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.

           

In This Place

            Doing dishes, I look out the window at the familiar scene.  My wild, climbing rose bush has bloomed.  Last week’s storm tipped the tall thorned stems so the top pinks face downward instead of reaching to the eaves.  The driveway is littered with pollen and twigs, the house and yard across the street lovely with its landscaping.  Next to it (number 521 to my 520) sits the comforting sight of my daughter and son-in-law’s red brick house, van and car parked in their usual driveway spots.

            At this moment, the peace of being where Jesus wants me to be floods my soul.  Such a simple, quiet life.  My son with me, my daughter’s family across the street.  The three grandchildren, ages 9, 5, and 2 ½, with baby on the way this month. 

            This week, God has been telling me last week’s sermon.  I called it my Mother’s Day “non-sermon” because it had no preaching points to make but only spilled vulnerability from this mother’s heart.  It was about listening to the Holy Spirit speak in the daily and trusting Him when I am weak.  Since then, He has opened up four insights in my daily devotional readings, perfect in their timing:

            He reminded me to give Jesus my burdens.  My shoulders cannot bear them; His are strong and capable for the task.  He told me to look for him in hard places in my life and I would find Him.  He showed me something new:  that I should never covet the past instead of gratefully accepting the present.  And through the intersection of an image from a novel and a devotional reading, He assured me that He is the glorious open gate that invites and draws hearts to Him.

            The dishes are done until tomorrow.  The roses still gracefully bend down toward earth.  My view out the kitchen window remains the same.  And I am blessed in this place.

Perspective

            The first episodes of extreme fatigue twenty years ago frightened me.  They would strike hard and fast, without any warning system I could detect.  One weekend, my son was off to a Taekwondo event and daughter off to a church youth event.  I was supposed to be a speaker at a women’s retreat.  Instead, I spent two days on the living room couch resting, sleeping, and worrying.

            Why was I so exhausted?  How long would this last?  What were the strange buzzings and tingling sensations that zapped about in my legs and arms?  What was this traveling pain that varied from heavy ache to stabbing knife? My legs were weak when I shuffled across the living room to the kitchen to get a drink or food.  I had no concentration for reading or for listening to music or anything else.   

            But that Monday, life resumed, and I made it through another week of work.  Doctor visits and lab work yielded no definitive diagnosis, though the symptoms seemed to indicate an autoimmune disease called Sjogren’s Syndrome.  It took another six years or so before that label got scrapped and I ended up with what I secretly thought of as the hypochondriac’s illness:  fibromyalgia.

            I was fortunate to have a doctor who took me seriously through those years and who was willing to treat my symptoms.  We tried various medications (thank goodness I had excellent prescription insurance) and ended up with a combination of anti-inflammatory, anti-depressant, and muscle relaxant that reduced my symptoms.  I learned to pace myself, take a short nap over the lunch hour, and read everything I could about fibromyalgia, which is still not well understood.

            My quality of life improved greatly when I quit the work force in 2008—made possible by the generosity of my brothers and mother—to become my mother’s primary caregiver.  I settled into less structured days, simple housekeeping and cooking, and learning the art of living with the slow descent of Mom’s Alzheimer’s Disease.  It was a Renaissance of sorts for me, living in the beautiful wooded center of Whidbey Island; joining church choir, a woodwinds ensemble, and a flute choir; and taking flute lessons.  I had time to write, time to be with my mother and youngest brother, and time to slow down my already leisurely pace when fatigue and pain descended.

            Eventually, Mom’s physical health and memory loss deteriorated to the point that we moved her out of her house and into HomePlace, a memory care facility in nearby Oak Harbor.  I stayed on in her home next to my brother’s and visited her a couple times a week (which I now understand was not nearly often enough).  When Mom died in May 2013, as much as I loved living in such a beautiful setting with dear friends, music, and writing to fill my days, I knew it was time to leave.  The siren song of grandchildren in Bartlesville, Oklahoma pulled me east that October.

            And so here I am, five years later, the same amount of time I lived on the island.  Growing family, dear friends, and church life define my days.  The triple negative breast cancer of 2016-17 took its toll, creating a one-year rest stop from virtually everything except blogging.  I am still very tired; as I phase down from a month of prednisone for a severe eczema flare, life has slowed to a snail’s pace again. 

            But I know more than I did twenty years ago.  I know that today does not determine the forecast of all my days.  Sleep and rest, good nutrition and exercise as tolerated will take me through.  There is a simplicity to choosing one’s activities well.  There is hope for days when I can do more, and peace for the days I cannot.  The joy of the Lord is my strength.

Shaking Things Up

            I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly Google is gone and I’m back to Bing.  My default search engine on my laptop disappeared.

            I spent a whole evening fussing and fuming over this turn of events:  After I clicked to place a blog post on Facebook, both Facebook and Google vanished, leaving me with a basic Microsoft screen that is virtually useless and, come to think of it, a disappeared desktop.

            For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, sorry.  I don’t really know what I’m talking about, either, except that I am frustrated.  Loss of a familiar screen has shaken me. 

            I guess this is a computer-age version of circumstances as old as time:  the sudden loss of the familiar.  Or you could say, having control ripped out of one’s hands.  The unexpected occurring at the worst possible moment.

            The past week or two God has been invading my heart with joy.  I’ve been resting in a season of serenity despite unresolved problems on the home front.  Perhaps part of my mood is from the oral prednisone treatment that stopped a major eczema flare in its tracks.  Whether supernaturally or medically induced (or, I suspect, a bit of both), the presence of peace and the absence of pain is wonderful.

I did not expect a screen change to shake me up.  I’ll adjust.  I’ll cope.  Maybe I’ll even get my computer fixed.  In the meantime, every time I flip open my laptop, God’s object lesson will stare me in the face:  scenery and circumstances change, but He does not.