Threads

I am sitting in the waiting room at Drexel Neurological Medicine again while Ron is in with a doctor; this is the second of a zillion appointments we will  need to have in order to get him into the ketamine protocol at Hahnemann. As usual, I have brought my knitting with me. I have spent enough time in doctor's offices to always have the proper accoutrements with me. I am not good at waiting, but working with the colors and textures takes my mind off of worrying. At times like this, I bless my grandmother who taught me how to use needles and yarn.

I have knit my way through twenty-six surgeries, four severe infections, and at least thirty hospitalizations. If all goes well at this, and other tests, I will knit my way through two weeks of infusion therapy.

I notice that across the aisle from me a young woman is intensely interested in what I am doing. She watches each stitch I make. I have become used to the stares; people who do not knit are fascinated by the process. I offer her a smile.

After  few moments, she walks across the aisle toward me. "My grandmother used to do that," she says. "Is that crochet?"

"No," I respond pleasantly. "Crochet is with one hook. This is knitting, with two needles." I hold up my work to show her.

"But the two points are connected," she says.

"Yes. It's a cable needle to hold a lot of stiches. I'm making a blanket."

"Ah," she says. Tentatively, she reaches out a hand to touch it. "It's really soft," she says. "And I love the colors." Then she sighs. "I wish I could knit."

In the last thirteen years,through twenty-six surgeries, four infections, and thirty hospitalizations, I have heard this lament at least a hundred times. I am not exaggerating. I meet a lot of people in hospitals and doctors' offices. I wait for the next comment, which I know is coming. It always does.
"How did you learn to knit?" I recite my story about my dear Nanny who helped me make a scarf for my dad, about how the first project was a disaster but my dad wore it anyway, about my years knitting sweaters with bunnies for my children when they were little, and about how knitting has helped me keep my sanity in these last very difficult years. I have perfected the story. I tell it in under three minutes.

"I wish," she says with a sigh, "my grandmother had taught me." Even as I tell her that it is not that hard to do, that there are web sites that can teach her how to knit, that it is a meditative hobby that provides comfort in stressful times, my mind is asking this question: Why not?

In our times of economic stress, handcrafts have gained in popularity as we turn to do-it-yourself projects. Knitting is once again a big industry and those of us who were lucky enough to learn the craft have wonderful choices in yarn and needles and patterns. Through such on-line platforms as Ravelry, we have an entire community that shares our passion for the fiber arts.

But many have forgotten the pleasure and peace of making something with their hands. Many have never known it. Yes, you can learn to knit from a book or a web tutorial, but knitting is meant to be shared. There is no better way to learn than to sit side by side with an experienced knitter, sharing not only the art but the threads of our lives.

Before the young woman returns to her seat, I have taken out some spare needles--every knitter carries them--and some scrap yarn and I have shown her how to cast on and begin a simple scarf.  As she makes some awkward attempts at stitches, she shares with me her own reason for being here at Drexel: nerve damage in her leg that will require surgery and therapy. She begins to make some progress on the stitches and is thrilled with her result. I tell her to keep the needles. They are plastic, cheaply bought and made to be shared.

Eventually, she returns to her husband's side and shows him what she is making. He nods and returns to his magazine. She continues concentrating on her work. In a few minutes, the nurse comes to call her into the office. As she passes me, she nods and mouths "Thank you." I probably will not see her again, but I have passed along something valuable. I hope she continues to knit. I hope she uses it to help her recover. I hope she passes it on.

I have worked several more inches on the blanket by the time Ron comes out of the office. This was a sensory test to see just what nerves have been damaged. The doctor has, in effect, made a map to follow. I am shown the schematic that indicates the damaged nerves, all connected by tissue and bones. Our bodies are fearfully and wonderfully made.

I gather up my needles and my yarn. Another hurdle on this journey towards what we hope will be Ron's recovery has been jumped. We continue following along the path that is mapped out, one appointment after another. I have no doubt that Hahneman Hospital will become as familiar to us as Crozer-Chester was. I will knit my way through its corridors.

And as we follow the line set out for Ron,  I will continue to follow the threads of yarn that tie me back to my grandmother, who sat next to me with a pair of needles and brown yarn and said, "Linda, I am going to teach you to knit."

Thanks, Nanny.
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Drink Me!

The cabinet over the kitchen sink holds a multitude of little green bottles; almost all of them have Ron's name on them. Over the years, we have accumulated quite a collection! I am not a scientist, but I can reel off the names of the drugs that have been prescribed to him: Cymbalta, Wellbutrin, Lexapro for depression, Respridal, Klonopin, and Depakote for Bipolar disorder, Coreg for congestive heart failure. Years ago we had a round with Abilify, star of many commercials featuring a dark cloud, but Ron had a--well, let's just call it negative--reaction to it. Shudder. Now I look them all up, preparing myself for possible side effects and a trip to the other side of the looking glass.

So, let's see what Tizanidine, the most recent of the meds to join our extensive collection, will have to offer our family. Do I need to hide the sharp objects? A small, round white pill, it looks innocuous enough. Dr. Aradillas prescribed it for Ron on Monday. Most commonly, Tizanidine is used for relief from muscle spasms. During the exam, Dr. Aradillas found that Ron's extremities--hands and feet--often spasm in sympathy with the damaged abdominal nerves. This is why Ron often feels the need to sit on the side of the bed at night, stretching out his arms and rocking back and forth. It explains it, but it does not help me cope with the swaying of the bed or the slightly queasy feeling in my stomach.

In other news, however, the Tizanidine does just what we hope the Ketamine will do: it blocks the brain from receiving the signals from the nerves. Ron's first dose put him in such a relaxed state that he fell asleep at Allen's birthday dinner. No one would have minded, except that we were in a restaurant at the time. Luckily, both Allen and Jared are strapping young men so we managed to maneuver Ron home. Lesson learned: only take Tizanidine while home. Ron had a pretty good night's sleep with no rocking motions, although his snoring would wake the dead but that's a whole other problem and not one we think Tizanidine can help.


Here's the trick, though, to dealing with traumatic brain injury; a damaged brain does not always react to drugs in the same way that a "normal" brain would. More than once, a drug that was supposed to cause only mild reactions made my dear husband into a raving lunatic. And on several occasions, a drug so depressed his systems that he hung in a near coma state. I slept with the phone next to me during the night, alert to signs that the Tizanidine might not be all it was cracked up to be and ready to dial 911. Snoring aside, I wasn't sleeping much.

Ron was still breathing normally--for him--this morning so I went off to work. Allen was home all day but my phone didn't ring once. And when I walked in the door at 5:30, Ron was sitting happily on the couch and watching ESPN. It is possible that his color looked better. It is also possible I was too tired to tell.

But this much is clear: the Tizanidine seems to be doing exactly what it is supposed to do. It is a small but important miracle.

Maybe I'll actually sleep tonight.

One Last Time

One Last Time
10/15/13


I don't cry too often. I find it to be time consuming and in the last thirteen years--ever since the red pickup truck hit Ron and altered our lives--I have had too little time to spare to waste it on tears. Yes, I know that crying can be therapeutic, but I have found that my journal and my brightly colored pens serve me better than the salty taste of tears; journaling has the added bonus of providing me with a time line of our lives.

But I cried yesterday, sitting there at the  Drexel Department of Neurology across from Hahneman  Hospital and watching as Dr. Aradillas examined my husband and gave explanations for what he was finding to a panel of medical students. I watched as his hands gently probed Ron's abdomen, ran fingers down the scars, and lifted his legs one at a time. "Lessening of inhibitions in the surrounding nerves," Dr. Aradillas said and students scribbled in their notebooks. "Neuropathy brought on by trauma," he explained. More scribbles. More nods.

The medical students--two of which had been in earlier to take Ron's medical history and complimented me on my succinct "Reader's Digest" version of the last thirteen years--were obviously a bit awed by Dr. Enrique Ardillas Lopez who had trained with the famous Dr. Shwartzman, pioneer of ketamine infusion treatments for Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS). But this was not, as the saying goes, my first rodeo. In the last decade plus, I have taken Ron to more than twenty doctors, seeking help for all the damage done to his body by careless driver. I am not awed by degrees from Ivy league colleges. I've got plenty of degrees myself. For every statement Dr. Aradillas made, I threw out a question. He was patient and respondent. I liked him, and I cannot say that about all the medical personnel we have encountered. And my experience is pretty wide.

I sat in the plastic molded chair provided for my comfort and, as Dr. Aradillas continued his thorough examination, I felt a stirring of something I thought we had lost; I felt hope. Every other doctor jumped to surgery and more surgery; Ron's abdomen was now little more than scar tissue. Dr. Aradillas shook his head. "No more surgery," he said in a Spanish accented voice. "But we can help the pain."

What? Did you say help the pain? Did you say that my husband, father of my children, disabled person since 2000 who has been unable to work or even get out of bed in the morning, can be helped? Have I fallen down the rabbit hole for sure this time?

While the chemistry is a bit beyond me, the theory behind ketamine infusion treatments is pretty simple: the drug retrains the brain and blocks the pain. Ketamine does not repair the damage that has been done to the nerves, but keeps the brain from reading the signals. There is no surgery involved and no long hospital stays and limitations. In most cases, the initial treatment reduces pain to a manageable level and patients receive two or three "boosters" a year which keep them from the level of CRPS that has so debilitated Ron for years. There is even--who knew?--an organization dedicated to the research and recovery of people with CRPS.


http://www.rsds.org/1/organization/index.html

I am cynical; I admit it. In the last thirteen years, I have learned to look before I leap and question any silver lining. And so my research on ketamine and it's treatment has been pretty thorough. I've read the stories. I've looked at the research. And--surprise, surprise--it works.

Will it work for Ron? Well, we will not know until we try. But we have agreed to try. to take one last stab at trying to find a solution for the continuous pain that binds him. We have plenty of hoops to jump through before we are ready for the treatment. Along with tests and clearances, we will need to figure out transportation and treatments. My insurance will not pay for it, but Medicare will, although we will need to be responsible for a $1200 co-pay and 20% of the doctor bills. We will figure it out.

So, join us on this journey, hopefully the last steps of what has been a long and arduous road. I will use this blog to keep you all informed, and to ask for your prayers and support.

Hope. Once again, it stirs us to action.
Romans 12:12  Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer.


Read more: http://www.whatchristianswanttoknow.com/bible-verses-about-hope-20-uplifting-scripture-quotes/#ixzz2ht1Ytqfk

Flashback: Wild Violets

June 21, 2013

As I begin the brave task of telling the honest story about the effect of mental illness on the lives of my family members, I am rooting through journals and writings. I came across this from ten years ago.

Wild   Violets

We had another long vigil at the hospital last night and my children and I have slept late this morning, piled together in the big bed in the master bedroom, praying that the phone will not ring. We tumble out of bed just before noon and take our late breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon to the back deck. There we discover that wild violets have grown up in the backyard, tiny stars of purple against the green crabgrass. I wonder that they have survived the harsh winter, the ice and the frost of neglect. And yet they have grown, struggling to push themselves out of the hard earth towards the warm spring sun. Despite last summer’s drought and the sub-zero temperatures of winter, they have survived to grace our backyard with their royal beauty.

They remind me, I tell my son and daughter, of these past five weeks that their father has lain in a hospital bed, the victim of a horrendous car accident. Day after day, his body has struggled to heal from massive trauma and subsequent surgeries, beset with complications and infections. But then, everything reminds me of it. While Ron’s ongoing hospitalization has become the focus of our lives, we somehow manage to struggle on, going to work and school, doing laundry and making meals, sharing moments of hope. Just last night as we sat in the waiting room of the trauma ward awaiting word on Ron’s emergency surgery, I said to the two offspring that were with me, “You know, we’re a tough family. It takes a lot to knock us down.”

“We take a lickin’ and keep in tickin’.” my youngest quipped and we all laughed.

But there is a deeper truth to Allen’s words. We have taken a beating. No one could argue that. Ron’s ongoing illness has thrown obstacles and burdens our way that we could never have imagined. My daughter and I have learned to change the oil in the cars and install the storm windows. Allen’s older brother Dennis has filled in the gap left by his father’s absence at soccer games. We are often tired and frightened. We sometimes question God. But we are not beaten. We have struggled to survive, to push our heads above the surface of our circumstances and seek the sun.

Sipping the tea my daughter has brewed in my grandmother’s china pot, I wonder if it would it be too melodramatic to compare us to these wild violets in the backyard. The Book of Matthew tells us to “Behold the fields in all their glory; even King Solomon was not arrayed as one of these.” I breathe deeply on this April morning, recognizing the purple majesty of these wild flowers as a gift from God, a miracle of the cycle of seasons and a reminder of Jesus’ resurrection. To all things there is a season. That these violets have survived is a testimony to God’s mercy.

Our family has survived. Not because we have been able to ignore our situation or “rise above” our circumstances but because, even in the dark, dankness of tragedy and despair, we felt the warm love of God the Father. Often the love came in the form of meals left on our porch or money tucked into my pocket after Sunday services. Sometimes the love came from my sixth grade students and the cards and letters they sent to Ron on a weekly basis. Sometimes God’s love surrounded us during the long hospital vigils as Ron’s life teetered precariously. And now and then the love came from small, almost insignificant treasures such as these wild violets.

We peek our heads up, perhaps tentatively at first, and then, secure in our safety, warmed by the sun, content in God’s love, we grow.

I take a final sip of tea. I will need to call the hospital in a few moments and see how Ron has fared during the night. There are other calls to make, other people also waiting to hear. The dark purple violets scattered against the grass have, like us, survived.

No matter what happens, I think, we’re going to be all right.

Sweating it out: A Summer Story

It is a disaster of gigantic proportions, according to my husband, equal only to the weekend the cable television went out. To me, the death of our seven year old central air conditioning was just--shrug--one of those things. Nothing lasts forever. It would have lasted a sight longer, said our technician, if we had remembered to regularly change the air filter. Ooops. Okay, you try remembering something such as that when you're running from one job to the next. Still, point taken. I knew how he felt, He'd installed one of his babies for us and we hadn't lived up to our end of the bargain. I groveled a bit, claiming my husband's chronic condition and my over-worked schedule. He finally relented , claiming he could probably replace the condenser--or whatever makes the thing work--for around $600.

Large gulp.

In the meantime, though, we were without that wonderful commodity known as central air for at least a couple weeks, and a heat wave was coming right at us. We have ceiling fans, so we're not totally dead in the water on this, and we've still got a couple of box fans in the basement from our pre-central air days. We hauled them up, dusted them off, and set them up in central locations. After three days of straight 92 degree weather, we became adept at positioning the fans and keeping the shades down against the day time sun. Then a beautiful, rousing thunderstorm--the kind that only summer can bring--lowered the temperatures to a more comfortable 75 degrees.

And I made a discovery, something I probably knew as a kid but forgot after so many years of insulating myself inside an artificially cooled environment: summer demands open windows. My father, who retired to the beach fifteen years ago, tells me that summer is supposed to be hot. He's right; that's exactly why we call it summer. The word "summer" originates from several Old English, German, and Dutch words meaning "strength and warmth". My dad's beach house is fully air-conditioned, but he prefers to sit on his screened-in porch with the ceiling fan on low and a cold beer in his hand. Not a bad way to spend a lazy summer day.

So with the temps in the 70's and my fans positioned in the exact right places to circulate air through the house--because it is just lack of movement that makes the air feel really, really hot--I threw open my windows to the sounds of summer. In the morning, I discovered, the birds that gathered around the back feeder thanked us with trilling melodies, blending in with the tinkling sounds of the wind chime in the tree. And as school let out, more and more children cavorted in their backyards, happily splashing into pools and shooting baskets into hoops. The darkening of evening brought with it its own sweet sounds: locusts chirping the next day's temperature, dogs engaging in the twilight bark, and the sound of the ice cream truck rounding the corner.

Ah, summer.

As I have waited for the technician to find the needed part, I have not only thrown open my windows to the sounds of summer, I have cast my mind back to those summer days of my youth, before ac units blocked our windows. "It's so much hotter now than we we were kids," people have told me when I mention that we are, for the time being, going without air conditioning. Not true, I am afraid. According to the National Weather Service, Pennsylvania--my home sweet home--ranks 34th in the list of "hottest states"; in fact, in 2008, the last year official records were kept, the median temperature of the summer was a lovely 72 degrees. Sure, there are the dog days of August and those streaks of days reaching into the nineties, but for the most part, summer is more warm than hot. "Warm" is defined as "giving off a moderate amount of heat" while "hot" is giving off a "maximum amount of heat". Now that's clear. Back in 1968, the year by dad bought the Westinghouse fan on wheels which provided our only source of air circulation in the summer time, the temperature reached 89 degrees on July 8; the rest of the month we enjoyed a balmy 74 degrees or so.

Often, we blame humidity for our summer discomfort. Human beings just do not like moisture on their skin. However, I could find no information to indicate that the humidity has increased over the years. Maybe we've just forgotten how to handle it.

So if you, like me, have a conked our air conditioner or maybe just want to lower those PECO power and light bills in the summer time, I've got a few suggestions, culled from my grandmother's advice. Open your windows in the morning to let in the cool breezes and try to get a good cross ventilation going. After lunch, shut the shades and the curtains and call the kids in to color or do puzzles. Drink plenty of water and when the heat gets to you, jump into a cool shower for a couple of minutes. Dab Seabreeze--a lovely, summer "medicinal lotion" that contains menthol and can be had for a mere $12.00--onto your neck and wrists. It even smells like summer. And when all else fails, take that cold beer--or iced tea, if you prefer--to the back deck. Enjoy the great outdoors this summer, because the gray and rainy days of winter in the Northeast will be here all too soon.

 And while you are on the deck, counting the lightening bugs and listening for the locusts to predict tomorrow's temperature, listen for the ice cream truck.

Treat yourself! It's summer!

The Traveling Poor: A Slice of Society

THE TRAVELING POOR
June 7, 1013

It was the second encounter I have had with the new segment of society known as "the traveling poor." I am not old enough to remember the days of the Great Depression when hobos rode the rails and unemployed people lived in Hoovervilles, but I remember my grandmother's stories of the well-mannered and soft-spoken men who would appear at her backdoor, asking politely it she could spare a slice of bread or a cup of coffee. Nanny always had something ready to give to those in need; she and my grandfather were fortunate in that the owner of the house they rented was a kind-hearted man who could wait for the rent.

During the cold months, Nanny would ask the traveler to come inside and warm up. "But they would always decline," she said. "They'd say, 'No ma'am, I'll just stand out here in the yard." They never failed to thank her for the food and always asked if there was some chore they might do to repay her, such as shoveling the walk or weeding the garden. The hobos came regularly; obviously, someone had placed one of those enigmatic hobo symbols on my grandmother's house, probably the cat that signified "A kind lady lives here."

My grandmother said they never had any trouble at all with this segment of society. "They were decent, God-fearing men," my Nanny would say. "Just down on their luck."

That was then. This is now. There are whole families, now homeless, wandering from town to town. Most often, they have some kind of a car, but have lost their homes and their jobs. Unbelievably, when I searched "traveling poor" on Google, I found nothing to help me understand just who this segment of our society is.

The first time I met members of this group, my daughter and I encountered a couple with their dog standing at the corner of Grubb Road and Route 13 in Claymont, Delaware. We had just picked up supper at Boston Market and, due to a buy-one-get-one sale, still had twenty dollars in our pockets. The woman stood on one corner with a tattered umbrella and a cardboard sign that said, "Traveling Poor"; the man stood on the other corner, holding the leash of a sad and bedraggled dog. Generally, I do not give handouts. I am not mean, but I prefer my charity to be in the way of food or actions. But the couple looked so forlorn, and the dog so sad that I held out my remaining twenty dollars to the woman when we stopped at the traffic light. She came up to the car--looking way too young to be in such a predicament--and accepted the bill with a lovely smile.

We thought about going back to Boston Market and buying them food. But it was, as I said, raining. We wanted to get home, where it as dry and safe. We had at least, my daughter and I agreed, done something.

Just two days ago, though, we had our second encounter with a member of the traveling poor. I was with my son this time, and pulling out of the Walmart parking lot at Larkin's Corner when we saw him, a man and his dog huddled under an umbrella in the rain, sitting on a piece of canvas. This man, too, held a sign: "Traveling poor." Parked behind him was a rusted hulk of a car that probably would not pass inspection. But when I handed my son some bills and he held them out the window, the man with the dog was ineffably polite:

The weather is getting warmer, the economy is still sluggish. Medicare is threatening to cut benefits and many, many people are still out of work. 

In a recent book, Confronting Suburban Poverty, authors Elizabeth Kneebone and Alan Berube confront the issue of suburban poverty, referring to the "changing map of American poverty." Poverty, once primarily an inner city issue, is now regional in scope. Scenes like the one above are being played out in shopping center and street corners all over suburbia. According to government statistics from 20120, one in three Americans is poor or close to poor. To learn more about this "new trend" in the plight of the traveling poor, you can follow this link and download a free chapter of the book.
http://www.brookings.edu/research/books/2013/confrontingsuburbanpovertyinamerica

What is the answer? Better jobs, lower living costs, re-education for the unemployed? They would all help, I am sure. But maybe the real answer is in response of the man with his dog, sitting by the side of the road on a wet piece of canvas.With a smile, he took the three dollar bills my son offered to him and said, "Thank you, sir, for helping me on my journey."

Finding a Path

September 12, 2012


Yikes! I haven't written anything in weeks, but since I doubt anyone reads these, I'm not feeling too bad about it. It is more the discipline of writing that I need. I always say I want to write, but I tend to put other things ahead of my writing. This morning, for example, I started the laundry, fed the animals, picked up the living room, made breakfast, made a phone call/ appointment, then checked FaceBook before I started to write. Why didn't I start to write sooner? Why do I always think that writing is not "real work" and therefore should come as an after-thought?

According to Julia Cameron, author of The Artist's Way, it is a result of the way that we were raised. I started writing stories, poems, and plays when I was around 9. I wrote my first "novel"--a science fiction debut--in sixth grade. But while my parents and teachers always thought my writing was wonderful, no one really suggested to me that it could be a career. Someone would read what I had written and say, "Oh, you should teach!" And so I decided to become a teacher. I do not blame my parents or my own teachers in the least. Writing is a risky business. It demands time, patience, openness, honesty, and persistence. It is a lonely existence and often comes with much criticism and few rewards. Teaching, on the other hand, offers a stable career and a predictable paycheck.

Except that my own experiences as a teacher--much as I love it--has not been the predictable paycheck. In the 1980's, teachers were in short supply and in great demand, but when I graduated in 1995, the market was glutted with teachers and jobs were scarce. Government funding has continued to impact the educational system in our country, so that many teachers each year are laid off or take early retirement. For every teaching position, there are hundreds of applicants. My first year as a teacher was in the world of the substitute, a journey through fire that I happily only had to endure for one year. My first full time position was at The Christian Academy in Brookhaven where I made 19,000. Okay, not exactly a living wage, but Ron was working at the time and we managed. I left TCA in 1999 following Ron's breakdown, because I knew it would be up to me to support our family while he worked through his illnesses. I took an offer from Westtown that almost doubled my salary; I hoped that my position as the main financial support of the family would be temporary, but Ron's car accident in March of 2000 dashed those hopes to the ground. It was all me, just me.

Westtown did provide stability and medical insurance and most of a graduate degree, but did not challenge me in any way. I felt stagnate there, my talents as a reading specialist used to proctor study halls. If it had not been for the lost income and the lack of faith in how we would survive, leaving Westtown in 2009 as part of a cut-back would have been a relief. Three years later, it is a relief. I spent two years finishing up my doctorate degree and adjuncting at three colleges. The income was horrible, but we scraped along with help from my father.

Last August, I took the position as professional development mentor with Catapult. I am making less than I did at Westtown, so I still teach at Springfield College and provide the academic support for students. We get by; we do a little better than just get by and we can afford a vacation now and then. Still, the myth of a steady income and a solid future as a teacher was something from my parents' time, just as Dad was with the same company for thirty years. These things don't happen anymore.

So, that's why I became a teacher instead of a writer. And why am I not a writer now? Because habits are hard to change. This summer, I have tried to write in my companion journal to The Writer's Way in the morning before I got out of bed; for the most part, it worked, even though I had to ignore the stares of three animals who did not understand why their breakfast was being delayed! But now that I am back to my hectic schedule, it just will not work. What to do?

Last night, I watched part of Julie& Julia, a lovely movie that parallels the lives of two women, one the renowned cook Julia Child played by Meryl Streep with padding and Julie Powell played by Amy Adams, a young woman determined to cook her way through Child's first cook book in an attempt to "find herself." At the end of the movie Julie's efforts at both blogging and cooking earn her a book contract and a career as a writer.

And I could not help but wonder, "Why couldn't I do that? Why couldn't I blog every day for a whole year about whatever was going on in my journey towards writing and find a book contract at the end and a job that let me stay home and write my pajamas? Okay, I am a good deal older than Julie--her bio says she was born in 1973, the year I graduated high school--but I am every bit as good a writer. Maybe better, if you consider the fact that I have never, at least in my writing, felt that profanity was needed to express my feelings. The English language is full of wonderfully descriptive words that are not four-letters long and if a reader doesn't know what the occasional word means, perhaps vocabulary will be expanded.

The internet is full of blogs, of course. It is quite possible--probably true--that no one will follow mine. Not even my mother, who died in 2002, or my father who knows how to use a computer but wouldn't know a blog from an e-mail. Perhaps I can get my best friend Chris to follow it. She's pretty loyal. The thing is, though, the hook. Julie Powell used the idea of Julia Child's cookbook to interest people in following her. what have I got?

I have a chronically ill husband. I am the Well Spouse, a term I only recently learned and one I think will become a part of Mama's Secret Letters if I ever get around to working on it. And having an ill husband, one who is not "the saint" that Julie Powell describes--one must wonder why she cheated on him after her first book was published if he was all she said he was, unless she was more of a whiner than the movie really portrayed--complicates life in ways that those with a wholly--or even partially--functioning spouse cannot imagine. That, of course, requires honesty.

But God has planted the idea in me, the need to come clean, tell the truth, air the laundry, open the door, spill the beans. Pastor Jim Carroll's sermon several weeks ago has given me the title for this work: Life:Altered. It is a topic I am set to speak about on October 14 at Memorial Presbyterian Church.

Can I keep it up? Well, I managed to finish a dissertation while working three jobs. This is probably harder. But, I begin.