Mutiny and Other Topics

            I got over the self-deception.  Last night my scratching was outright mutiny against doctor’s orders.  But I’d rather write about other things.

            A week ago, a large patch of thickened, red, hot, and exquisitely painful skin suddenly appeared on my sternum.  Today I realize most of it is gone, miraculously replaced by normal, smooth skin.

            This morning, soon after I emailed a friend, saying I had not experienced a single food craving, I became ravenously hungry.  I had a handful of raw almonds for a snack, which cut the edge just a little.  (At times like that, I normally reach for carbs.) 

            This afternoon, feeling rather cooped up in my house on this 108 degree (heat index, that is) day, I decided to take the short drive to Dewey to see what a particular little market had for sale.  I was thinking cauliflower, broccoli, sweet potato.  None of those were available, but I bought a couple tomatoes for tonight’s salad and a quart of blackberries.  They reminded me of the huge berries at the farmers markets on Whidbey Island. 

            Berries are low on the glycemic index and permitted on my detox diet, so I ate some on the short drive home.  They were the sweetest, juiciest berries I have ever eaten.  Or maybe their sweetness had something to do with the fact that I have consumed no sugar for four days. 

            I’ve had a good day, and it is only four o’clock.  The plumber came at nine (don’t ask), I took care of some long-neglected filing, paid bills, did some fretting over the damage done to my budget by paying the plumber, cleaned out my inbox, cleaned half of my half-bath, and sundry other items.  It occurs to me that list, as boring as it may be to you, is quite exciting to me.  It shows me that I am getting some energy and drive back.

            Now, if I can just stop scratching . . .

           

           

Scratch-Proof?

            I planned ahead.  After the nightly coconut oil slather, I found a pair of long-sleeve, long pants summer pajamas, turned them inside out, and put them on.  You see, seams irritate my now-sensitive skin; however, perhaps the sleeves and long pants would deter scratching the same.  I had thought of wearing gloves to bed as well, but I didn’t want to get too hot and start sweating.  Heat and sweat set off terrible itching; cold and ice packs soothe my skin.  With the central air vent above my head and the ceiling fan above my feet, I was ready for a good night’s sleep.

            And I had one, with a single waking episode to test me.  I did not pass the test.  As usual, I woke up scratching.  “Oh,” I thought to myself, “I’m not supposed to scratch.”  As my fingernails slowed their frantic pace, I told myself that this was a different kind of scratching that was allowed—and kept scratching.  Eventually, I fell back asleep.

            In the morning, I remembered the episode and had to laugh at how easily I deceive myself, even when half-asleep.  I do not know what my sleepy brain meant by acceptable scratching, just that the thought allowed me to continue what I was not supposed to do.  I think there is probably some sort of profound truth concerning self-deception, but I’ll leave that for you to figure out as I scratch my head, wondering what it might be.

Turkey Time

            In this last week of June, I’ve decided it is turkey time.  But not in the way you might think.  For instance, Thanksgiving before last, my then-four-year-old granddaughter decided that if eating too much turkey makes you sleepy, and if her uncle Joseph was napping after dinner, that must mean that he was sleeping with turkeys.

            My turkey tale is twofold. Both parts are related, though in an obscure way unless you add “cold” before turkey. You see, as of today I am going cold turkey on two of the biggest elements of my lifestyle:  dairy products and scratching.

            I love all things dairy:  a cold glass of milk, plain Greek yogurt with frozen blueberries, all cheeses, and all ice cream or frozen custard flavors.  Today I gave my last half gallon of milk and a lovely cheese tray to my son.  (We purchase our groceries separately.)  Then I collected the remaining dairy products—Greek yogurt, cream cheese, Half & Half, and heavy whipping cream—and put them in my daughter’s refrigerator.  Normally, there would have been butter as well, but I ran out of it a couple days ago.

            Why am I ditching dairy?  Because I’m hoping that doing so will calm down this post-steroid eczema flare.  Dairy is not all I’m ditching, but it surely is the hardest . . . well, except for bread and sweets.

            Eczema (specifically, atopic dermatitis) has ruled my life since the initial flare early in the spring.  I’ve made a host of small changes to my lifestyle:  lukewarm showers instead of hot ones, unscented glycerin bar instead of soap and body washes, dermatologist-approved All instead of a cheaper laundry detergent, and so on.  None have made a difference.  Every morning and evening I grease up with cold-pressed, unrefined virgin coconut oil, sometimes with a little tea tree or lavender essential oil added.  I’ve tried everything that anyone has recommended, and still the coconut oil is the best for staving off the incessant itch for a few hours.

            Thus, we come to the second part of my cold turkey tale.  I finally went back to the dermatologist today.  She agreed that it was bad, very bad and put me on an antibiotic for the skin infections that have popped up where my aggressive fingernails have been.  She talked at length about next steps, which include lab work and methotrexate and lots of money since my insurance isn’t so great this year.  Then, she ordered me to stop scratching.

            I’m usually good about following doctors’ orders, and I am committed to not scratch under any circumstances.  But it ain’t easy.  In the six hours since I left the dermatology clinic, I have learned a surprising truth:  I scratch all the time: a little bit here, a little bit there.  It’s a deeply ingrained habit.  I mean, while I was driving home and giving myself a pep talk about not scratching, I suddenly found myself scratching.  In fact, I just did it again!

            I must admit that I am not cold-turkeying coffee.  I’m doing that one gobble at a time—mixing with Teeccino (my favorite healthy coffee substitute)—and should be caffeine-free by next week.  I did not want to add excruciating headache to the mix.  Hopefully, I will learn to sleep scratch-free without the turkeys.

Crying

                When I hear babies cry, I die a little inside.  Doesn’t matter if I’m at Walmart and a frazzled mom is trying to finish her shopping.  Or at an airport watching a parent text while the babe screams out her distress.  Maybe she is hungry or wet.  Perhaps she just needs to be held, to have the comfort of warm, loving touch.

                Thus, it should be no surprise that reports from the border about babies and children in distress haunt me:  the breastfeeding baby taken from her mother’s arms, the little girl in the cage of children screaming and crying for her mommy.  The rule that the caregivers are not allowed to hold or touch the children to comfort them.  I ache for those little ones.

                The terrible irony is that their parents have spent weeks or months fleeing for their lives.  They made the crushing decision to leave all that is familiar to protect their children.  They could wait no longer.  Maybe food and water had run out.  Maybe they had just seen their neighbors murdered.  Maybe they finally decided that anything would be better than the hell they were living in. 

                So they arrive at the border asking for asylum, which has never been a crime until now.  They probably know that the wait will be long, but at least their families will be safe.  And then their children are abruptly taken, the parents not told where nor given the opportunity to see them.  I can feel the horror, heartache, and helplessness of those parents, too. 

                Jesus says, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35).  He tells us to love our enemies.  He speaks through stories to illustrate that every single person in this world, including our perceived enemies, is our neighbor. 

                I don’t know how to solve anything in our world today.  I don’t understand the complex nuances of law or zero tolerance policies.  It seems that cries from our government for justice have forgotten the balancing value of mercy.  It seems that anger and fear are directed at those who are different than us.  Those with darker skin from other countries have become the enemy.  While we have forgotten the law of love, those brown babies keep crying. 

Every Single Thing

            Last week I read Ann Voskamp’s 2010 book, one thousand gifts (and yes, the title is all in lower-case letters).  It was exactly what I needed. 

            It was a blessed week with the birth of my granddaughter, Ava Rose, on May 24.  She joins 2 ½ year-old Josiah, 5 year-old Joelle, and 9 year-old Benjamin.  It was a hard week because of my ongoing fibromyalgia flare, which knocked me out of usefulness with debilitating fatigue.  I wanted to be across the street at their house much more, helping Dana and Shawn with children and meals.  Instead, after an hour with a grandchild or making a meal, I was laid low in bed or on the couch for the rest of the day. 

            And then, one thousand gifts with its wondrous words and profound sacred truths entered my energy-starved life.  Voskamp’s poetic prose reached deep into my soul.  From her I learned afresh the thing God has been pressing into my heart for a good two years with depth, angle, and light I had not yet seen.  And the truth, the joy, is so simple it is hard to say without sounding like cliché:  it is life in Jesus Christ.  We are to live in God’s presence in the present with heartfelt gratitude for every single thing.

            I can trust God’s goodness, his generous grace.  He is in the details, even when the details seem wrong.  He is in the beautiful moments, in the hardest hours, and in all our days.