A couple of summers ago, I rolled my four-wheeler. But then I stepped off the front porch and pitched head first onto the driveway. Fell down the stairs. And into the bathtub. Then I tripped over the truck-trailer connection and ripped my rotator cuff. That's what finally put me into physical therapy. On my first visit to the neurologist's office he did an initial exam. Fine. Labs. All good. An MRI . . . hmmmm. Another MRI. . . hmmmm again. That's when I took a break to have sinus surgery. By the time I recovered from that I was in so much shoulder pain my orthopedist sent me to the surgeon. But the surgeon wasn't available until the middle of January. A month away. I spent most of Christmas sitting on the couch, bleary-eyed with pain killers. By the time I saw the surgeon, my shoulder was frozen. He couldn't operate, he said, until my shoulder was less inflamed and more flexible. So off to physical therapy I went. After several weeks of PT, my therapist put a gold star on my forehead and sent me back to the surgeon. He was so impressed with my progress he canceled surgery. Things were looking good.
Enter the neurologist. He wanted another MRI. I obliged, all the while thinking what a waste of time the whole neurology thing had been. His office called me right after I got the good news about my shoulder and told me I needed to come in. I said ok in a couple of weeks maybe. The receptionist said no, he wants to see you now. I couldn't imagine what he was going to say. He was straightforward and kind, as always. You have a Chiari brain malformation and a syringomyelia damaging your spinal cord. This did not sound like good news. He put all my MRI's on a lightboard and began talking and pointing and I began nodding like I had some idea what he was talking about. He ended by telling me he'd have the neurosurgeon at the University of Utah contact me to set up an appointment.
Since then I've spent alot of time on the internet making myself anxious. It's not just the physical stuff, it's David and who's going to care for him if I can't? It's the fact that the house is torn apart and turned upside down right now with our vast remodeling ambitions. Worst of all, it's spring coming. That means being essentially divorced (in an amicable way) for six or seven months while Joe works 25 hours a day. Ok, then. 18.
Breathe, Rebekah. One step at a time. First see the neurosurgeon. He may take a wait-and-see approach.
Or he may put me to sleep and saw my skull apart.
It's funny, though. In a way, I can see how far I've come by my reaction to this whole thing. I'm not afraid. Not in the big sense. And I don't blame God or think He's blaming me. I know He'll teach me something new and help me through this. It's given me occasion to think more deeply about the Savior's atonement and the reality that whatever happens to my body is temporary. Temporary! Life is indeed as the grass of the field - - - springing up new and fresh but all too soon growing dusty and pale and inevitably destined to die. What an awful end if that were the whole of it. I'm not sure when I came to understand the Atonement was more than a hope. Long before my parents died. But somewhere I crossed the line. I know it's true. I have a Savior who not only atoned for my sins, but who secured for me the promise of a literal restoration of this body that I have lived within since the first breath I took. My hair is getting streaked with gray, my joints won't let me jump on the trampoline anymore, my crow's feet are growing wings . . . it's humbling. But there's much to be said about peace and comfort as well. How could I begin to appreciate the gift of the resurrection if my body were spared from suffering? As years pass, I find myself more deeply grateful to the One who will wipe away all tears.
And scars.
I spent the winter recovering from sinus surgery and a complicated shoulder injury. After six weeks of physical therapy and two steroid injections into my joint I finally took a breath. I could reach above my head, sleep at night, and envision four-wheel trips into the hills. It was enough to make me smile. Before I finished celebrating, though, I had one final trip to the neurologist's office.
I made an appointment with him last autumn believing maybe he had the answer to the question that kept getting me down. Literally. Why did I keep falling and stumbling into things? It was no big deal, really. A couple of summers ago, I rolled my four-wheeler. But then I stepped off the front porch and pitched head first onto the driveway. Fell down the stairs. And into the bathtub. Then I tripped over the truck-trailer connection and ripped my rotator cuff. That's what finally put me into physical therapy. On my first visit to the neurologist's office he did an initial exam. Fine. Labs. All good. An MRI . . . hmmmm. Another MRI. . . hmmmm again. That's when I took a break to have sinus surgery. By the time I recovered from that I was in so much shoulder pain my orthopedist sent me to the surgeon. But the surgeon wasn't available until the middle of January. A month away. I spent most of Christmas sitting on the couch, bleary-eyed with pain killers. By the time I saw the surgeon, my shoulder was frozen. He couldn't operate, he said, until my shoulder was less inflamed and more flexible. So off to physical therapy I went. After several weeks of PT, my therapist put a gold star on my forehead and sent me back to the surgeon. He was so impressed with my progress he canceled surgery. Things were looking good.
Enter the neurologist. He wanted another MRI. I obliged, all the while thinking what a waste of time the whole neurology thing had been. His office called me right after I got the good news about my shoulder and told me I needed to come in. I said ok in a couple of weeks maybe. The receptionist said no, he wants to see you now. I couldn't imagine what he was going to say. He was straightforward and kind, as always. You have a Chiari brain malformation and a syringomyelia damaging your spinal cord. This did not sound like good news. He put all my MRI's on a lightboard and began talking and pointing and I began nodding like I had some idea what he was talking about. He ended by telling me he'd have the neurosurgeon at the University of Utah contact me to set up an appointment.
Since then I've spent alot of time on the internet making myself anxious. It's not just the physical stuff, it's David and who's going to care for him if I can't? It's the fact that the house is torn apart and turned upside down right now with our vast remodeling ambitions. Worst of all, it's spring coming. That means being essentially divorced (in an amicable way) for six or seven months while Joe works 25 hours a day. Ok, then. 18.
Breathe, Rebekah. One step at a time. First see the neurosurgeon. He may take a wait-and-see approach.
Or he may put me to sleep and saw my skull apart.
It's funny, though. In a way, I can see how far I've come by my reaction to this whole thing. I'm not afraid. Not in the big sense. And I don't blame God or think He's blaming me. I know He'll teach me something new and help me through this. It's given me occasion to think more deeply about the Savior's atonement and the reality that whatever happens to my body is temporary. Temporary! Life is indeed as the grass of the field - - - springing up new and fresh but all too soon growing dusty and pale and inevitably destined to die. What an awful end if that were the whole of it. I'm not sure when I came to understand the Atonement was more than a hope. Long before my parents died. But somewhere I crossed the line. I know it's true. I have a Savior who not only atoned for my sins, but who secured for me the promise of a literal restoration of this body that I have lived within since the first breath I took. My hair is getting streaked with gray, my joints won't let me jump on the trampoline anymore, my crow's feet are growing wings . . . it's humbling. But there's much to be said about peace and comfort as well. How could I begin to appreciate the gift of the resurrection if my body were spared from suffering? As years pass, I find myself more deeply grateful to the One who will wipe away all tears.
And scars.
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