Siblings II

I love my brother in a million different ways. As you read in my last post, he has a fun sense of humor and still finds it amusing to harass his older sister. Today I love him for a very specific thing he did many years ago. This Saturday is the 12th anniversary of my son's passing while he was tucked soundly in my womb. It was a pain that came upon me so quickly, and it has never left.

Initially, it felt like my heart had been ripped out. The pain was so severe, I did not think I would survive. Year after year, the loss has become less and less acute, and instead it has become a permanent, deep, somber feeling. I always feel him with me, and I feel so blessed to have had him at all, but the heartache never leaves. He is with me every moment of the day.

Just into my sixth month of pregnancy, I had an appointment with my OB/GYN, and I took Keith with me. I wanted him to hear the baby's heartbeat, as much as did he. That may sound odd for some people, but my brother and I have always been close, and he supported my pregnancy. So we went to my appointment, I had some blood work to test for down's syndrome and spina bifida, and finally Keith and I went in to hear the baby's heartbeat.

I was laying on the table, and Keith was up by my head. The doctor was moving the Doppler all over my belly, and I recall being a slight bit nervous. Then that magical sound of my baby's heartbeat filled the room. I remember the doctor looking relieved, but Keith and I were both drunk on the sound of my baby's life. We left the appointment feeling hopeful and happy!

It was February 28, 2003 when the blood work from earlier in the week came back. I was called in for an emergency ultrasound so they could search for down's syndrome or spina bifida. The doctor called me herself  and prepared me for the baby having a serious genetic defect or illness. When my mom and I went into the ultrasound, we were terrified the baby could be sick. Instead, it showed that the baby had no heartbeat. My mom and I were devastated , as were my dad and brother later that day when they heard the news. When my brother came home that day, he brought me a single rose, and went into the corner and cried.

I was crushed. The baby had to be delivered the next day, but I was asleep. I think the doctor was trying to spare me, but in retrospect, I wish I could have held him just once. I sobbed uncontrollably for days, even weeks. I would wake up in the morning and sob in the shower, the kinds that wrack your body with uncontrolled spasms of heartache. At the time, I was living with my parents and brother, and the whole family was excited for my pregnancy. Every morning would begin with "Good morning, Baby", and every night would end with "Good night, Baby". So when I lost him, it was like we all lost him.

The weeks that followed Gabriel's death, I went into what I can only consider a coma of despair. I cried anytime I saw a baby. My milk came in, yet I had no baby to feed. My brother was so supportive, but no one knew what to do. I walked around in a trance. At the time, I wanted nothing more than to be with my child. I wasn't suicidal, I just wanted my baby to come home to me.

As spring came, I would often wake up crying, and I would go to sleep crying, and I would cry in my dreams and try to wake up, but I'd be shackled to my nightmares. It was just so hard to smile when my spirit was weeping so. One spring morning, I woke up to my dad and Keith out at an errand. I didn't think much of it. They soon returned, and I saw them lugging this tree through the yard. I asked my mom what they were doing, and she tried to keep me away from the windows.  I was curious, but had no clue.

An hour or so passed, and my mom told me to look out the west living room window. There was a beautiful tree with buds all over it. My mom told me it was a weeping cherry tree, and that its buds would turn into beautiful flowers each spring. I asked her whose idea it was. She told me it was a gift from Keith in honor of Gabriel. I got teary. When they came inside, I gave Keith a huge hug! He told me I could also see the tree from my bedroom window, and sure enough, I could.

My brother is an amazing individual. He is a kind, creative, selfless and sensitive man. I still remember him as a newborn in my arms. And I also remember him hugging me tight as I cried in his arms when I learned my child was dead. The way he unconditionally loved and supported me after Gabriel's death is nothing short of extraordinary. He was as excited about being an uncle almost as much as I was excited about being a mom.

Gabriel's tree has grown into this huge, weeping display of a beautiful green umbrella. For about one week a year, the most glorious white and pink flowers shower down on the garden around it. I can look outside and see it, and it gives me such joy! Thank you, Keith! Thank you for being my tremendous brother and friend! Thank you for the exquisite gift of Gabriel's tree! I love you, and seeing you as the tremendous father you are, I have no doubt you would have been an amazing uncle. I love you, baby brother!

Siblings

 



My brother is the best gift my parents have ever given me. We've each been there for the other every time we've tripped and fallen. And while the fall itself may have been horrible, what remains in my mind is the image of his hand reaching out to help me stand again. That is not to say he hasn't pestered me with his shenanigans over the years. As a child, there were times I would have sold him to the Pizza Plus delivery man for slavery, but I was never quick enough to catch him. As adults, I will tell you this tale as an example of how I handle his peskiness, and how he handles my reaction right back, and how much I love these moments oh so much!

Keith and my nephew were over yesterday, Sunday (for those of you not local, we had just gotten eight inches of snow), and when they were ready to leave, I was trying to help by getting my nephew into his coat and boots and hat. I got the latter two on him without problem. However, as ever seems to be the case with children's coats, their zippers are a challenge for adult fingers. I kept trying, and one side of the zipper would go up, but it wouldn't catch the other side of the zipper.

No matter what I tried, it always ended up all crooked, and Keith towered above, making snarky remarks about my less-than-capable mechanical skills. So I stepped aside, giving Keith or my mom the chance to zip Eli up while I went seeking my revenge for his smart-assed remarks. Not three feet away from where I had been trying to help Eli was my desk were I was going through all kinds of medical supplies left from my various home-care instances over the past year. I found my perfect weapon immediately.

Keith and my mom were standing in the family room, right near the doorway I was coming through. I grabbed a syringe filled with saline, unwrapped it, tip-toed up to the doorway where they were standing, and I got a bulls eye (truly.... it hit the edge of his right eye and bounced a bit off his bald head and got a bit in his right ear.) He was so taken off guard, the look on his face was priceless. He had a grin that read "WTF", when out of his lips came, "What the hell! What was that??"

I could have really f*c*ed with him and told him it blue dye or something else that would leave a mark, but I confirmed that it was just saline. So Keith and Eli walk out the door, and Zoe the Dog followed them. She likes to either get in the car or at least watch it leave. I was in a robe and socks, and when Zoe would not come to my calls, I had to go out, oxygen tubing following me, all the way down the path to where I could see her next to the driveway. I was freezing, but kept calling her. I can see Keith beside the car, making snowballs and throwing them in the direction of our walkway, hoping she would follow them. And slowly, she started to get closer to the house and finally came inside.

I waved Keith and Eli goodbye, and headed back to the house, trying to pull all my oxygen tubing behind me when, "SPLAT!" and the first snowball hits the ground next to me. I raced in the door and tried to pull it shut just in time for another snowball to hit "SPLAT!" on the glass part of the door, but it wasn't closing. Here I was thinking I'm safe, but as I try again to shut the door, I realize my oxygen tubing (it is 52' total) is caught in it. I was going to have to open the door again, enough to get the caught tubing free.

I opened the door enough to scream that cutting of oxygen wasn't fair, although I could breathe enough on my own for the moment. I heard no reply, so I decided it was best to just get it done, and I opened the door enough so that I could pull in the remaining 15'+ of tubing inside. As I push on the door, a snowball whizzes past my head in a perfect rotation, dropping plops of snow here and there until it hits the back wall of our bedroom hallway. At that point the tubing is all in, and thank God for it, because I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe.  There was snow everywhere, and I was happy to clean it up because the joy of such ballyhoo far outweighed the energy it took to snow-towel.

My mom had no idea what is going on, but she was smiling at the fact that at 34 and 38, her kids could still play just like that... as kids. Keith and I were texting each other last night about our little snow scenario, and we were still laughing. Apparently, according to my mom, Keith sent her a text about how much snow people got this weekend. He went on to say that some people even got snow inside their houses. Nice, Keith..

There was a time when I couldn't imagine Keith going to college or being a dad. It just didn't seem to be what he wanted for a long time. Today, he is blessed with a wife, two boys, a step-daughter and a step-son. He had a Masters degree in Education, and he teaches middle school math and coaches basketball. I am so proud of him, and I believe he's at just the beginning of all the things that he will accomplish.

So often when I see him, he is stressed out and/or exhausted from all the directions in which he's being pulled. And there are many times when I'm in so much pain, I don't even get out of my bed to say "Hi" when he comes to visit. This past weekend, we crossed paths at the perfect time. My bronchitis not withstanding, I felt well enough to come out, and he was feeling mischievous enough to poke fun at my zipper-handicap. AND, given his mischievous mood, I felt he would tend to laugh rather than get pissed off at my saline-filled syringe blitz attack.

Our moods set the wheels in motion for what ended up being the most fun I've had with my little brother in quite awhile. Keith said that Eli was laughing like crazy from his car seat as his dad made the snowballs that were then launched at YaYa . I'm glad our grown-sibling- silliness gave Eli some giggles, as one can never have too many. My nephews are still too young to understand our family tree. It's hard to understand that their YaYa was only 3 years old when their Daddy was born. It's hard to understand that Mum Mum (my mom) is the mommy of both Daddy and YaYa, and that Apa is our dad. It's very complex, but they understand we're all connected.

To my mortification, my nephews have seen YaYa sick, and Keith has had to explain a lot of this to them. So they've seen me at my strongest and funniest, and they've seen me at my weakest, just as they've seen Daddy when he's super tired and at his most energetic and playful. My greatest hope is that Keith and I continue to enjoy our bond, and that we are an example to my nephews that being siblings is lifelong.  It doesn't ever go away. It's a gift that follows you forever. When they're old enough, I hope they'll get it. And I hope I'll see it between them. A sibling's love is like no other.

Thank you, Mom and Dad!

Memories of a Valentine

For me, this date always reminds me of a Valentine's Day eighteen years ago. I was only 19 years old, a sophomore at Miami University, and a friend I'd known since the year before asked me to go to a Grab A Date at a dance bar that no longer exists in Oxford. He had been interested for a time, but I was slow to submit to my own feelings. I wasn't sure where things would go, but the butterflies in my stomach that night as I got ready were telling my heart there was something special in the making.

We spent the evening in a bar with over fifty people, but I only remember his face as he grinned at my attempts at playing pool (I was pretty good.) I remember those sidelong glances between us, during which I'm sure I tried (and failed) to bat my eyelashes and play coy, but we always ended up in these electric stares that made the surroundings disappear. It was just us in those moments.

Towards the end of the evening, fueled by a drink or two, any remaining guard I had up was released. I remember a remix dance version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" coming on at a deafening level of sound. We met on the dance floor and slow danced, singing to each other, even though we couldn't hear a thing. At the end, there was a walk back to my dorm, and there was finally a kiss.

In the weeks and months to come, we fell in love. We couldn't have fallen harder had we sky-dived towards each other. We soon became pathetic but endearing, schmoopified versions of our former selves. We were together throughout most of our college years, taking breaks here and there. When we graduated, we left behind those two young adults who had fallen so much in love. We traded them for older, more mature versions of ourselves. Things like formals and Grab A Dates were no longer, but the memories made live on in us both.

Love comes in a million different packages, each unique. It is an understatement to say that I have been saturated in love my entire life. The young man I fell for 18 years ago was my true Valentine. Our love was almost effortless. Over the years after graduation, our love changed from romantic to friendship, and then back again. It's all a blur in retrospect.

Ultimately, the friendship won. He has been supportive through my ongoing health issues, and he's been a good listener when I've needed one. We write each other still. Even though it's ancient history, Valentine's Day always make me think of him and brings a smile to my face. Such vividly sweet memories are rare. It's not about wanting to go back or wanting him back. It's a celebration of those two kids that shared that night and who had a love story before life's ups and downs had the chance to mess us up. Granted, we may have been in the Miami bubble, but I thank God for it.

After all, how many couples can slow dance to the remix of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" in a bubble? Cheers to the memory and to the young man who won my young heart!

Happy Valentine's Day!

 

Scars

There is an odd truth about scars. Oftentimes, those scars that remain visible on the body are those from which we can heal. It's those scars you can't see that you remember, and feel, forever. Over my lifetime, I have had major surgery more than two dozen times. I've been cut from breast to pelvis nine times. There is no way to hide those scars. But they fade with time, and become part of your body. It's those emotional scars that cut too deep in the soul to ever forget.

February is my least favorite month of the year, as it is the month I lost my beloved son, Gabriel. I lost him the last day of the month, which is obviously heartbreaking. Every other day of the month reminds me of that last month of pregnancy, those precious last days I was able to enjoy my child in my belly.  There are fairy tales that can't come close to describing the magical power of maternal love. I was into my sixth month, and every fiber of my being had become entwined with all that made up my baby boy. It was delicious, magnificent, eternal love.

As I do on many nights, I spend my last waking minutes holding the last ultrasound picture I have of Gabriel. The other night, I did so and felt moved to put my other hand on my belly. As I felt my abdomen, tracing my scars with my fingers, I realized that there weren't any scars there when Gabriel was within. My belly had a few scars from a few laparoscopic procedures, but otherwise it was a perfect porcelain dome to shelter him.

My physical health has decorated my body with all kinds of graffiti.  Those are scars. Losing Gabriel was the worst pain I've ever felt, but HE is not a scar. He is my child. The internal scars were made the day the ultrasound showed that he had no heartbeat. The scars were made when my brother Keith heard the news, brought me a rose and then retired to a chair where I watched him sob. And even more scars were made that night, as my mom laid in bed with me, trying to console me, and my dad crawled into the bed with us, crying his eyes out.

The worst scars were made the next day when I had to have surgery so they could deliver the baby. The doctor said it would be best that way, for me, but I look back and wish that I could have had the chance to hold him, if only for a moment. Right before surgery, I remember being inconsolably hysterical as I begged my mom not to let them take my child. She was already crying, and my pleas got so desperate that she put her hands over her ears, because it broke her heart to hear me in such pain. As a mother, not being able to do anything to make it better was too much to bear.

No matter how much it hurts to be without him, I would rather have had him than never to have had him at all.  Sometimes we have to sacrifice experiencing great emotional scars in exchange for lifelong gifts. And that's what Gabriel is; my greatest lifelong gift. I am so blessed this angel came into my life, even though his exit almost killed me.

My heart still aches when I see a mother holding her child.  I'm taking baby steps towards healing the wounds to my heart. I'm not a mother in the traditional sense, but he is always cradled against my chest, and our hearts beat in synchronicity.

Whispers from My Womb

I am a blessed woman. Despite all my health issues, my body continues to journey forward (knock on proverbial wood.) I most certainly have angels around me. My son Gabriel is definitely one of them. Come February, I am often saddened by the memory of his passing on the 28th during my sixth month of pregnancy twelve years ago. Actually, it's not quite sadness, but rather a longing for this entity that redefined me from the inside out. Each cell of my body came alive when he moved in, and they all cried when he left.

Mourning truly resides at every level of life, every layer. Every year is different, but I surely didn't anticipate it at 11pm Friday night when our song crept into my mind almost like a fog permeating the air. I could almost feel a mist upon my skin, vibrating to the tune that belonged to us. It was bizarre, quite early, and haunting. There are days I want to call the police to report a missing person, but of course that's impossible. SO many impossibilities at an age of such discoveries and advancements. So I am left to search on my own. It's actually the opposite of searching, it's looking inward, meditating back to those six months when I WAS a "MAMA".

"He was just reaching out to you, Mama," my mom replied when I told her of my late-night experience. There was that word. The word I always yearned to hear but never had. "Mama" is one of the most powerful words in all of language. It means so many things, and once called, it's as though a crown has been placed on your head. My crown only exists in theory. While I am not an outward mama, my spirit is a mama every moment of the day.

I can feel him just below the level of the living. Sort of like some of the roots of trees that aren't too far below the surface. Even if the tree dies, those roots still exist, pleading with the Universe that someone, somewhere will remember them. If you own the land where the tree has died, you might hope those roots will grow into another tree. I can't count how often I have wished that the tiny roots left behind would grow into another miracle, but it wasn't to be. There was no future for the roots of my tree.

The day I lost him, before I even knew he was gone, our song came on the radio on my way to work. As I always did when I heard it, I sang out loud to my miracle.  It was one of our special moments, although, in retrospect, EVERY moment was special. I remember the black velvet dress, the pearls, the heels all decorating the bump underneath it all. I looked like a beautiful pregnant lady the day I lost him. I looked back, searching time and sensations for the moment I felt his heartbeat stop, but there wasn't one. He just died. It wasn't my fault, but I still had a broken heart.

During my pregnancy, I would sit in our rocking chair and imagine holding my child in my arms. Rocking his tears and fears away. It's only been in the last few years that the image has changed. Rather than me rocking him, it's as though he is rocking me. What person survives four stays in the ICU over just five years? Who doesn't die once sepsis has invaded her entire abdomen? There are miracles that have happened in my life that I can't explain, and I've had spiritual experiences that defy our Earthly reality. Somehow, losing my son has brought some of the most glorious miracles to my life. I can be sad, but I will never regret our beloved relationship.

What a divine cycle I've been on with my son's spirit, and that of his twin who passed early in my pregnancy. As humans do, we nurture our kids and when we grow old, it is they who care for us. On the contrary, my son's infant spirit has nurtured me through the heartbreak and pain of his loss, and the grief and pain of my physical disease. When it comes my time to die, certainly not a moment I'm running to, but not one I fear just the same, I'll truly have the chance to be the kind of mom I wished I could have been in the first place.

Even though I think of him every day, when I hear our song, I hear him calling me. We embrace on a floor like a celestial sea. He crawls back in his home in my womb, I hold my belly and we dance. And in those exquisite moments, I remember that I AM Mama. Such severe pain that has brought out of me such phenomenal love, how can I ever complain? He'll always remain, never far from my heart. My soul redefined by something only the heaven's could provide. In a language only a mother could translate, he calls me, "Mama, dance with me." And I shall always oblige.

Labels

We live in a world of labels. There are certain labels I've learned to accept over the past fifteen years of illness. Some people just label me as sick. Others see me as nothing but a girl with oxygen tubing in her nose. Two years ago, I had my first experience with making a child cry out of fear at the sight of me. It was one of those moments that was almost frozen in time.

I recall smiling at her as I stood near her mom's cart in the grocery store. The precious little girl was staring at me. I smiled and sent her a little wave. Instead of getting a smile in return, I saw her face dissolve into fear and she started crying to her mom as she pointed at me like I was some kind of monster. I can't remember a time when I felt the desire to flea the scene as much as I did at that moment.

I have long gotten used to the 24/7 oxygen I must wear ever since the H1N1 in 2009 that made it a requirement. But that night, it felt like a mask of terror that I couldn't take off,  at least not without slowing losing the ability to breathe. Being oxygen dependent didn't seem so much like a disability until the last few years as my strength has started coming back in phases and my desire to pursue dating and getting back out into the world has been lighting a fire in my heart. The feisty Jessica is coming back, but then another obstacle comes, and she feels like that "real" life is as far away as the moon.     

My most recent hospitalization, I was discharged on Christmas Eve, and a nurse met us at home to teach my mom how to administer the remaining 48 more hours of antibiotics through my PICC line. My pneumonia was pretty serious, so the nurse felt the need to talk FOREVER about what and how things needed to be done. She asked me a million questions, and at the end of our discussion she said, "So you're basically homebound."

As true as that statement may be, it was literally like taking a bullet to the heart. When you spend every weekday alone, it takes a positive attitude in order not to submit to the abyss of depression that comes with the isolation.  It has been years since I have gone out with friends for a coffee or dinner out. Truthfully, many of my friends have gone their own way as I have gone mine, with my way being into the depth of my disease. What's ironic is that I'm healthier now than I've been in a long time, but many relationships have gone beyond the point of mending.  I've been in isolation so long, it's almost like being forgotten.

I never saw myself as "homebound" because it carried for me a very negative connotation. For me, it implied a person who has buried herself so deep into her home that there is no hope of drawing her out. It was something older people do who have lots of cats and are hoarders on some level. It couldn't possibly be me. I'm 38. I still hope to have a life ahead of me. I still hope to be independent someday. And that may be, but this has been the season of harsh realities.

Just a week after be referred to as "homebound", I had an appointment with my PCP. She and I are days apart in age (she's older.) We were going over all the details of my recent hospitalization, and she was talking about how truly sick I was. I, per usual, crumbled into a sea of tears as I almost always do in my appointments with her. I was telling her how frustrated I was that every time I stand back up, something else knocks me back down. My September surgery had gone so well, and I was hoping to end the year on a positive note. This pneumonia had another idea, and it just made it very clear that I need to be on this oxygen for now, despite my goals of getting off of it.

I asked her, "What kind of man is ever going to date a woman, kiss a woman, make love to a woman on oxygen?"

She replied, "You may be able to find someone else with a disability."

Fortunately I was already crying, so she couldn't tell how hurtful her statement was. It certainly knocked me down a few notches on my pride, if nothing else. More than anything, it made me realize that the plastic tubing hanging from my nose doesn't just drive children to tears, but it qualifies as disabled. So I am homebound with a disability. My stock has taken a huge hit these past few weeks. Looking back, I shouldn't have been so upset, because a person with a disability is no less lovable than someone without one. No less lovable than me or the man I may find.

I got home from my appointment feeling more lost than usual. One of the big downfalls of being "homebound" is all the time and isolation to overthink things that probably don't deserve the time.  So yes, I need a little extra help breathing, but things could be SO much worse. Who knows if that little girl in the produce department was crying about my Oxygen tubing. My hair just might have looked like shit that day.

The word "disability" is just a label. It has nothing to do with who I am now or who I will be. Focusing less on my disability and more time on my love of writing, I am taking charge of what I will become. Perhaps one day I will be labeled a New York Times Bestseller. Time will tell.

As for being homebound, I've started to rethink that word. In the midst of this cold, cold winter, every time I even open the door to let my dog out, I feel so fortunate for having a home. Just the wind against the window makes me think of all the homeless children who are growing up on the streets without blankets and roofs. There are whole families who have nowhere to go. It's all heartbreaking to think about. So when I think of it that way, I'm beyond grateful for being homebound. For the other reasons I'm "homebound", they'll work out in time.

As for love, I'll find it. Or it will find me. Perhaps our disabilities will be the thing that links us.  Hopefully we'll find each other as I enter the Spring of my life. I believe love will come, someday soon.                                                                                                                                                                                                             

Kneading Healing

In our complicated world with high stress and medical issues, there are only a few things that give me peace when I feel like hell. And that's exactly how I've felt the past few weeks as I've battled bronchitis. Not only did I get to spend Thanksgiving in the ER, but they gave me a steroid to "help my lungs". I'm truly unable to comprehend how athletes are capable of taking steroids and are then able to throw, hit and catch balls (other than their own), how they lift weights without crushing themselves with the dumbbell bars, how they run so fast and not have heart attacks right after they cross the finish line, etc. (you get my point.)

I happily accepted the steroids, as they were supposed to help. But after this steroid experience, I would sooner run around my neighborhood block naked than deal with the side effects that have gone along with what I can only call a messed the hell up experience. Yes, it has helped my bronchitis a bit, but the crazy side effects have been hell, such as anxiety, insomnia, crazy thinking, anger, fear, and those are the easy ones.

Allow me to paint you a picture:

I received my first dose of the steroid in the Emergency Room on Thanksgiving. That night my sleep was very disrupted. I woke up at 5am and all I could find on TV was Rocky IV. It was the part where Rocky was in Russia training, and they kept showing the Russian boxer using all these fancy machines, whereas Rocky is running with lumber on his back, he's working out in this old, rundown barn where he's doing pull ups. He's got  YO ADRIAN, her brother Pauly and his coach all in a wheelbarrow and was lifting them. Basically, he was training like a bad ass.

Anyway, that night (I had been up since 5 am), I was giving my mom a foot rub, and when she winced I told her what Rocky's coach kept telling him. "No pain. No pain. You feel no pain."

This resulted in a gaggle of giggles, the type that practically wrestle you into submission. I went on to relay the rest of the movie when Rocky starts winning, and even the Gorbachev character stood up and cheered for him. When the fight was over, Rocky got up and talked about our countries' potential for change, yada, yada, yada. My mom was still in stitches about my "No pain" speech. I don't know what moment made the floodgates open, but suddenly I was crying. She tried to talk to me, but I was in a torrent of tears. The mood swings have been unbelievable.

When my tears settled momentarily to a sniffle, I attempted to explain to my mom what had happened:

I told her that I had grown up during the Cold War, and that I remember it being known that Russia was our enemy. And I told her that in the second grade, we had an assignment to write a letter to someone famous.  I chose to write Gorbachev a letter, which I wanted to hand deliver, to sit on his lap and ask him to be friends with America. At that part I was sobbing. and I do mean sobbing, about the amazing transformation of our history.

These steroids really screwed with my mind, and my poor mother had to witness all of it!

Yesterday was the first day I didn't feel like Cybil on crack. I felt like just Cybil, but even.she has been quiet. Thank GOD, because she's dropped enough F-bombs along the way to sink a battleship. Instead, I'm withdrawing from the damn things, which is causing all kinds of symptoms that I need not share. I'm not enjoying it, but it's better than when I was ON the steroids.

When I was little, my Nana would make the best homemade noodles whenever I didn't feel well, emotionally or physically. I can still taste them. They weren't complicated at all, but there is a specific kind of unconditional love that must go in them. Since Nana's passing, my mom has been making the noodles. She puts her own kind of unconditional love and peace into them.  Not to mention, she always seemed to sense when I needed some noodle therapy, and soon you would find yourself with the best noodles in the world.

Yesterday, I was feeling so frustrated with all the crazy withdrawal side effects of the Prednisone (steroid), I decided to do something that would make me feel good. I was standing at the kitchen counter thinking about this, and my eyes meandered to the canisters in front of me full of flour and sugar. My brain started spinning. I went to the fridge and we did have eggs. Hhhmm.... I'm feeling yucky, and I could make some Nana Noodles!

I first need to disclose that I have NEVER made these noodles. So I started with the mound of flour and poured the egg into the middle. I started mixing it together with my fingers. It was gross. So I added a little more flour and another egg. I did more gooey mixing. I repeated last two steps. At this point, I had what looked like a bread loaf of dough. I started kneading the dough.

The feeling of it in between my fingers and the smell of the flour took me back to a time when I was standing on a chair and watching my Nana doing the same thing. It wasn't so much about being young. It was the security of being with my Nana. It was the feeling of sharing something special with her.

Back to my kitchen, I was kneading the dough with both hands, putting all the happiness and fond memories into my motions, when I suddenly felt as though my hands were entwined with an other's. I was reminded of the poem about the footprints  ("The years when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when I carried you.")  As I kneaded that dough, it was as if my Nana's soft, porcelain hands were entwined with mine, and together we were making something I've associated with comfort and love my whole life. When it was time to roll out the dough, I felt her presence again. The whole thing (the mixing, rolling out, cutting noodles, drying noodles) was a rite of passage. I found it therapeutic and calming.

There are traditions in each family, but they will only remain as traditions if they are passed along to the next generation.  What effects they have on us is a mixed bag of emotions, although even the less positive ones can teach us great lessons. The most important thing I have learned (and continue to learn) is to stay educated on the treatment I've been given. I blindly took those steroids, and the next thing I know, my mom is staring at me as I cry over a letter to Gorbachev I wrote in the 2nd grade about the Cold War. It wasn't pretty, and it could have been prevented had I known more about the medication.

We have to be aware of every substance we put in our body, from benefits to side effects. The sacred vessels we've been given aren't returnable or exchangeable. I have no idea how long the withdrawal effects of these steroids will last, but I am praying that they will be gone soon. Until then, I just call on my angels, especially my Nana when I am kneading healing.