A is for Adventures

The Hard Work of Beauty: An Update

2012-01-01T10:25:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I forget what it's like to be really sick: so sick that I will suddenly and unexpectedly have trouble walking, so sick that simple tasks like brushing my teeth wears me out, so sick that I cannot dream the future. Nearly 19 months ago I went into remission from Lyme Disease (after being partially paralyzed, after having it for four years, after not being able to work for the majority of that time). And in the time since I went into remission, I haven't looked back: I finished grad school. I worked. I published a collection of liturgies. I exercised regularly. I took a vacation or two. I had energy all day. I dated a man who showed me Love and goodness. I giggled under the sea. I made some powerful decisions. The bee played cupid: I became attached to others. And in a few weeks, I will begin work on my Ph.D. in Leadership Studies. I write this short list of accomplishments because I need to remember the hard work of beauty, and you, o weary soul, must be reminded that you have a future, a bright future.

For these reasons, this blog remains live. Welcome to my life lived for a few years (2008-10). I am the same person today you see in the posts, but I am more - much, much more. My friend Joel says I change the fastest out of anyone he knows. I'd say that's pretty accurate; I surprise no one more than myself. Today, I am surely creating my garden; I am looking more at the future than the past; and though I'm still scared, I'm more likely to speak my fears out into the world.

Because when I do, the world surely speaks back.

So speak, dear reader, speak. Even if you believe no one is listening, someone or something is. If you cannot speak, move your arm or leg - anything to show Her/Him/It that you're still alive. As long as your garden has some semblance of life, the bee can play cupid and spread brightness in and through you.

Blessings to you,

A.

The Bee Plays Cupid: An Update

2011-06-06T21:03:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

These past three days were the first indications, in what seems like ages, that Seattle has emerged from hibernation. The mountains, this area's treasure, have been found and uncovered. Their white coats are full and bright; the sparkle blinds my eyes. The flora plays at the mountains' feet: The trees wink hello, the flowers flirt back, the bees play cupid: their pollen is like fairy dust, spreading good cheer to all. Meanwhile, the blue canvas watches it all from above.

And I wore my beer and wine dress for the first time since last summer.

My beer and wine dress is gaining a reputation for picking up men, as I have already dated two guys after meeting them while wearing the dress. My ex-boyfriend was actually the one who gave the dress its name. He explained that there are two kinds of dresses: The first kind is a dress you could drink beer in; the other kind is one you could drink wine in. My dress, he said, is the kind you could wear drinking beer and wine both.

It turned out to be more of a beer dress on Sunday evening though. A girl in remission has gotta choose.

This dress is one of a kind. With a pink-red and white pattern of what look like daisies, cap sleeves, a narrow, plunging neckline, and an A-line skirt that touches my knees, it is surprisingly unique and simple. I feel sexy, comfortable and beautiful in it. Someday I hope to pattern my wedding dress after it.

I remember when I purchased the dress because it was the same day my bike was stolen, which was six days after I sold my car, nearly four years ago. Though this dress has never seen me own any form of transportation, it has traveled with me everywhere: to Florida, to Madison, to Austin and to St. Andrew's Abbey in Valyermo, California.

It was at the monastery where I met Brother Casanova, so I call him, in my beer and wine dress. It was my first time at the Abbey and I was nervous and unsure about how to act around the monks, for they intimidated me. At the time, the closest thing to high liturgy I had ever been to was a funeral in a Catholic church when I was 13-years-old - that and the church I was attending in 2009 did communion every week. Otherwise, I was a true outsider walking into the monastery, only uniquely identified by her beer and wine dress.

Wearing their all-black robes, the monks, I assumed, were too holy, too pious, and too off-limits for me. And then when you put all these men in the same room together, they formed an impenetrable sea of holiness. Or so it seemed. Not only that, but God surely must have given them bodies that magically cool down in order to withstand the desert temperatures and Lord knows I am intimidated by and jealous of amazing bodies. (How ironic that these guys didn't even have to show skin to fluster me.) Yet, the monks also spoke so articulately, and they sang so beautifully, and I sensed a real peace about their presence. I did not know how to interpret their big, white smiles, either. Surely there must be something I am missing. Because they were just too nice.

Brother Casanova was the the nicest of them all. He was 30-years-old, Italian, handsome, intelligent, passionate. During our first night in the desert, he told us about his journey to St. Andrew's. He told us that he had known from a young age that he was made for the monastic life. He held a job in Los Angeles that gave him summers off, so for many, many summers he traveled to the far ends of the earth looking for the right monastic community. He visited Catholic, Hindu and Buddhist communities, and each time he entered one he always asked, "Lord, is this where you want me?" By the end of each summer, however, he always left disappointed and still lost.

Back in L.A., a friend told him about the Abbey in the Mojave Desert, a little more than an hour from the city. So he went. He went for a weekend. He liked what he saw. He went for several more weekends. He still liked what he saw. Soon, he went for a few weeks at a time. And then a full summer. And, finally, he quit his job and entered the community full-time. "It was the first time I entered a monastic community and didn't ask, 'Lord, is this where you want me?'" Brother Casanova said.

Sometimes we have to enter life blind to end up seeing.

For the first day or two I was at the Abbey, I noticed Brother Casanova was staring at me. Like really staring at me. At meals, as we passed each other by, in the chapel, everywhere we saw each other, he just stared. Naturally, I assumed he was into me. The guy hadn't said his final vows and priests have been known to turn after meeting a beautiful woman. I entertained thoughts of him approaching the Abbot at the end of my week, confessing he was in love with me, him dramatically throwing his robe off, and the two of us running away from the Abbey together. It was all very romantic and beautiful and "The Graduate"-like in my head.

On the second day Brother Casanova was staring at me, I was wearing my beer and wine dress at the lunch buffet table and helping myself to seconds when he approached me. Perhaps he is here to confess his love to me, I thought to myself. His big blue eyes connected with mine. My heart stood still. He opened his mouth to speak.

"What nationality are you?"

"Oh...what...I...why?" I stammered.

"I have a friend back home who looks just like you, and you remind me of her."

Ah, yes, of course. That would be a more rational, logical reason to explain his behavior.

And all I could do was smile. Because Brother Casanova is just like us. Perhaps, I am just like him.

******

Five years ago today, I was just a 24-year-old girl-budding-woman who was afraid of the world. When I said this to a friend yesterday, she gasped. "I don't believe it," she said.

But it was true.

"I am highly functional, ambitious, driven," I said, "but I was deeply afraid of people and of feeling and of my body. I didn't take care of myself. I didn't know how - or even that I needed to support myself. Sure, I started young compared to most people. I was in counseling when I was 17-years-old and I started telling my story at 18. Maybe it was just the maturation process or maybe it was getting Lyme. Either way, I am a highly different woman than I was five years ago."

Lately, I have had friends verbally relate their feelings to me - you know, those feelings that you're either consciously or unconsciously feeling and thinking and even acting upon but just can't seem to admit to yourself, let alone others? And then when the person sitting across from you speaks the very thought or feeling, it's as if someone has filled in the moat, and the buildings have been torn down, and I can let my hair fall to the ground, and it is safe to climb out of the beautiful mess and walk out into the world. My friends' vulnerability invites me to do the same.

This journey of mine is constantly being tweaked and retweaked, so I am going to change my mind from my last post in September 2010. At that time, I thought this journey was about relearning how to feel. I was just three months into remission, I was still learning about how to re-enter the world, my mom was just diagnosed with a fatal illness and I was reeling from love lost. Nine months later, I have weathered a month when I thought I had relapsed (only to find out that I had gotten a sudden bout of yeast that mimicked the Lyme symptoms; this falls into the top 10 scariest experiences of my life); I have completed a collection of liturgies with a publishing house; I have been wooed by Austin, Texas; I have met God in the flesh in the form of a Hindi cab driver; I have sewed pillows with my mom; I have made some significant life decisions; I have discovered my third chakra; and I have wept over the estrangement of a family member. All this proves that I am certainly not relearning how to feel, but rather, acknowledging that I've been feeling all along.

When I acknowledge the flesh - when I acknowledge that I am cold, hot, achy, tired, grumpy, envious, annoyed, in love, in hate - I am truly and unmistakably my Self. I know this because I can feel adrenaline pumped through my body all the way down to my toes. I know this because I can lace special words into my sentences as often as I use articles. I know this because I will be sweating profusely after an intense writing session. I know this because I make eye contact and I know this by the number of people I spontaneously meet and I know this because I walk away feeling energized, also known as experiencing life.

I have always had life. But I have to keep telling myself this. Have to because there's very little, relatively speaking, in my life that's been terribly life-giving. From living with another family for a year due to my mother's illness, to the long abuse by a brother, to severe depression and attempted suicide, to back surgery, to chronic Lyme Disease, I have some serious attachment issues. I am not like Brother Casanova. I don't miss people. Well, there is one person I miss, and she lives in another city. Otherwise, I love people, I care for people, but I don't miss people.

I have to remind myself, however, that there is hope. The woman I miss? We were born in the same hospital on the same day just a few hours apart. To have been given a bosom sister, a lifelong friend, the sac in my mother's womb was surely filled with mercy. Apparently God knew that I would grow up feeling very, very alone, so He/She/It gave me a little of Him/Her/Itself in the flesh so that I would be reminded that I have never, ever been alone, even since the day of my birth.

There is more hope. I was given two years to play, to take adventures, to get to know my Self. I would never have carved out the space for that if Lyme hadn't weaseled its way into my life.

Still more: I am made to speak, and I thank God I have something to say and something others want to hear, too, because my story has inspired thousands of people and will probably continue to do so.

Last but not least, I have hope because - and I know I have already said this - I straight-out, undeniably, unapologetically feel: I feel desire. I feel disappointment. I feel frustration and I feel passion and I feel betrayal. I feel happiness. I feel regret. I feel fear. And I feel love. Even for my enemies, I feel so much love.

Five years ago today, I met Lyme Disease. One year ago tomorrow, I let her go. I miss her - not the illness per se - but the lessons I learned and the people I met and the places I went and the lifestyle I carried on while in recovery. If we have to let go of someone or something in order to feel the attachment, then suffering is worth it. Someone once asked (paraphrasing), "O death, where is thy sting?" If suffering must happen, let the bee play cupid! Let me be stung! Let the bee carry my brightness and attach it to another. Let the other's brightness attach to mine. And then make sweet, sticky honey that never goes bad and never lets us go.

A.

The Best Way I Know How: An Update

2010-09-28T17:43:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

I have never experienced such prolonged euphoria like I have these past few months. Not only do I wake from a night's sleep feeling thoroughly rested, but I also have so much energy that I'm pretty sure I could bottle and sell it. I would surely call it, "Anna's Arsenal of Ass-Kicking Attitude." Unfortunately, it would be difficult to sell a bottle of air, so I guess I will just have to settle for these words or, if you see me in person, the "smile that covers my entire face."

Since I went into remission on June 7, I have run a 5K (in 32:21!); visited St. Andrew's Abbey again; explored Seattle through food, stairs and the outdoors; signed up for a museum membership; furnished and colored my apartment; added a few writing projects to my plate; and, to satisfy all those romantics out there, took a risk with a man. It has been a busy and fun summer full of surprises, glee and creativity.

This summer has also been wrought with death or, at least, dying. A little more than three weeks after I went into remission, my mom was diagnosed with a fatal illness. At first, this news rocked me - I knew so because my entire body felt heavy and achy. I absolutely believe that our bodies speak to us and this time my body was telling me that I was feeling guilty for being healthy. Thankfully, my spiritual director noticed this immediately and talked me down from the proverbial ledge. "You cannot go where your mother is going," he said. My body's heavy cloak began to dissipate soon after. And, yet, grieving never ceases.

My entire Self - mind, body, spirit - seems to be engaged in a tension I have never before experienced. Whereas before I experienced an either-or kind of life - either I am sick or I'm not; either I'm happy or I'm not; either I like you or I do not - now life seems to have been tipped over, leaving me to experience a whole mess of emotions; at times I cannot distinguish which is which.

But I'm feeling them all the same.

And that, my friends, is exactly how I know I am healthy and becoming healthier. Because I can laugh, play and explore, while also feeling sad, confused and angry. (It's like somebody agreed to pay me for saying "fuck" - I swear it just rolls right off the tongue.) Why even my lymph nodes will grow a cold to complete the trifecta.

Without negating the biological nature of Lyme Disease, this recovery has really been a journey about relearning how to feel. When the Lyme weaseled its way into my life, a few seemingly contradictory things occurred. First, I became partially paralyzed, leaving me numb and unable to move. Second, the Lyme felt very painful: my skin crawled, my muscles ached and I felt incredibly fatigued. So on one hand, I stopped feeling, but strangely, I also began to feel too much. Thus, the following four years became a lesson in how to feel in ways that healed and soothed rather than ravaged and suffocated.

Last week, my pastor Ryan asked me how I was doing and I told him - ohhhh, I told him. Because what came out were a barrage of feelings, as there was and is no box for the feelings that exist within me. For the next 10 minutes, I verbalized everything I could think of, leaving nothing out. Shortly afterward, I apologized to Ryan for my emotional vomit, but, quite fortunately, he wouldn't accept it. Because instead he chose to accept me, to accept all of me, without judgment or blame.

Unbeknownst to me, I had a pivotal conversation with my spiritual director just before my mom's news hit. "Why was David 'a man after God's own heart'?" he asked.

"Hmm, I don't know," I said.

"It's because David gave God his whole heart. Obviously David was a very flawed man, but just as God gives us His whole heart, so, too, does he want us to give Him ours."

God isn't interested in who we should be, but who we are; He wants us to be true to ourselves and to whom He made us to be. With enduring mercy, God gives us the freedom to enter into the space to work things out within ourselves and within our communities, in interaction with He/She/It.

Isn't that lovely? Isn't that freeing? That we don't have to be forced to be someone that we're not ready for? If so, getting Lyme and living in the consequential recovery was the space I needed to be the someone I couldn't be otherwise. I truly believe that I wouldn't be able to feel this much and to love this much and to want this much without those fucking buggers.

This truly is a scary prospect, however, but being on the other side - or, rather, another side - gives me hope that uncertainty propels us forward into something different, something unseen and something powerful. Indeed, uncertainty is what keeps us feeling, which is the best way I know how to continue living.

A.

The Done Goodbye Hello

2010-06-07T18:18:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

We were still walking down the hall towards his office when my doctor asked the question I have been waiting for.

"So are we done?"

"Yes! I am done! I am declaring it!"

I guess I didn't have to wait for his permission after all.

"You are smiling so big," he said.

I giggled. "I am so happy."

Though our appointment was short (the way my checkbook likes it), we accomplished some great things. First, he said that I am now done with intensive treatment. I am not done, however. I must maintain a healthy lifestyle, which basically means that I sleep, rest and exercise. I should probably eat well, too. Second, he ordered me to stop taking all my supplements except for these: probiotics for two more months; half my dosage of ashwaganda for the next month, and then stopping if I'm doing well; and half my dosage of the thyroid medicine for the next month, and then stopping if I'm doing well. In regards to ashwaganda, I will know that I'm doing well when I feel the same amount of energy. In regards to the thyroid medicine, I will know that I'm doing well when I do not have an intolerance to cold temperatures. Furthermore, we talked about the coil machine. I told him that I have decided that I wish to do something else with my money that I feel is more important at the moment, so I am going to hold off on buying the machine.

"So I want to talk to you about your options from here on out," he said. "Based on what we know has worked and not worked with people who have formerly gone into remission, you have three choices. First, you can do nothing and wait and see. If the Lyme comes back, contact us asap and we'll get you back into intensive treatment. Do not wait. The good news is that you should respond just fine.

"The second and third options are akin to having HIV/AIDS. Now I don't mean to scare you with this -"

"- Oh, no, I get it," I interrupted.

"The second option is that you take antimicrobials (or in the case of HIV/AIDS, antivirals) for the duration of your life."

"You mean, forever?"

"Yes. You could do this herbally, by either taking Cat's Claw (also known as Samento) or Cumanda. You would take 20 drops twice per day."

"And the third option?"

"The third option is that you would take one antibiotic, such as Biaxin or Zithromax or Minocycline every day for the rest of your life."

"OK." I paused, looked to the floor, then looked up. "What do you suggest?"

"When did you get Lyme?"

"Four years ago to the day yesterday. That's when I got the symptoms."

"And when did you begin treatment?"

I hesitated. "Well, I, I - a naturopath diagnosed me two-and-a-half months in, but all she did was put me on herbals that just minimized the symptoms. I was on that for about five months and then stopped. It wasn't until I saw my old doctor that I started antibiotics, which was two years ago almost to the day."

"If you had gotten treated within a year of becoming symptomatic, I would suggest that you could do nothing. But since you were treated outside that window, I suggest that you take an antimicrobial. They are not cheap, but -"

"It's OK. I'll do it. And I have taken Cat's Claw a few times before, so I am used to it."

My doctor picked up his laptop to begin typing up his notes. He spoke them out loud: "Done treating for now - no! - I'm going to 'X' that. Done treating!"

******

After a few months of contemplation, I have decided to end this blog. I have hesitated with this decision - nearly reneging on the idea - because I love to write and I love to share this weird story of mine. Every now and then even, I will go back and read these small pieces of history; often it feels like I'm reading them for the first time, as if someone else had been in my shoes. But, nope, it was me. Or rather, it was the Father, Son and Holy Spirit in cahoots to do something unfathomable, at least according to our naked eyes.

Four years ago, I could never have imagined that I would be this sexy: with my cheeks aglow, with a skip in my step, with arms and legs that move freely. I could never have imagined to have friends who ask to celebrate with me. I could never have imagined how "powerful" I have become, as a friend keeps telling me. And I could never have imagined that life is pleasant and fun and...good.

Yes, good. While I have grown in ways too many to count, one of the main ways I have come into a fuller understanding is that people are good. So are our bodies and the earth and our minds. We are beings whom God made in Their own image. And in the beginning, They called us "very good." But due to the fall of mankind, we have made choices to follow our own idols. For me, I have a few: I am "very stubborn," according to several friends; I am a perfectionist; and I run away from relationships when they get scary. The "very good," then, has been grossly hijacked.

Recently, I have told a few friends that I never thought I would be well. In fact, I fully expected to be ill for the rest of my life. "Then why even try?" Paul asked me. "I guess I am a fighter," I said. "I gave up everything I had into fighting this." Truly, the aggressor in me shows: I am "very stubborn"; I am a woman fighting for meaning; and I am fighting to be here. Sure, I have done a pretty good job of running from my problems, but that's one fight I hope I never win.

So I fully hoped, yet, I fully had to stop expecting. I had to stop telling it what and when and where and how. I had to stop thinking just how much it would really take, and I had to let go of how much money it would cost. I had to stop thinking I knew better.

And, yet, I did know better. I know my body better than anyone else. I know what I can handle, what I can eat, what my temperament is, how my story has been written. If I want to admit it, I even know what I feel and what I want. If is key.

A few weeks ago, Grant asked me why I spoke about Lyme as if it was my life, that it defined who I am. Of course, I became upset by the question and in the ensuing conversation, but after thinking about it, my prayer for me and for everyone who experiences any kind of lengthy suffering is that we would see ourselves as God's image-bearers. We were made good. God did not make a mistake. I don't know why you struggle with what you do, but I do know that They do not waste our pain. Your story is meant to be shared. With God, yourself, others. Because this I know: all will be well. All will be well.

A.

[Thank you thank you for walking with me these past two years. Your readership, encouragement, love and prayers have absolutely kept me going when all I wanted to do is wither away and die. So while I am sad to discontinue sharing this weird story in this context, I am not going far. In fact, I hope to be popping up again soon. In light of that, this blog will remain "live" indefinitely, and you may continue to email me. I would love to hear from you! If you so incline, I am on Facebook, so feel free to "friend" me and please let me know you are a reader. Unfortunately, my status updates are quite vague and will remain that way. Bummer for you; funny for me. Still, perhaps you will find me posting news on here from time to time. I promise to be more direct.

Last but not least, my prayer for each one of you is that you would just go, that you would experience movement, growth, health, joy, peace and meaning. I believe in the resurrection: that Christ took our infirmities to the cross and that He conquered all sin and brokenness there. He rose! He is alive! Thus, He/She/It is truly worth engaging with. It really is spectacular for me, and I hope the same for you, too. Love love.]

Four Years Ago

2010-06-06T23:59:00.000-07:00

Return, O Lord, rescue my soul; save me because of your lovingkindness.

- Psalm 6:4

Dear friends,

"Do you know what I was doing four years ago?" I asked Paul tonight. I meant it to be a rhetorical question.

"You were stumbling through a park," he said.

At that, I began to weep. In grief and in loss, in happiness and in celebration, in praise and in hope. For if God can do this - if He can make me walk again, if He can defy my expectations - then the possibilities really are endless.

Who would have guessed that I would spend my anniversary honoring God's story, living in and through me, by reading it to my fellow meaning-makers? Who knew that on this day I would get to see Clark, my friend and mentor from Portland, who has seen me go from OK to worse to fabulous? Who knew that I would receive a bouquet of flowers from my church community, all because they wanted to celebrate my expected remission with me?

I am truly, truly blessed. All the events and conversations today have reminded me that I have never - ever - been alone, not even when my bottom hurt because I was sitting in bed all day. It makes me believe that all will be well, that we can still remain surprised when few things surprise us anymore, that the story is never over.

So be well, my friends. The road is bumpy and the journey tiring, but the discovery is oh-so-spectacular.

A.

Physicology/46

2010-06-05T16:14:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

Early this morning, I went to a yoga class. The instructor was new to me, and she went through the poses quickly. I wondered why it felt like we were in such a race. Usually I would have trouble keeping up - if not because I don't know what I'm doing, then because my joints ache and I must move slower than others. Today, however, I kept up with the class. I had more energy than ever and hardly broke a sweat. My fingers extended without pain and I did not feel fatigue. During the last ten minutes of the class - in my opinion, the best part of the class because this is the time when the quiet wraps around the Self - I lay on the ground, looked out the window, and watched the "It's" then "in" then "the" and finally "P-I" spin it's message against the earth's baby blue curtain.

******

The clouds are hibernating today. I am currently sitting at a coffee shop on the top of a hill. I am wearing shorts for the first time in nine months. And I feel no pain. My eyes feel only like flowers are blooming out of the sockets, the only pain on my head comes from my thick ponytail weighing everything down, and my legs just want to move.

I feel incredibly fabulous, too.

******

Last night, over too much Mexican food that seemed to take a nap in our stomachs, I lamented to my friend Mike how much I have worked in the past three weeks. Expecting him to chide me for falling into this bad habit again, he looked me in the eye and said, "I can imagine that after experiencing something like you have - after not being able to work - you just want to prove that you can do it."

"You're right," I said. "It's hard to stop working or running when I know there was a time that I was unable to."

******

My next appointment with my doctor is Monday. And I cannot wait. I have resisted self-diagnosing myself: I nearly decided not to purchase my thyroid medicine last week, but decided to wait until he approved. I have been telling everyone that I will be going into remission. And I am ready to tell people another story.

A.

The Sift

2010-06-03T22:17:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

The events in the next four days will surely initiate a time of grief and a time to begin sifting through the depths of my soul. And I will not be able to stop it. Though I have been eagerly awaiting this weekend for a long time now, I am not sure if I truly believe what will happen. Everything I've known for the last four years, two years, four months, and two months even - I fully expect everything to rise to the surface.

I will be saying goodbye to a few pieces of my Self and saying hello to some new ones. Most likely my lifestyle will change: perhaps I won't have to carry as much medicine with me; perhaps my phone will stop beeping at me all day long. Furthermore, I plan for one loyalty to disappear to create space for the possibility of others to grow.

And I am scared. I am tense. I am avoiding thinking about it, preparing for it, grieving it. What will I do next? Who will I be afterward? Who will continue to walk with me? These are questions I am asking God right now. Yet, I have few answers at the moment, which is probably the right place to be in. I suppose, then, I just lean in: I trust, I celebrate, I grieve, I be honest. And I invite others in, as well as to do the same.

A.

Hold On

2010-06-03T06:08:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

"Hold on," I told the group of meaning-makers tonight, interrupting my own contribution to the discussion. "Let me swallow these pills first."

I slurped up some water, threw the pills into my mouth, cocked my head backward, and swallowed.

"So where was I?" My eyes looked to the sky. "Ahh, yes..."

A.

Falling Up

2010-06-02T23:06:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

Unsurprisingly, rain falls down in Seattle. It comes when it wants, stays for however it wants, and dumps however much it wants. And I love it. I love the feeling when the raindrops tickle my skin. And I love that the rain cools my body temperature. Rain makes me recall my childhood: the countless soccer games played underneath the spray, the mud inadvertently slung from the bottoms of soles, the soaked uniforms stripped off as soon as the game was over.

The rain does have its downside, however. In the last week, the slick on the transit bus floors - caused by wet soles walking in and out of the rain - have made me fall twice. The first time happened as I walked up the steps of a bus. My left foot came out from underneath me, falling underneath my right thigh. The fall surprised me, but I quickly allowed myself to go with it; resistance only would have made it worse. It was the best yoga pose I've ever done.

This morning, I fell for the second time as I prepared to deboard. I stood up in anticipation of the bus stop and felt the bus leaning downhill. Just as the bus came to a screeching halt, my boots came out from underneath me, my left arm grabbed a railing, and a male passenger to my right held my right arm. I thought I would catch myself, but my shoes were too slick and my momentum leaned forward. My left hand slid down the railing, the man's hand moved with my shifting downward weight, and I let my legs lengthen. I safely and gently did a butt-plant on the floor of a bus full of commuters. I heard a few screams and an "Oh my!" but I hardly said a word. Once on the floor, somebody asked if I was alright, to which I replied, "Oh yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine." I jumped up, walked off the bus and brushed off my bottom. I smiled.

******

Three months into my illness, I dropped a six-pack of coke. Three cans split open and it's sugary contents launched in multiple directions, mostly all over my pants. I darted (which was, relative to my movement at the time, twice as fast as a shimmy) for the bathroom with the legitimate excuse that I had to wash off the sticky substance. But mostly I went to cry.

I lost the ability to pick up even a few pounds. Picking up a stack of files was painful at best, absurdly exhausting at worst. My phalanges screamed at me. My forearms throbbed. And my wrists felt less pain if I were to bend them inward, so that my knuckles faced each other and my fingers pointed towards my chest.

No matter how much I tried, I could not bend my toes.

I walked stiffly and flat-footed, even swinging my legs around in order to put one foot in front of the other.

******

Historically, to fall has been very painful for me. I don't like to consider myself to be weak, to make a mistake, to be wrong. I'd rather preserve my Self, to tell the world what I can do, to boast in my awesomeness. So when I looked weak to others, I tended to cry or remove myself from the situation as fast as possible because it reinforced my inability to come to terms with my limitations. Illness challenged this very notion though. It questioned why I thought I didn't need to feel, why I felt superior to others, why I needed people for certain things, but not for others.

But today, as I walked away from that bus, as I smiled, I realized that I'm OK. I can fall and I can get back up and I can keep going. My body can handle the unexpected falls: my muscles are loose enough to expand and contract on demand, and my joints feel good enough that they no longer feel as if they will snap like twigs. Most of all, I can risk looking weak in front of a bunch of people. I suppose I can also allow another hand to help me fall gracefully, too.

A.

The Implausible Again

2010-05-30T22:22:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

"I'm beginning to realize I need to replace my underwear," I told Erin as we strolled through Target this evening.

"Yeah, we need to do that from time to time," she said.

"Why, I even purchased running shoes for the first time in two years, and my feet feel so much better," I said. "I guess I've put off doing all those simple things in the last four years."

"Well, now you're in a position to do them again."

Again. It feels incredibly surreal to be in the position of being able to do something twice, to get a second chance, to create something new, to gain an alternative future.

The chance to run again - even to spend a little money on magic shoes fit for my feet - is like rediscovering a childhood memento: I feel re-energized, more sentimental, hopeful.

The ability to work again - even to work some long hours without losing all my energy - makes me plan more for the future.

The desire to be in a holy community again - even to be sharing my writing in a service - is hands-down God's grace, not to mention His gentle humor.

The space in which to dream again - even when all reason, logic and experience tells me it's a wash - opens me up to new possibilities. If I allow imagination to carry me away, perhaps I will love, perhaps I will trust, and perhaps I will ask for, and even experience, the implausible again.

A.

Thoughts On a Gaggle of Meaning-Makers and I Being One of Them

2010-05-27T22:39:00.001-07:00

Dear friends,

While Paul and I were washing, drying, singing and dancing our way through the mountain of dishes at church on Pentecost Sunday, a woman with a seven-year-old son came up to us.

"Michael [not his real name] was telling me on the way to church that he was looking forward to seeing Anna," she said.

"Anna? As in the little girl in our community?" I asked.

"No. You."

I smiled big.

"Really?"

"Really," she said as she walked away.

I turned to Paul. "I feel so honored that this boy has a crush on me!" I exclaimed. I turned back to washing the dish in my hand. I became real quiet. "I feel like I'm meant to be here."

"People really love you," Paul said, "although this is a little perverted."

******

My friend Kristin once told me that she was surprised I still went to Sunday church services when I was ill since I spent most of my week in bed - somewhat comatose - and the illness was incredibly unpredictable. Up until last summer (more than three years after the initial onset of symptoms), I was very aware that going to church was difficult for me. I could never predict how I would feel, the stimulation was overwhelming, and I always felt different, like I could never measure up to everyone else.

Up until last November, I worshiped in a building with windows that looked out onto a park to the East and a football field to the Northwest. For the first several years of my illness, especially in the first 12 months, I was unable to stand for any length of time, so I would continue to sit as everyone else stood. I usually could not see the words to the songs, so I would look to my side and gaze out onto the grassy fields.

And then I would fantasize. I would fantasize running in a dress, hair falling down my back, running with my shoes in my hands, running away from the crowd, away from the music, away from the pain. I would run and run and run until my mind became tired from all the imaginary running (which was about 50 yards at most). And then I would throw my shoes and fall down in tears. Every Sunday this fantasy was the same.

******

One of the things I notice in the liturgical setting (either the Episcopal church I work for or the Lutheran church I attend - take your pick) is that they will direct parishioners to "stand as you are able." It tells me that I can truly be who I am: healthy, ill, energetic, tired, menstrual, whatever. For about the first three years of my illness (not to mention the 24 years prior), I never heard this directive. I'm sure it was implied, but when the presider says, "stand as you are able," I can decide for me what I can do. Neither do I have to stand just because that's what everyone else is doing, nor must I feel shame for not being able to do what others can do.

Though I didn't know it, the last service at my previous church was the Sunday I walked out early because they began to sing, "Thank you for healing me," and I just couldn't handle it on that particular day. At the time, I was also feeling completely removed from church; I felt more alive outside the church walls than in. The reasons for this were plentiful: some had to do with the church and others had to do with me. Within a few weeks, I encountered a very good reason to leave the church and began spending my Sundays relaxing and engaging in activities good for my soul.

After a three-month break from church (not to mention a planned move to Seattle), I began to attend my current church - and I keep coming back. From the start, Ryan, my pastor, one of the most natural liturgists and leaders I have ever encountered, began to invite me to hang apples or hold the wine. They were simple things, but they meant the world to me.

I have also slowly gotten to know the community members. "How's the Bitch?" one mom-friend asked. Her question surprised me so much that I spontaneously hugged her, and I'm not typically one who initiates hugs. I appreciate that people here ask me how I'm feeling. Perhaps I receive these questions better either because I'm more comfortable with the illness or I'm more comfortable with the answer I can now provide. Whatever the case is, I feel accepted here, illness and all. But people here also don't ask about the illness so often that I feel like that's all I have to give. In fact, Ryan has invited me to contribute my writing in various ways. I have never considered myself an artist, but I have been taking steps lately to begin to consider myself one. I am beginning to believe that the core of being an artist means inviting others to engage your art. And that's precisely what I am beginning to do.

Most of all, I feel like I am my true Self in this community. Whether it's dancing and singing in red curtains for pants on Pentecost, or having an eight-year-old girl teach me how to do cartwheels in the field behind the building, or allowing fat tears to fall down my face in front of everyone, I feel like I'm coming into my own here. I am beginning to discern my sacrifice for the future of this community. And that's a big deal for someone who is afraid of relationships in general.

******

In our worship space, there are multiple windows that look out onto the garden, street and side of the building. Sometimes while standing and singing, I catch myself turning my head to the outdoors to feel the sunlight fall upon my brown skin and to take note of the colorful flowers in bloom. But I have never thought to leave. I have never considered running away or throwing my shoes or falling down in exhaustion. I can't say that will never happen again, but I'm starting to believe people would notice if I ran. A boy's innocent crush tells me that even the children would notice if I didn't come back.

There are many reasons for the transformation, which is still in progress, of course. Some of the reasons I know, some I don't, but of one thing I am sure: I have been truly and fully present, truly and fully loved, truly and fully Anna.

A.

The Journey Communicated

2010-05-23T14:50:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

No doubt that first summer I became sick was traumatic for me. One minute I'm eating lunch with my sister, the next I'm in my office feeling a strange sensation move from my left foot up my left leg through my left side, face and back, and then down my left arm into my left hand. Within an hour I was noticeably limping; my boss insisted I go to urgent care. I called my mom for her opinion because when I was six years old, my mom became fully paralyzed due to a virus called Guillain-Barre ("Gee-yawn Bar-ay") Syndrome. She lived in the hospital or nursing home for 18 months; I (and most of my siblings) lived with other families for about a year. Is it the same thing? I asked her. No, it doesn't sound like it, she said. I agreed.

I felt disappointed, however, because not only did I not know what to call this problem of mine, I also didn't know how to name my symptoms. I remember feeling that my whole face and half my head felt heavy; the bags under my eyes - having buckled under the weight of pain - hung limp; and it felt like some invisible hand was pushing my head to the ground. My shoulders could not withstand the pressure, and they collapsed under the weight, too.

My forearms felt so heavy that I had to rest them against my stomach. People would often see me hold one arm to my stomach and one arm out to a rail to catch my balance. It felt like 15-pound weights were fastened to the backs of my knees, which kept my knees from bending easily, and I often walked stiffly. I could hardly bend my toes or ankles - I had to make a conscious choice to do this. Thus, I walked very slowly (I called it the "shimmy shimmy"). I could have shouted from the rooftops about how sick I was, but people never truly understood it until they walked with me. Correction. They never understood it until they found themselves walking 10 feet in front of me. I really did walk slower than your grandpa with a walker.

My skin felt like a vibrator was stuck to it: on my face, hands, forearms, toes and back. My joints ached. Typing became painful after a few minutes; holding simple objects, such as a pencil, was terribly difficult. My skin felt cold, and I bundled up with blankets and two layers of socks.

And I was so very tired. I was tired when I woke up and when I lay down and when I went to sleep. My body felt as if it were covered by a heavy cloak. I had no energy to move it, so I lay there, very still, and allowed it to consume me.

I am well aware that even as I seek to recreate what this spiral of doom felt like, I still use language that never crossed my mind then. In fact, in my initial emails to friends informing them about what was going on, I mostly described these symptoms as "numbness." I also used the word "fatigue" a few times. Furthermore, I related to these symptoms (feelings) according to what I could not do, such as not being able to drive and walk.

If I could hardly put words to what I was feeling, I was certainly not finding the words in my doctor appointments. I would tell them that I felt numb and tired and weak. I would tell them my legs felt heavy and that I couldn't bend my toes. I would tell them how sad I was - I cried a few times in these appointments. Most of all, I would tell them this wasn't me. Prior to June 6, 2006, I had been feeling the best I had ever felt in my lifetime. I had lost about 25 pounds six months prior, had not had any back problems for months, and was doing up to 10 pull-ups at a time. The numbness and the fatigue - this was not like me. And, no, I was not depressed. I know what depression is, and this wasn't it. If there was depression, however, it was only because my health was declining so rapidly.

I was lucky that I received a fairly accurate diagnosis of Lyme Disease two months in. Knowledge of it, however, didn't necessarily translate into healthy communication of it. In fact, it was just the opposite. Taking herbal medicines was dangerous for a number of reasons. For one, the herbals took the edge off of the symptoms only, but they did not kill the buggers. And two, the decreasing intensity of the symptoms made it seem like I was fine. And since the illness wasn't as obvious anymore, I didn't have to communicate my needs or feelings.

A year went by. I went back to work part-time, which was really more like full-time, and then full-time, which was really like full-plus-part-time. I am a loyal worker - something that is rewarded in our culture - but it came with a cost. After work, I tended to go home, eat, and then go to bed. Very few people knew about this. Clark, my boss at the time, knew, and my parents knew, I think.

By early 2008, it was becoming apparent to both Clark and me that something had to change. We both assumed it would be a career shift (which was the reason for starting this blog), but it didn't take too long to figure out that I was headed on a slightly different journey than the one I imagined.

Around the same time, the only other person I knew with Lyme suggested I attend the Portland (Ore.) Lyme Disease Support Group. So I went. There I discovered a whole room full of people suffering from Lyme Disease, too. Once I introduced myself and shared my story, people started jumping in with advice right away. When I said I was feeling tired, they said that was adrenal fatigue and could be the result of mercury poisoning (this ended up not being the case for me). When I said that my legs got heavy, they called that inflammation. When I said that my head would swell with heaviness, they called that a headache.

I know that it seems absurd that it would take nearly two years to call something a "headache" or "inflammation," but the possibility exists when you stop being in conversation, when you make feelings "bad," when you otherwise shut down. For me, these habits occurred long before the initial Lyme symptoms squeezed themselves into my life. In fact, I can trace my relational habits back to the six-year-old girl; I distinctly remember how I responded to the first instance of abuse at age 10, which, by the way, I never called "abuse" until I was 17 years-old. I ran from others, deciding nobody could be trusted and choosing to find safety and comfort within myself. For the next seven years, I told two people about the abuse, and those who found out did nothing. My pre-teen brain correlated the communication of truth and feelings with silence. And I hate silence.

For seven years, I went on believing that nobody else experienced what I experienced at home. I felt alone, lonely, ugly, dirty. I learned to get by on my intelligence and leadership skills. To escape, I began my writing career at an early age. Likewise, running up and down the soccer field was my socially acceptable opportunity to spew my aggression. I acted out in other ways, ways that seemed odd to others. But I was smart. And smart people must be fine.

At age 17, I called the police to report my brother's abuse. An hour or two prior, he had thrown me around the room by my hair - the worst beating of my life. A female officer showed up to file the report. Over the course of an hour, she took careful notes of my story. I told her what my brother did and how often it happened. I told her when it tended to occur (actually, there was no pattern) and why he did it (actually, I don't know). After a long while of my story gushing out of my insides, from places I never knew existed before, the female officer placed her notebook down.

"You are a very courageous, young woman," she said. "I am 29 and my brother did similar things when we were teenagers. I never said anything and never did anything about it. Now, when he comes into town, we hardly speak to each other. But you are courageous because you are speaking."

It truly is a courageous thing to speak, to name, to call, to identify. It seems like I've been on a journey to find out just what is within me - all of it - and not just that, but also to welcome it into my life. The only way I'm going to practice hospitality, however, is if I begin to need God and others. Because I desperately need others in my life to help put language to my feelings, experiences and thoughts. I need conversation. I need conflict. I need uncertainty. I need patience. And I need people to just walk with me.

A.

The Diploma

2010-05-20T20:02:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

The same month I started intentional recovery - which, among other things, included beginning to take antibiotics - was not only the same month I stopped working, but also the same month I started graduate school at Gonzaga University. Two years later, I am a month away from remission, two months into a new job, and have graduated with a Master's in Organizational Leadership.

Well, sort of. Though I won't finish the program until August, I walked in the commencement ceremony in Spokane on May 7. My parents and sister-in-law, Terri, also traveled to this Eastern Washington city to celebrate with me. It was a pretty fun time with the family, school friends, professors, and food. I drank a bit, laughed a lot, watched a parade and even ran through the campus topless, which was so wild and fun that I can't believe it had taken me so long to do it.

This truly is a season to celebrate. Thank you for following God's story living in and through me. Your prayers and support are key to all of this success.

Twirl

2010-05-17T14:47:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

All it takes is a moment: An encouraging email from a stranger. Doing air chest bumps with Paul. Walking in the rain. Walking under the sun. Setting balloons to flight with my fellow meaning-makers. These are the moments that make me want to dance and laugh and twirl in my red dress and, of course, my Tom's. These are surely the signs of health.

A.

If You Were One of My Own

2010-05-16T15:12:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

Every few weeks I will get an email saying something like this:

Hi Anna. I am not sure what's going on. I am really tired and I have a lot of pain in my elbows and knees. I have been to three doctors now and they all give me three different opinions. They all agree that I need more sleep, though. My latest doctor has ordered more tests, so maybe something will come up there. I am pretty sure it is not Lyme Disease because that test came back negative a long time ago. But I don't know. What do you think?

Each time I get an email like this, I stop and pray for the person. He is on a journey and doesn't know it. Then I consider what my response will be to this person. I ask myself a few questions: First, why is this person emailing me now? Second, what do I know about this person that would inform my response? Third, what is my visceral response to this email? The latter question is important. Because maybe I just got my period, or perhaps I'm feeling like I can't control my own illness so I need to control someone else's, or maybe I am just tired of people putting me on a pedestal. Whatever it is, at this juncture, counting to ten would be highly appropriate.

After I count to ten, I then sit down to write a diplomatic response, attempting to weave in my own experience with some practical and technical advice. I always try to be patient and gracious, assuming that the person on the other side of the email is sitting in front of their computer looking like a deer caught in the headlights. And if you have been reading my blog any, you'll know that I will speak more into the human experience of illness rather than what you eat or which supplements you swallow. Those details are important, but I barely got through high school chemistry.

Nevertheless, sometimes I will be very direct. Because if you were one of my own, if I considered you family - blood or otherwise - I would allow you to mope for like a day and then demand you go to my doctor (or a doctor like him). The longer you go without a proper test, the longer you waste money, time and energy. The longer you go without getting proper treatment, that much longer your recovery will be.

There is one excuse, however, for not getting well, and it is neither money nor time nor resources. In the fifth chapter of John, Jesus approached the man at the pool and asked him one question, "Do you wish to get well?" This is the question we must ask ourselves. I reckon that nobody would say no to this question, but if we were honest with ourselves, there is a part of us that does not want to be well. We prefer the dirty ground on the side of the pool to the cool, clean waters inside it. "We are such fucking retards," a friend lamented to me a few weeks ago.

We're dumb. We wait for the right time or the right circumstance to make a decision. We fool ourselves into thinking our bodies and our minds are strong enough to withstand those tiny buggers or a "small" temptation. We are so proud not to ask for help that we settle for mediocrity.

So if you were one of my own and you didn't want to be well, I hope I would let you be dumb. But I would never stop asking.

A.

Tomorrow

2010-05-15T21:09:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

"I think I have forgotten how to work in an office," I told my friend Erin last night.

"Oh yeah?" she asked.

"I forgot what it's like to deal with other people."

So every now and then, I have to stop and take a moment to let the reality sink in. For the 22 months prior to April 6, I did not work. And if you count the five months I did not work when I first got sick, I have been unemployed more than one-third of my post-undergraduate life. For that entire time, I did not get up early and sit in an office all day. I did not talk to many people; some days I talked to nobody. And I never had to worry how I would fit the laundry and the cooking and the socializing around my work schedule. Being alone is fun up to a point; after that, it was all I could do to keep from detonating the bomb that was boredom, self-pity and uncertainty.

Not working makes me feel weak.

On the other hand, for the 22 months prior to April 6, I was given the chance to play. Just as a park, my nieces insist, cannot be a park without a playground, recovery cannot be recovery without play. And wonder. And possibility. And exploration. It seems as if one has to get lost in order to be found, that she has to wander. And she has to maintain a little innocence, too. Because innocence is like the engine that powers the journey. I have to let go of control, otherwise it would be like insisting on walking from Seattle to Los Angeles. We all know that I would get cranky and hungry with blisters all over my feet - and that would be in the first ten miles. But something like a train or a car removes much of the burden for me, which frees me up to do the work only I can do.

Not working makes me feel like a child.

These past few years have felt like a gift from God, as if He were telling me, Here, My daughter, take and eat. Get to know yourself. Take delight in My creation. Learn to love. And as you take, and as you get to know yourself, and when you're enjoying all the things I made, and when you love: receive Me, know Me, delight in Me, love Me.

Work, then, becomes secondary to the greater meaning of this adventure. Work is no longer the end-all, be-all I considered it to be. Rather, it has become another journey within the journey. I am learning to love people, not the task. I am learning to be present, instead of six months ahead. And I am learning that the gift of play has prepared me for my job: Now I embrace the interruptions, I laugh harder, and I engage with others as if I'm going to be around tomorrow.

A.

Physicology/45

2010-05-14T16:04:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

I have been back to work six weeks now and I'm still struggling to find a good rhythm. I have slipped back into a few of my old work habits - which mainly means that I do not take sufficient breaks - and I rarely go to the gym on the days I work. Though I feel plenty of energy all day, everything changes the minute I step back home into my apartment, and all I want to do is to change into my pajamas and watch a movie.

Of course, it didn't help my rhythm that I've been out of town twice in the last week and then braved a conference all day today in a Seattle suburb. The weird schedule, race to finish my class last week, and traveling have all made me a little extra tired. I thought my week off from school would be relaxing: I had dreams of running, reading three books, and gleefully prancing around town. Reality set in, however, and it seems as if my body only wanted to recuperate. As it turns out, relaxation and recuperation are two different things.

All of this and I have not even gotten to the emotional energy spent these past few weeks, the stress I feel about the writing of my thesis this summer, and some financial decisions I'm considering. Being an adult is hard.

Most of all, I am loathing sickness; lately I have been confronted with the decisions I've made along the way to contribute to the illness. And that ain't pretty. So I'm praying for change - or, more realistically perhaps, that I would lean into the change - and that I would begin to feel, that I would begin to ask for help, that I would never stop hoping for greater things to come.

A.

The Celebration

2010-05-12T19:46:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

There was a long time when I could barely lift my legs - let alone run - and to survive, I became friends with Lyme Disease. But now as I move into the no-more, I have declared Lyme to be my bitch. Now I can run. I can skip and hop and play as if I never knew Her. So I had this thought: why not run a 5K? And then I had another thought: why not invite others to run it with me? Because we all have a bitch, maybe two or three. Your bitch could be your own health issue or graduate school or perhaps this race itself. Whatever it is, will you join me? And will you celebrate with me?

Officially called The Crown of Queen Anne Fun Run/Walk, between you and me (and the Internet), I am unofficially calling this the Kill the Bitch 5K. The race is on July 10 at 8 a.m. Please register by clicking the link (I don't think the registration has started though), and all profits go to the Queen Anne Helpline. I am looking into designing special T-shirts for everyone who joins me, so please let me know if you are coming so I can get you one.

If you are unable to come, I invite you to run with me on that day, wherever you are. Whether it's a half-mile or 20 miles, let's celebrate together.

A.

Shudder

2010-05-10T20:26:00.000-07:00

"In the early Grimm brothers collection there is a story about a young man who seemed normal in every way except that he couldn't shudder. All sorts of shocks were prepared for him: ghosts, hanged men, demon cats, bodies in coffins - nothing did any good...Gaining the ability to shudder means feeling how frail human beings are, and how awful it is to be a Titan. When one is shuddering, the shudder helps to take away the numbness we spoke of."

-Robert Bly, Iron John, p. 84-85

Dear friends,

There are moments, sometimes days, when I finally stop what I am doing - work, writing, errands, whatever - and listen. I'll shut the door and turn off the background music. I'll find the cushiest seat in the room and lie down, or at least put my legs up on a chair. I will lay there for five, ten, fifteen minutes.

And then my body will begin to feel, from head to toe my entire body will shudder. It's like my body is composed of many tectonic plates: whatever had been holding the pain back will suddenly become loosened and the tension that had been building up for years will begin to rise up and out through my muscles, bones and nerves. Like in a real earthquake, it's much better to stay in one place than to run.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in my apartment with Paul. I was half lying down, half sitting up when I began to feel the shudder.

"I can feel it right now," I told him.

"What does it feel like?" Paul asked.

"I feel it in my legs and my arms. It's moving around and it feels so heavy. And I can't stop it."

Lyme Disease is a bacteria that affects the ability to feel in two distinct ways. First, Lyme steals the ability to feel. Within a few weeks of the initial onset of symptoms, I had extreme difficulty picking up my arms and legs, bending my toes and fingers and even picking up normal objects. My extremities always felt numb and cold, too. Second, Lyme exposes feeling. Every movement felt like millions of needles were pricking my skin and 200 pounds were being hung from my limbs. While this experience seems contradictory, the lack of and intense feelings I had fed each other. The attempt to move initiated intense pain; and each time I felt pain, I sought to limit my movements. The less I moved, the more I was unable to feel, and the less I felt, the less I moved. And on and on the cycle of torment went.

In an attempt to limit the pain - in an attempt not to shudder - I had ceased feeling everything, even the good stuff. And this was even by the time I got Lyme. Up until and through the illness, people consoled me, saying it was normal to be depressed and normal to want to be normal. Others praised me for the hard work I had spent in counseling. They praised me for not falling into "sin" like most people in similar situations had. And they praised me for having wisdom beyond my years. Yet, before Lyme pushed its way into my life, I had experienced the worst of the worst, but "nothing did any good," as Robert Bly would say.

Metaphorically speaking, Lyme became the outward expression of my inward numbness. The foundation I had been standing on split in two beneath me. I held on - for two years I straddled Denial and Truth, Numbness and Feeling, Death and Life - but the split became so wide that my feelings were as numb as they were intense, and there came a time when I could no longer stand in both worlds. The solution, then, was only to shudder, to quake, to let all that was within me rise up. It was like my body had been mute all my life and then it had finally been given permission to speak. And when it finally did speak, I could hear God replying, "I am here. I am here to soothe your pain, to catch your tears, to be your rest." My pain may never go away, but not even pain will be as reliable as God's relationship to us.

A.

And

2010-05-03T10:48:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

During our phone conversation in March, Doug Maclean peppered me with questions.

"How old are you?"

"28."

"Your youth works in your favor. Do you work?"

"I haven't worked in nearly two years, but I recently got a job."

"Do you herx?"

"Not really."

"Do you struggle to get out of bed?"

I paused. My mind began to replay the last four years. I remember the days when waking up was like asking me to pick up 500 pounds of brick. I did it only because I was on a strict medicine schedule. I woke to take my first medicine of the day; the bottle sits on my nightstand. I then fell back asleep for a half-hour until I had to eat breakfast and swallow a slew of pills. My toddler nephew usually was already seated at the table eating his own breakfast. Every morning he watched me unscrew each bottle, shake a few pills out into the palm of my hand and then struggle to swallow them. Bottle after bottle, he watched in silence. His big, brown eyes carefully followed his quirky aunt's repetitive motions. And then I went back to bed for another three hours or so. Sometimes I would fall asleep, other times I would watch a movie, rarely did I do anything "productive."

I have tears in my eyes as I write this. Because, except at night, I don't see my bed anymore. I wake up with a burst of energy. More moments in my day are consumed with health than with sickness. It is not quite 10 a.m. when I have started to write this post and I have already done four loads of laundry, watched a TV show, read 30 pages and traveled to my doctor's office to purchase medicine. I have to write two writing pieces today. I have to shop for a cardigan to match my hot dress for an event this weekend. And I will be going to the gym, too. The sun is kissing the top of my head, the waters appear royal blue, and the gray curtain has opened to reveal the Olympic Mountains.

I don't recognize myself sometimes. I don't recognize myself in bed and I don't recognize myself being a busy-body. I don't recognize myself alone and I don't recognize myself with people. The other day I was talking with my friend Grant about this isolation, that I am grieving the what-was, that even in the midst of all my mini-adventures, I've been quite lonely.

"It's just difficult to reconcile the beauty and the loneliness," I said.

"Why does it have to be reconciled? And what do you mean by 'reconciled'?" Grant asked.

"I suppose I prefer things to be black and white or right or wrong. What I mean by 'reconciled' is, how do I celebrate the necessary isolation I chose in order to get better, but also accept that that isolation carries consequences?"

We talked some more, which may be fleshed out in future posts. For the time being, the question is, can I rest in the tension? Can I be comfortable with being somewhere among the old and the new, among the past and the future, and among the logical and the absurd? And yet, this I can say for certain: "No, I don't struggle to get out of bed..." I told Doug, as my voice trailed off. Whatever that means and wherever I am going, illness is doing something good for me.

A.

Anything Different

2010-05-01T18:23:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

On the days I work, I set my alarm to wake up at 6:20 a.m., which proves useless because every morning I voluntarily wake up ten to eleven minutes before that. On the days I don't work, I set my alarm for 8 a.m. so that I can sleep in, which technically I do, because this morning I woke up at 6:19 a.m. When my body finds its rhythm, it doesn't give much room for anything different.

Because I was up early, I decided to go to the gym early - too early, in fact. I walked all the way down there to find the building lights closed and the doors locked. I didn't have my phone on me, so I had no way of knowing if it was worth it to wait or not.

So I went.

I walked south to the Seattle Art Museum's Sculpture Park, an always-free outdoor museum that includes a larger-than-life, antiquated typewriter eraser and iron ships wading through a sea of modern gravel. Instead of taking my time to look at the all the art, I made a beeline to the point where the park meets Elliott Bay. I was determined to use this adventure as an opportunity to grieve this past week, solve all my problems and perhaps, as a bonus, find solutions to others' problems, also.

I decided to walk through the park along the waterfront. I stopped once to watch the waves lap up against the shore. I listened to the seabirds squawk. And I considered how, at that very moment, the sea's momentum had carried the waves to land in the exact same spot that I was standing. Surely, this was no accident: something beyond myself carried me here, too.

I continued walking, to the north. The mist falling on my face counter-balanced my rising body temperature. I walked past fishermen throwing out their lines and groups of women chatting up politics and bicyclists rolling down the pavement. A ferry disappeared in the fog, I walked under the granary in the midst of either loading or unloading a barge, and I took a quick jaunt through a rose garden. After about a mile, I came upon the pedestrian bridge. I decided to hop up the two flights of stairs, first on my right foot, then on my left.

After crossing over the train tracks, I decided to enter a park I have noticed several times. It looks tiny from the street, but that's because, as I soon discovered, it creeps up the side of a hill. The park includes a terrible viewpoint and an even worse tennis court, but the best part is that it turns into a short nature trail just long enough to plop you a few streets higher.

And then I walked home. And all the way there, I realized that I had not discovered what I thought I would discover. I found that I didn't really grieve the way I thought I would, I didn't find any solutions to my problems, and as for other people's problems, well, I have some solutions, but I've got to give those up. Instead, I discovered other things: adventure, exploration, imagination, narrative, beauty, possibility, peace. Maybe the point is not to find right or wrong answers, or to get the correct gym hours even. Maybe I'm supposed to screw up, to let things be the way they are, to be OK with less than perfection. And maybe this all occurs so that Pain's momentum will carry me towards Christ.

A.

Making It

2010-04-29T21:42:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

I received a paycheck today - my first in nearly two years. I have worked a hundred-something hours this month and I made it. I made it! My health is certifiably kicking the bitch's ass: I have energy all day, even to attend a play or spend time in the Sculpture Park after work, my mind is available, my muscles don't freak out and I smile a lot. I engage in good old-fashioned tag, hardly think about the illness, and taste life in the no-more. But right now I have words - good, unprintable words.

A.

Disarmed, Again

2010-04-27T06:12:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

There's a groupie in all of us. Because when you find that person you admire, who inspires you on a level you never knew existed before, who evokes in you a desire to be known, then you're a groupie. I am a groupie to a few people in my life. One of these people is Rosie Thomas. And I got to meet her Saturday night.

Last month, I noticed on her website that she was organizing living room shows in Seattle and Portland. I quickly fired off an email to my pastor, Ryan, asking him if there was, by chance, any way we could host her in our church's living room. "Oh my, oh my. Have you heard of Rosie Thomas?" I asked him.

"That is brilliant," he said. "I know her and she'll love the space."

I nearly fell out of my chair. "You know her!?" Without missing a beat, I asked, "Can you introduce her to me?"

Saturday night I was like a little kid at the candy store. Prior to the show, as I was walking in the hallway from the bathroom to the living room, I heard Rosie's signature chipmunk voice tell someone she had to go to the bathroom. I beamed as she passed me by. She said "hello." I beamed some more.

A few minutes later, she came into the living room. I looked at her feet.

"She's wearing Tom's Shoes! I should have worn mine!" I shouted. People sitting around me laughed. The timing was nearly perfect because I received my own pair of Tom's Shoes in the mail last week. As soon as the UPS driver handed me the box, I slipped the olive green slippers on my feet. And then I started giggling and dancing around my apartment. No joke. These shoes are supernaturally comfortable and all things awesome. Next to the Togo sofa, Tom's Shoes (another T.S.) is my new love, so the reason why I wore boots Saturday night is beyond me. Alas.

Rosie was as adorable, courageous, hilarious and human as I experienced her to be the first time I saw her in concert. The intimacy of a living room show, however, seemed to give me the feeling that we were best friends. She shared embarrassing stories of her husband (who was sitting beside her providing musical back-up), absurd stories from a book written by her mom's friend, and a few stories about poop, even though she made a mental note not to share these, she admitted.

Her music, though, is the thing that grabs me. Her songs are executed like a surgeon using maple syrup to perform heart surgery - smooth, dark and rich - and Rosie holds the space delicately, always helping the listener recover without too much pain. Her lyrics are "simple," as she described them, which is what makes them so complex. Because they are applicable to everyone, no matter where they are on the journey. Rosie is the first to admit that she doesn't have it all together, that she is struggling just as much as everyone else. Still, in the same breath she celebrates with people over how far they have come. Her complex simplicity, then, never ceases to be disarming.

After the show, I waited in a long line for Ryan to introduce me to Rosie. Ryan picked up her glass of whiskey, took a sip and then gave it to me. I took a sip and then passed it to a friend. We giggled. In the next moment, I was meeting Rosie.

"You are disarming," I began.

"Thank you," she said. "Are you doing OK?"

She wasn't asking because I looked sad or sickly; instead, she wanted to know my story. So I told her: I told her that I've been sick for four years, that I'm doing extremely well, that I've taken many adventures in the last two years. "I feel like you speak my same language," I said.

"I'm not comparing my health with yours, but I know what that's like," she said. "Isn't it such a gift?"

"I would never choose it -"

"- Oh hell no!"

"But I don't regret it. I've...I've taken a lot of adventures."

"And aren't you a different person because of that?"

"Absolutely. I have changed so much."

Rosie got distracted. A few minutes later, she came back to our conversation.

"I've got to go, but I want to tell you something. When I have a good day, I'm just so happy and thankful. I stop and smell the lilacs and I thank God for that one day of wellness. I don't care if the next day I feel crappy again, but I always know I have that one day."

"When I feel good," I said, "I feel like I could do anything. I am running a 5K this summer because all I want to do is run." I swung my arms back and forth to mimic a (fast) runner. "I walk down the street smiling at everyone. And my attitude! It's so much better when I am feeling good."

As our conversation ended, Ryan snapped a photograph and Rosie and me. Aren't we cute? (Rosie would say, "I know!") And then I went home. I walked away considering how my life can mean something to another, as Rosie is to me (and many others), and how I can pursue what I am made to do. Further, how do I continue to be a groupie to the people in my life, and how do I allow them to disarm me?

A.

Dipped in Bronze

2010-04-23T20:57:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

If there is one good thing about having Lyme Disease, I have discovered it: I know the best way to get a tan. Stop throwing your money away at the tanning salon. Dump your tanning oils. Save your foil for the barbecue. Rather, ask your doctor to write you a prescription for Doxycycline. Take four 100mg pills per day, everyday, for seven months or so and then sit back and watch what happens. The results are amazing: Watch the sun (even on cloudy days) paint your skin shades darker. Listen to your friends compliment you on your glow. And then bask in all your sexy. I suppose Lyme isn't all bad.

A.
P.S. Now if anybody has a remedy for the tan line...

Beyond Berserk

2010-04-22T21:28:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

I think I know a thing or two about blogging. I know what to write about and what not to write about. I know when to write and when not to write. And I know whom I'm writing to and whom I'm not writing to. The latest challenge in my life, however, is how to simultaneously blog and work. In one fell swoop, early this month I lost roughly 40 hours of my week to working and commuting. I probably spend another six hours thinking about work. On average, I spend 15 hours completing my graduate coursework. I spend many hours chatting with friends, going to the gym, swallowing medicine and doing errands. Thus, I come home tired like everyone else. Adding to all this, I worry that my energy reserves will get too low, so I rest a lot. Consequently, this leaves me little time to write.

This is a wonderful problem to have.

I stopped working altogether seven weeks after the initial onset of symptoms. I haven't had a full week's of work since the day I got sick. I have worked a total of less than half of the last four years. I have made very little money for someone with nearly a Master's degree. Consequently, I have spent most of the last four years hating my lot. All I thought about was where I wasn't going Monday through Friday. I thought about the money I was not making. And I thought about the social consequences to not "doing" anything: I struggled to explain to people what I did - or didn't do - and blushed every single time I was asked the question. I hated all this because I considered work to provide my living.

Yet, after seven months of not working, then 17 months of working again, then 22 months of not working, I am discovering that work was contributing only to my death. So I stopped. I sought adventure and beauty. I found the space to dream, love, grieve, and become a student of myself. I took some risks. I said no. And I went. I am the happiest I have ever been.

Why? There are a lot of reasons for this, and one reason is that I realized that at the end of the day, work isn't going to give me my health. And if I don't have my health, what do I have? What can I possibly contribute when I am shriveled up in bed?

My health is currently in a place that allows me to contribute on a regular basis without my body going berserk. However, there was a long while when Lyme Disease was at its worst and when work served only to divide: to divide me from my Self, from truth, from freedom. Though it was a process - and still is - over time I stopped considering work to be the pinnacle of my worth. Work may be one thing, but so is running a 5K and tutoring a child and writing a letter to a friend. So even though work is in my life again - an adventure I am immensely grateful for - I am still doing other things.

Like blogging.

A.

Physicology/44

2010-04-18T15:49:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

On my 26th birthday, just before I was informed about just how sick I really was, I went for a run. Well, if I were honest, it was a run-walk-run-walk kind of jaunt. I felt as if I were carrying twice my weight, I felt incredibly winded and lethargic, and I loathed the entire exercise. This was the last time I ran.

Until two weeks ago, that is. I was at the gym walking on the treadmill when I felt my body telling me to pick it up. So I did. I ran a half-mile. A few days later, I ran another half-mile. A few days after that, I ran another. Today, I doubled the mileage.

And I feel great. My body feels light (or I suppose you could say: normal), my energy is high, and I feel no herxes afterward. I am running at a pace of about 11:45 per mile, which isn't bad for someone who hasn't really exercised or moved much in four years.

My gym has these big windows that look out onto Elliott Bay and the waterfront park below. So as I run, I fix my gaze on the waters, the ferries coming in and out, the trains jaunting by, and the islands across the bay. I love feeling the sun lying on my skin, watching the flora pop with color, and imagining as if I'm running into the sunset.

A friend once told me, "I can imagine that from where you've come, when you do get the chance to run again, you won't ever want to stop." My friend was right because I don't think I ever want to stop. I want to move, to bend, to feel. And I want to do more of it.

In light of my rejuvenated zest for running, I have decided to run a 5K this summer, which will be a perfect goal for me. I don't have a particular race in mind, but I hope to aim for something in July or August. Will you join me?

A.

Dispatched

2010-04-17T09:52:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

For the last four years, I have been a nomad, a wanderer, even a loner. Recovery from a near-fatal illness (in body and/or spirit) necessitated that I walk away from many forms of human interaction. I walked away from my known community. I walked away from traditional work. And in a way, I walked away from God. For sure, God has felt both near and far away. Near, because no matter where I would go, I always felt Him beside me; He has been my one faithful companion. And far, because my body has been violated in ways that should never be; and I hate Him for it.

The illness progressed rapidly. Within a few weeks, I was unable to hold simple objects, bend my toes, or move my body once awaking from a nap. My hope spiraled down and down and down, too. How long, O Lord? I cried. I could barely keep my eyes open, let alone read anything of substance, therefore, my expectation to daily read my Bible and be in prayer was hardly met. You would think that not working would give me all the time in the world to do such things, but recovery is a weird place to be. The time others would spend working, I would spend recovering: in bed, eyes closed, mind off, body still. And, of course, alone.

It is an interesting experience to meet people now. When I sit looking fabulous and healthy across from someone and then I disclose my illness and my life in the past four years, their eyes enlarge and mouths gape. I agree: the whole thing really is hard to believe. Because sometimes I talk about it like it happened 20 years ago, and sometimes I can't remember, and sometimes I don't need to remember.

Last month, I was describing my experience with Ryan, my pastor. "There were days when I had nothing to do," I began, "but I couldn't stand to stay in my house all day long. Even the most mundane activities would make me tired after just five minutes, but I would force myself to get out anyway. I would tell myself, 'Go find beauty.'

"Portland is easy to do that in. I would get on the bus and just go. Often times, I would have a place in mind, but then I would change my mind five times while on the bus. There were many times when the bus would pull over to let someone on or off, and then I would just get up and bolt. And then I would walk for a while. I would look at the houses, think, not think, dream, pray, write. Maybe I would run into another bus line and then get on there and then see where it takes me. And then I would get off again, perhaps because there was a park nearby or maybe because there was a coffee shop on the way. I would just go to and fro. I never felt aimless, but I really never knew where I would end up."

"You were dispatched!" Ryan declared grinning from ear to ear.

"Dispatched?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's this old-world word for wandering without a mission. Kind of like the Brothers Grimm."

"Hmm. I like it."

In the past four years, especially in the last two, I have been sent out without a task, mission or calling. I have been given the freedom to wander, to go to and fro, explore, to find beauty. Indeed, I have been dispatched to nowhere and, yet, to everywhere. And I had no idea where I would end up. Meanwhile, I have met all kinds of people, ventured to places I have never been, dreamed new dreams, seen the possibilities, healed, turned extroverted and become beautiful. In sum, I have discovered an alternative future.

I don't really hate God. I mean, how can I hate a God who gave me an alternative future? How can I hate a God who gave me life - and not just life back but life new? How can I hate a God who loves me so much that He took me out of the squalor I had settled for and daily says, "Anna, I give you this," as He opens his arms towards the large expanse set before us? How can I hate a God who knows me better than myself, who knew exactly what I needed?

Even though my mission was no mission at all, I find myself someplace entirely different. How can this be? However He pulled this off, He is a God whom I can trust.

A.

Reverse But Lumpy Cereal

2010-04-12T17:02:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

Every three to four weeks, I make an intentional shopping trip to Fred Meyer. I wish I could tell you that I go there because there's nothing like shopping for tomatoes, underwear and a weed wacker all in the same place. No, I go to Fred Meyer to purchase about a month's worth of the Fred Meyer brand of organic vanilla yogurt. Ever since I was getting some acid reflux last fall, I decided that I should be digesting as many probiotics as I can, so I began to eat yogurt daily.

And daily I do. Whether it's a snack or a meal, I dump about a quarter of the 32-ounce tub into a bowl and then throw in two or three handfuls of sunflower granola. (Currently, I have about two months' worth of granola in my pantry.) I stir the yogurt and granola all around and then devour it fast to keep the granola from getting mushy. It's like reverse but lumpy cereal. And it's so delicious.

I made a trip to Fred Meyer today. Counting the two tubs I already had, I now count seven tubs of the yogurt in my refrigerator. I have a happy esophagus.

A.

Begot

2010-04-09T20:14:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

Last fall, one of my professors told me that work will mean something different to me now, and I think he is right. Just what that meaning is, I find, unfolds each day.

Tuesday I woke up from a fitful night's sleep. "You were excited, huh?" a friend said later that day. Though I tried to deny it, I really was. I am finally putting my education to use and contributing to the world in ways that challenge me. I am finally earning a paycheck, too, and it is fun to think about how I want to use the windfall. My body, however, did not like the disruption and by the time I got home from work, my attention had the shelf life of about a half-minute. I repeated my sentences. My limbs were in pain. And I would have gone to bed early had it not been for my damn medicine schedule.

Wednesday I woke up having slept very soundly. I relied on an express bus that didn't quite live up to its name: the driver was more interested in telling us random Seattle trivia than he was driving the bus fast. Consequently, I had to run to catch my connecting bus. But I did discover that I can run very well with a skirt and heels on - and without spilling the coffee in my hand. To run - to experience my muscles moving in tandem - that makes me smile from the inside out.

Thursday I realized that my job is a perfect match for me. It blends my organizational, relational, leadership and pastoral gifts in a way that I hope will bless the organization. I really enjoy my co-workers and my boss, in addition to the volunteers I manage. What do I do? I work for a church. I am the office manager for this 100-year-old community, which is the "grandmother" to the church I attend (though I didn't realize this until the second interview). Though I wasn't expecting to work for a church ever again, I think the call to work here is divine. I get to love and serve people who are passionate about their church and who are in need of guidance to grow and love others. I get to develop systems from scratch. I get to hang out with some pretty cool people. And I get to furnish and decorate my office.

Friday my body began to adjust. Tonight is the first night that I came home and wasn't absolutely tired. I took a walk through my neighborhood, listened to the birds chat with one another, gazed upon the city that has been so very kind to me, and watched ferries hustle people home. The breeze felt refreshing to the skin, the sun fended off any goosebumps, and the colorful blooms brought a smile to my face. I feel proud for accomplishing something so huge.

So what does work mean to me? Though the answer will continue to unfold, I think that work just gives me another opportunity to engage with, contribute to and enjoy life. Life begets life, and perhaps that is the experiment here.

A.

Monday

2010-04-05T20:49:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

I woke up at 6:30a this morning to prepare myself for my new work schedule. Though I expected to ignore the alarm and roll back into bed, surprisingly I woke up without hesitation and with extra energy, too. I decided to do five loads of laundry, finishing before 9:30a. By 11a, I had written one and a half stories, caught up on emails, read the news and eaten two meals.

And then I went.

This was my day to wander, to explore, to gain reprieve from an eventful and powerful Holy Week and to mentally prepare myself for the beginning of my new adventure getting paid for working in a real organization. So I set off on today's adventure knowing that the only place I was absolutely going to was the library in Capital Hill. I had to pick up a book that could quite possibly change my life. No promises, of course, but my gut tells me this book is different from most others.

Now that I will take the bus to and from work four days a week, it is more economical to purchase a monthly pass. I like the idea of this kind of pass because the opportunities for adventure, exploration and discovery are limitless. I don't have to worry about having exact change or having change at all. I don't have to worry about transfers or time. I just get to go. Wherever, whenever. To find new places, meet new people and just be.

After picking up my library book, I began to walk north. I neither knew where I was going nor really cared. Because the journey is the thing to be embraced. My decisions about when and where to turn left or right - or to remain straight - are spontaneous. I cross a street because the walk sign is on. I turn down streets because the homes look interesting. I slow down because all is quiet and I think better in those moments.

Having only heard of it, but never really knowing where it was located, I ended up strolling through Volunteer Park. (I didn't know it was this well-known "downtown park" until the very end of my adventure there, when I finally noticed a sign.) At first, I cut through the grass, struggling to find a path I wanted to stay on. There were so many trails willing to take me in all different directions, all offering a different beauty from the next.

Somehow, I ended up on a path that directed me around the north side of the Seattle Asian American Museum. The path gently directed me around the entire museum - underneath large, mossy trees and past pink blossoms - eventually leading me to the Water Tower. As I set about conquering the long stairwell up to the top (with just three landings to take a breath on), I wondered if my new friend with a quirky memory, had he been there with me, would remember how many stairs we climbed. I remembered the days of my youth when I ran the Northwest Portland stairs for soccer practice. And I thought about how long my journey has been.

The Water Tower provides a 360-degree view of the Seattle area through several windows space about five feet apart. Through these windows, I squinted to see any bit of the Olympic Mountains through the dark clouds, gazed at the downtown buildings, stood in awe of the storm slamming the Cascades, attempted to decipher how many miles wide Lake Washington is using my fledgling physics knowledge, and learned that Seattle's northern neighborhoods are not as flat as I assumed. No view gave me the whole picture. In fact, each window in the Water Tower felt like a series of photographs laid side-by-side to create a scraggly panoramic photograph. Individually, they tell a story, though together they tell a better one.

I think this is what life is like. We capture certain profound or not-so-profound moments, whether conscious or unconscious, and then we store them someplace safe, having no idea what they all mean - if they mean anything at all. Then we continue to live life, storing moments upon moments until our hiding spot cannot hold any more. And then we take these moments out, set them side-by-side, rearrange them until they are just so and then struggle to figure out what it all means.

On this Monday, as I prepare to begin my new adventure of work - of living in the no-more - I see the panoramic view and I can even see some of the meaning. So now this is a time of celebration - not because it's the end and certainly not because it's the beginning - but because I'm somewhere in between, moving forward, and seeing goodness all around.

A.

This Horrible, No-Good Friday: A Lament

2010-04-02T15:43:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

What do you do when he’s not there? When he’s not sitting beside you, when he’s not eating with you, sleeping with you, waking with you, peeing with you? What do you do when he’s gone – when your warrior, friend, Prince of Peace and Messiah has been obliterated?

Similarly, what do you do when your friend – Her name is Lyme Disease – is gone? What do you do when the friend you did everything with is no longer there? Who do you eat with? Who do you sleep with? Who do you wake to? My constant traveling companion is gone.

And I am lonely.

But I was lonely with Her, too. The Lyme, She never talked back; She was predictable – that is, predictably unpredictable; and She never left my side.

And for all those reasons, I loathed Her. With Her, I missed precisely everything that scares me about human interaction. I felt as if I were talking to a brick wall; sometimes I mouthed words – my feelings, experiences, questions – just to release the tension within me. She never surprised me, never caught me off-guard, never caused me to laugh out loud. And She became my convenient excuse to keep others at a distance. Because I was betrothed to Her. My illness was I, and I was my illness.

On this horrible, no-good Friday, I grieve. I grieve for the relationship I have with this illness. I grieve that it's no longer around - I am finding that I hold my arm to my stomach just like in the old days. Because as it disappears, all that leaves is me, and that is me alone with my sin.

I grieve for the God that was pushed aside. I grieve for the opportunities missed, and I grieve for quickly rejecting all forms of love. I grieve for my childhood, my early adulthood, the friends I withdrew from and the people with whom I never gave a chance. I grieve over the choices I have made, and for camouflaging those choices with humor and ten layers of justification according to the Book of Anna.

I grieve for my staunch loneliness and I grieve that I could not see it until now. I am just now realizing what I have missed, that I have not been true to my Self for far too many years. I grieve for not paying attention to the signs that pointed me in the right direction. I regret that I hurt people along the way, that I interpreted their love for me as exactly the opposite.

On this horrible, no-good Friday, I grieve. And then I pray in the words of my pastor, Ryan Marsh, who wrote me today: "I've found that being a sinner is such a relief... no longer having to manufacture my own goodness, prove that I'm right, justify my existence, cover up my inadequacies, make excuses for my failures, lie about my selfishness... phew! Thank God that Jesus died on this day for sinners like you and me rather than for godly people!"

Jesus, come back, stay here, go with me. I have made room for you.

A.

The Two-Year Zapping Pursuit

2010-04-01T10:31:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

"You really need to be using the coil machine for at least two years," Doug Maclean told me in our phone conversation last Saturday.

"I know, I know," I said, my voice trailing off. For ten straight months, I used the Doug coil machine to treat myself at least once a week - often twice a week - but then lost my "dealer" when I moved to Seattle in late January. At the time, I think I was ready to stop coiling because I was not herxing much from the treatments and was transitioning into doing personal training. Still, I agree that ten months is too short. I anticipate stopping antibiotics for good in June, and it would be a tragedy if the Lyme were to come creeping back all because I didn't zap myself once or twice a week. Lyme is sneaky that way. Though I feel good, you just never know with these damn bugs, so being thorough can't hurt.

The man who named his invention after himself offered to find someone in the area who would be willing to let me use their machine. For reasons of transportation and time, however, I am skeptical I will find someone close enough who would be willing to open their home to me for an hour or so twice a week. Therefore, I am strongly considering buying this $3,000 machine.

I suppose there's not too much harm in buying one. If I ever want to sell it, I could probably find a Lyme sufferer to buy it at a reduced rate. But I'm not sure if I would ever sell it. After pitching the idea to Glen, my gym's owner, about him buying one for use in its space (all so that I wouldn't have to buy one myself) - and failing for liability reasons - he strongly suggested that I open up a retail space to share the love with others. Given that I have a three-day weekend, the idea is not impossible. Still, it would basically require opening up a business, which is something I'm not sure I want to do.

Financially, I foresee that I could buy the machine in or around June, so we'll start there and see what happens. In the meantime, I'm wondering what kind of interest there is in the Seattle area. Is there anyone around here who wishes to use the Doug machine but can't afford owning one and who would use take advantage of one if it were available at a small fee?

A.

Bells in the Morning

2010-03-30T22:06:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

Church bells reverberated through my neighborhood Sunday morning, marking the beginning of Holy Week. I opened my windows to allow the music to waft in, simultaneously exchanging that with the smell of banana bread baking in the oven.

Later that day, I went to my new church. Because it is a church with maybe 50 attenders any given Sunday, it's a safe bet that I will get to see many of the same people each week. And I love it. I love seeing the same faces and I love sitting close to them. I love singing the repetitive hymns and I love little girls who wave their palm leaves with abandon, having no understanding of personal space.

Bit by bit, this church is becoming the most consistent space in which I feel absolutely normal. I hardly remember I'm sick when I'm there. I don't feel the effect of Lyme - singing, listening, praying, responding, sitting, standing, eating and drinking - I am entirely present. I feel like an equal contributor, too, like for the first time in a long time, my illness doesn't get in the way. I can be Anna: less mysterious, more beautiful, becoming known.

My illness doesn't seem to bother anyone, either. I went on the church retreat a few weekends ago and as travel goes, my medicine came with me. The first morning there, I searched for something to eat without dairy in it, which was quite difficult, yet typical in situations like these. A few people noticed I was struggling to find something and asked what they could do. Then without a moment's hesitation, one woman ended up making me plain eggs.

Over the course of the two months I have lived in Seattle, I sense that I have turned extroverted, which is probably closer to my true Self. I rarely become energized anymore by being alone - I mean, I need that (we all need that) - but I love being with people. I can't tell you how many times I've gone out at night, how little I need daytime rest, that I never see my bed unless it's during sleeping hours. I run across the street without thinking twice and push myself to squat just a little lower in yoga class. I light up when I see my gym friends; my church friends; my Mars Hill Graduate School friends (people with some of the most integrity and depth of character I have seen anywhere; they will absolutely change the world); and my friends I know just because. Like opening up the window to the church bells, I open up my Self to these people. And then we bless each other with sweet music and aromas.

If Seattle is the Emerald City, then I am truly a gem being dusted off who is beginning to sparkle.

A.

Physicology/43

2010-03-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

Due to my steady and incredible progress, my bimonthly doctor appointment was halved this morning. My checkbook was as happy as its owner. My doctor and I didn't have much to talk about really. Even after telling him that my energy is 9.8 (out of 10), my brain capacity is normal, exercise is a cinch and I have no numbness or tingling, that still left a lot of time to stare and smile at each other. Hence, the shortened appointment.

In that 15 minutes, we did manage to talk about one problem: my sleep as of late. In the last three weeks, I have struggled to fall asleep, stay asleep, and wake when I am supposed to. It takes me at least two hours to fall asleep, my mind never seems to shut off when I should be sleeping and I wake up earlier than I should. Without her prompting, even my new massage therapist told me that she could feel that I'm sleep deprived. I have been surprised that my body has held up, particularly since, historically, even one night's sleep requires two days' rest. But I can't do nothing; the lack of sleep will catch up to me eventually. In response, my doctor prescribed a herbal remedy to take about an hour before bed. For everyone's sake, I really hope it works.

My disturbed sleep is entirely due to family stress, which increased before, during and after a quick trip to Portland a few weeks ago. One given about successful Lyme Disease recovery is the reduction of stressors. Stress can be good or bad, for instance, a job, a new relationship, financial woes or living in a dysfunctional family system. Lyme, however, does not necessarily distinguish between good or bad stressors, and while we cannot and should not remove all of them from our lives, we can make decisions about which ones to let in or not.

Nearly two years ago, one of those stressors that I removed from my life was a job. No one - not even my former doctor - told me that I had to stop working. However, the decision became all too apparent when I was presented with the facts. Not only would my recovery take much longer, but I also sensed that I needed to do something different, something unnatural even.

I had to be honest with myself, too: It was becoming more and more difficult to live according to someone else's schedule. Lyme Disease knows no time, no schedule. It doesn't care if you have an important meeting or a big test. She's going to do whatever She wants whenever She wants. Therefore, it was imperative that I carve out the space to lean into the pain. In this way, Lyme became my friend. We got to know each other, and She dictated what, where and how I lived life. For a time, I let Her; it was the only way I knew how.

And, then, after a short while (and it really is a short while: two to four years over 75 in my anticipated lifetime), She became my bitch. I've put Her in my back pocket and walked on ahead. I move, forgetting that I once couldn't. I laugh, forgetting that I once lost reason to. I dream, forgetting that I couldn't see beyond the day. I am drawn to people, forgetting that I once rejected human interaction.

Now I walk into my doctor's office shouting hello to the receptionist. I hug my doctor as I leave. I smile as I walk out the door. I skip down the street. And I keep on.

A.

Drinks Are On Me

2010-03-25T12:51:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

In God's infinite wisdom and humor, today I accepted a job offer. Beginning the week after Easter, I will be hanging out and causing trouble somewhere else four days a week, specifically Tuesday-Friday, 8:30a-4:30p. It's a job that's not only right up my alley, but will also be challenging and provide opportunities to use my Master's degree. I have medical and dental benefits starting immediately, including a flexible health spending plan. They are also investing in me, giving me some room to engage in ongoing professional development courses. Furthermore, the organization has some unexpected ties to others I know of and already connected with in the community, and I cannot wait to see what comes of it.

Upon hearing the news, my pastor said that I have much to celebrate these days; my trainer told me "good things happen to good people"; and Clark (who was in town this week) said that I deserve this and seem really happy.

Yes, I am happy, as well as at shalom, spunky, engaged and surprised that I will soon be collecting a paycheck. It seems like all my wandering, questions and feelings of uncertainty are coming together at just the right time in the right way, projecting me into some good unknown. And I cannot wait to see how the story unfolds.

A.

A Thousand Words

2010-03-22T15:36:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

You're in for a special treat today because I'm going to do a little less writing in order to post a ton of pictures. If you've caught on, I rarely post photographs, mostly because I like to paint pictures with words. But sometimes photos tell a story that words cannot express.

The following are photos that go back six years to my senior year of college all the way up to March 5, 2010, my 28th birthday. Though the Lyme symptoms officially appeared two years after graduation, in June 2006, I wasn't the healthiest of people to begin with. Wellness rests on a spectrum, and getting Lyme only called attention to the way I was treating my whole Self: mind, body and spirit. In this way, you may find it difficult to figure out at which point I had Lyme and didn't have Lyme. (Feel free to guess and/or discuss in the comments section. First hint: These pictures are in chronological order. Second hint: I did not post a picture of me in the first year of the illness because I couldn't find one to share.)

Every now and then, I will browse photographs of myself, as they have become my story, a story of history that reminds me of the deep transformation that has and is happening within me, through me. So feel free to laugh, cry or dance. Because I do. Because this is a story of a Daddy-Father who heals, redeems and makes new.

A New Attraction

2010-03-19T08:13:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

On as many Monday and Wednesday evenings as I can, I go to a yoga class at my gym. Chris the instructor is amazing. He is gentle with the body, while also guiding us into positions never before considered possible. Right off the back, he struck me as different and I told him so immediately after my first class with him.

Last Monday night, I was feeling a bit achy, although nobody would know unless I told them, of course. Consequently, my fingers were neither as straight as they should have been nor my energy as high as it usually is. To my surprise, Chris came off his mat and adjusted my fingers. The adjustment was gentle and didn't hurt, though it did annoy me. As he adjusted them, he told me to straighten them out.

"I can't do that," I whispered.

He told me to straighten them again.

"I can't do that," I whispered. I shook my head this time.

He told me to do it again.

"I can't do that," I whispered again. He backed off.

If you have been reading this blog for some time now, you will remember a story I shared about a previous experience with yoga instructors who adjusted my fingers after I explicitly told them I was in pain "all over." Those adjustments made me want to scream. Eventually, I stopped going to yoga altogether.

As the class continued last Monday, Chris came over a few times more to verbally direct me to adjust my position. Each time, however, I braced for the possibility that he was going to violate my boundaries again. And over the course of the class I could feel myself getting more and more resentful of his instruction. I considered walking out, or never coming back, or merely not saying anything. But then my thoughts shifted. I considered the situation: For one, I had not told him up front about my pain, and two, the adjustment wasn't painful - just a little traumatic. Also, I really like Chris and so does everybody else. He is the only yoga instructor I know whose students clap at the end of each class.

When the class ended, I decided that I had to say something. So I went.

"Hi Chris. Could I talk to you?" I asked.

"Yeah, sure," he said.

"You are a really great yoga instructor, but one thing that would help me out is if you wouldn't touch me. You wouldn't know it, but I am very ill. I've had some traumatic experiences with yoga instructors, so I prefer not to be touched."

"I'm sorry. Of course. Can I give you verbals?"

"Yes, verbals would be great. Thank you."

"May I ask, what illness do you have?" Chris asked.

"I have something called Lyme Disease. Have you heard of it?"

"Of course. I have some friends with Lyme. My former boss had Lyme, too. In fact, his whole family got it. They got it on Bainbridge Island taking a picnic."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, they were so sick. None of them could sleep. He would be up at 3 a.m. pacing the hall, saying hello to his son who was walking the hall, too."

My heart sank. "I know what that feels like."

"Yeah, they were on antibiotics for six months, but it wasn't working. So he got a hold of this guy's work. His name was, uh, Rife."

This story was beginning to sound vaguely familiar.

Chris went on. "So he created this machine that - "

"Doug?" I said with disbelief in my voice.

"Yeah. Wait, how do you know Doug?"

"How do you know Doug?" I retorted.

"I worked for him."

"I used the Doug coil machine for quite a while."

The Doug we were speaking of is Doug Maclean, the man who revived Royal Raymond Rife's invention of a frequency generator that kills infections, such as cancer and Lyme Disease. Chris went on to tell me more about Doug and what he knows about Lyme. (Glen, the gym owner, later told me that Chris is a "walking Seinfeld episode.") I was flabbergasted. I had never met anyone outside the Lyme community who knew so much about Lyme, especially about the Rife machine.

For the next half-hour, as we stood in the gym's hallway, we ended up talking about Lyme, like how it's affected me, what I've done to treat it and the reasons for this soap opera that is Lyme Disease. Eventually, Chris suggested that I email Doug and I advised him to watch "Under Our Skin." At one point, he even started to counsel me on which cell phone to buy. More importantly, I went from feeling mild annoyance and resentment of his instruction to discovering this crazy affinity with him. I found myself laughing with and opening up to him, whereas just minutes before, I had been considering walking out, never to return.

When I take a risk for the sake of relationship, sometimes people listen. Sometimes it turns out way better than I ever imagine. And sometimes I find I'm not as lonely anymore.

A.

I Can't Help Myself

2010-03-18T15:14:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

Today I went to my doctor's office to restock my cabinet of the supplements that will run out just a few days prior to my appointment next week. (This is the perk of now living in the same city as him.) As I walked into the waiting room, I noticed a man paying his bill and getting his own supplements. I stood behind him to his left, patiently watching him check out.

There's something about being in that office that makes me want to pump my fists, shout hallelujahs, hug the patients and listen to their stories. I just want to connect with and encourage them that they are on the right track. But out of respect for their privacy, I hold back.

Still, after a few minutes of observing this man I began to imagine what his story was. When did he become ill? What has he been doing to get well? How has his health improved? My antsiness was beginning to feel unbearable. But then just as I couldn't take it any longer, the receptionist walked away from the desk, which gave me my chance.

"Are you getting better?" I asked. I smiled.

The man turned towards me. "Sort of. It's like two steps forward, one step back."

"For sure. How long have you been seeing the doctor?"

"About six months. How about you?"

"Since October 2008."

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yes!" I smiled bigger. "I'm near the end of my treatment, and I'm doing very well."

The receptionist came back, abruptly ending our conversation. So I continued to observe the man check out, wishing that if I were given just one more minute, I would have told him that it gets better. The way he feels today won't be the way he feels tomorrow.

A.

A Train Whistles

2010-03-15T14:45:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

A train whistles. An infant cries. A single tear crawls down the cheek. And joints ache. These are signs of legitimate or potential pain; the signs tell us something is going on, usually more than meets the eye. Lyme Disease sufferers know this intimately.

Many Lyme sufferers ache. From head to toe, they are in pain. Their phalanges feel like the creaky tin man, the head feels spliced in two, and muscles previously unknown to the sufferer are like the child who won’t stop nagging you for attention. The bugs crawl underneath the skin and the body seems to be an anchor at the bottom of the ocean. And if it could help, sufferers would cut off every painful body part, although the torso would be the only part spared.

A Lyme herx can be quite painful, even scary. For one, symptoms you never knew you had or you thought had disappeared can come back without warning. For example, in November my doctor prescribed me a new antibiotic called Minocycline. Within a day or two, I began to feel dizzy, my legs began to slow, and my arms became heavy. I had pretty much digressed back to the first days of my illness. And I was unhappy about that. The herx lasted for a few days until about a day after my doctor ordered me to stop taking it.

Herxes can last anywhere from an hour to a few days long. (If they last any longer than that, then the sufferer is treating too much, not resting enough or not doing treatment they should be doing.) Herxes are typically initiated by any kind of activity; whether special or mundane, long or short, the Lyme makes no difference. Many times, the onset of herxes occurs hours or even a day or two after the activity. Therefore, the Lyme sufferer runs on adrenaline to get through, but few people see the real effects of the disease.

I had an unexpectedly busy day last Wednesday. I wrote in the morning, caught up on some emails, and then went to my friends’ school to do some personal study the library there. I read, studied and journaled as intensely as most everything else I do. While there, I ran into some new friends of mine. We ended up talking and talking and talking. And before you knew it, it was time to go home to eat dinner and then head on to my church’s theology night. On the way there, I held a lively conversation with Paul. Once we arrived, we headed straight into the pub to listen and converse with a group from the church. The pub was packed, the music was loud, and multiple televisions were playing at once.

The day seems fun – and it was fun – but it was also a lot of unexpected stimulation for one day. Within a half-hour of sitting at the pub, my head started to ache, I felt like I just wanted to close my eyes, and it was getting harder to concentrate. Most of all, I was beginning to resent being there. I think I know myself well enough to know that this was only going to get worse, so I made the rapid decision to leave the pub to take a walk. I have found the quickest way to stave off a worse herx is to remove myself from the situation. Based on experience, I had a feeling this time that a quick jaunt around the block (and it was quick because it was cold) would relieve my symptoms. I rubbed my eyes a few times, shook out my limbs and then walked back into the pub to carry on many more conversations for the rest of the night.

Herxes can occur both in and out of treatment. (I use the term treatment somewhat loosely: I mean anything you are doing to kill the Lyme, boost your immune system, or otherwise manage the pain. This may include (but is not limited to) antibiotics, rifing, supplements, acupuncture and yoga.) Herxes often feel the same and last as long whether or not you are in treatment. But there is one key difference: A herx outside treatment signals that you are sick; a herx inside treatment says you are getting better.

We are a culture that likes to numb the pain, and pharmaceutical companies make a killing capitalizing on this fact. We don’t want to stop, diagnose the problem, and make the necessary changes to get well again. Rather, we want to keep running at full-speed ahead, demanding that recovery accommodate our lifestyles. It’s like the marathon runner who doesn’t slow down to grab a cup of water. How much water do you think she actually ends up swallowing? Probably not much.

When I first got sick, I, too, wanted someone to numb my pain. I was working and starting a ministry – this is what God wants, I told myself – and a piddly illness wasn’t in my plan. Sure, I also wanted to know what was really going on in my body, but in that moment – when I was rapidly losing the ability to move, wrapping my body in blankets to disperse the pain – I would have taken almost anything for it all to go away.

In August 2006, just two-and-a-half months after the initial onset of symptoms, a naturopath* diagnosed me with Lyme Disease. At the time of the diagnosis I was at my wit’s end. I was nearing the end of my sabbatical from work. (My neurologist thought rest would cure whatever was shacking up in my body.) I took a blood test which I now know has too many false positives, but at the time I didn’t know anything about the nature of Lyme Disease or the controversy surrounding its diagnosis and treatment. In addition, I had no buy-in to the lifestyle and changes that are required to fight any illness. I just wanted to go back to work, to hang out with my friends, to not be sick.

So I took the herbal medicines the naturopath gave me. I was pretty good about taking them for the first two or three months, but then I got lazy and annoyed with taking them. I would occasionally forget, or occasionally tell myself that I was better, or occasionally tell myself that I knew more than my naturopath. But let’s be honest: I didn’t want to be sick, so I made decisions to fool myself into thinking that it wasn’t that bad, that it would all go away like magic. Poof.

The interesting thing about Lyme recovery is that no pain means that the buggers are making a comfortable home in my bones and tissues. In fact, no pain would tell me that I am missing something and that the buggers are multiplying. They like it when I don’t fight, when I just give in, when I stop trying. For a while, both of us are at peace, but it is just a false sense of security. Because when I do eventually make a fuss by, say, coiling, the pain and recovery is ten times worse.

It took me two years to figure out that I didn’t want to play by the buggers’ rules anymore. I hated going straight from work to bed. I hated that my body ached even though I looked healthy. I hated that nothing was changing. And nothing would change until I changed, until I said no, until I began to fight back.

When I say fight, what I mean by that is to put up my boundaries. It’s like two neighbors who haven’t built a fence between their backyards. One neighbor has two teenage sons who like to throw the football. The other neighbor has a nicely landscaped yard with a vegetable garden. Let’s say these two boys are outside one day throwing the football around when the oldest one lobs the ball way beyond his brother, causing him to run backwards to catch it. On the way, he runs straights through the vegetable garden, cutting a trail right through the lettuce and carrots. Naturally, the other neighbor is going to be upset. But can he really be that upset? Had a fence been erected, the fence would have stopped the boy from running through the garden. But nothing stopped him and in that moment, all he thought about was catching the football.

Pain is a boundary. It signals us to stop, to observe, to take note. Recovery is a boundary. It tells the intruder to stop whatever he is doing, and it tells other people that we have lifestyle restrictions right now. Wellness is a boundary, too, except at this point it is more like a chain-link fence: The boundary is firm but still open for visitors.

Actually, wellness is on a spectrum. It’s shaped weird, like a spiral. I’ve gone from lots of pain to no pain to lots of pain to moderate pain to – as I enter the end stages of treatment – non-existent pain. Though the journey has been long and difficult, what I tend to fail to realize is that I am, and always have been, on an upwards spiral. This encourages me even today when I have been feeling a bit tired and achy. Because I know that this isn’t it, that there’s more to this story.

Someday, the achiness will be no-more and the story will turn to some other kind of pain, like complaining my children waking me up early and my supervisor making me stay late at work. And wouldn’t that be lovely? To tell a story that has me raising kids and working? To tell a story with more reasons to celebrate than to mourn? That’s the story I surely want to tell. In this way, the pain is entirely worth it.

*I have nothing against naturopaths. I love that they are generally seeking to treat the whole person. But even the noblest attempt neither guarantees awareness of the Lyme controversy nor effective treatment methods.

The Blessing

2010-03-11T22:21:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Since June 2008 when I stopped working, started a graduate, distance-learning program, and, most importantly, intentionally began the long, arduous journey of Lyme Disease recovery, I began to establish a rhythm. Wake. Swallow pills. Eat. Swallow pills. Lie in bed. Eat. Swallow pills. Take a walk. Swallow pills. Eat. Swallow pills. Swallow pills. Swallow pills.

I didn't have all that much to do. Sure, I had graduate school, but one trademark of web-based learning is that it is flexible. Therefore, I could accomplish schoolwork in between rest, Rife treatments and herxes. The rest of my day would be spent taking walks, meeting with friends - the fewer and far between they became, that much more meaning they came to hold - and watching movies.

I subscribe to a Netflix account that allows me to hold onto one movie at a time. To maximize the $8.99 I pay each month, I have concocted this pretty great system where I get a movie on Wednesday, watch it that same day, throw it in the mailbox on Thursday, get another movie on Saturday, watch it that weekend, pop it in the mail on Monday, and then get another movie on Wednesday. And on and on the cycle of near-perfection goes. Only government holidays threw this system off-kilter - neither people nor events were a strong enough pull.

When by chance I was presented with something to do on a Wednesday night in particular (I have a whole extra day to watch the movie on the weekend), I would tend to suggest another night so that I could stay true to my movie-watching system.

Yesterday was Wednesday, my regular movie-watching night. All day I looked forward to a night of watching the movie waiting for me in my mailbox, only preceded by a yoga class. I could tell it was going to be a sweet, familiar time.

"Do you want to go to theology night at the pub?" Paul asked me yesterday afternoon. Though I had yet to go to one, my understanding was that the church created a space for community members to enter into healthy and, quite possibly, transformative dialogue.

Like ivy to a brick wall, so, too, has the church been growing on me. Due to Paul's duties, he and I have been going early before the church service, which gives me a chance to contribute in small ways. I have prepared the hot water, sliced bread and even hung apples from the ceiling. Last Sunday, the pastor invited me to consecrate the wine during communion.

Since liturgy is not in my background, I had to consult with Paul about what I needed to say.

"This is Jesus' blood shed for you," I gently said, blessing everyone who dipped their bread in the cup.

How ironic. Though I bless them, in actuality they are blessing me. The community members are kind, lovely people, many who have already approached me in just the few weeks I have been attending. I sense their invitation of grace and of love. I sense that I may truly come as Anna, that I am assumed made in the image of God, that perhaps, if I were not to show, I would be missed.

My answer, then, to Paul's invitation to the pub was a no-brainer. "Of course!" I said. We showed up a little late, but were immediately given room at the table. Over the course of the next two hours, we went on to discuss theological things, political things and personal things. I discovered my life strangely overlapped with others and that I might have more hope regarding my job situation than I realized. Mostly, I discovered that being included - being in the presence of others - is way more fun than sitting by myself at home watching a movie.

A.

Physicology/42

2010-03-10T10:06:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

At the beginning of personal training, I would notice that just a few arm presses would cause my entire left arm, from shoulder to fingertips, to feel heavy, numb and slightly paralyzed. The feeling would subside after about a minute of shaking out my arm - the latter of which was a psychological benefit only - though it always left me feeling discouraged. "That is the Lyme," I would tell David, my trainer. Furthermore, my movement in training was sluggish. Moving my muscles in quick, tandem spurts was a chore. I feared not only that I would not be able to accomplish the exercise, but that I would feel the effects of the attempt for days after.

To my pleasant surprise, training has been exactly what I needed at this point in my recovery. I think half the battle in these last four weeks was to uncover my rarely used muscles; the other half was to recover them. I went from only being able to do a 15-second plank to doing one for more than a minute. Slowly but surely, I increased my weights and my reps. I went from being very hesitant to get on a machine to powerfully blasting through the reps all the way to the end. Last Friday, in my last session with David, I found myself smiling as he repeatedly rolled a medicine ball towards me and I stooped down to pick it up and throw it at his chest. Movement is fun again.

In January, I was beginning to sense that I just needed to move, to do something more with my body. Then, when my doctor recommended physical therapy without any prompting from me, I knew training was supposed to be my next step. And now, less than two months later, I am feeling great. My body is doing things I had forgotten it could do. I feel motivated, energetic and controlled. Moreover, exercise is not causing me to herx or, in other words, my symptoms are not flaring. The most I may feel is a little fatigue, particularly if I exercise in the morning, but it's fairly minimal and I can still accomplish what I need. I am in awe of what the body can do, how it can heal itself, and how the various facets of the Self can sync together to make something beautiful again.

A.

What Just Happened

2010-03-07T07:42:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

Something happened Friday night just minutes before I left for my birthday celebration. It has never happened before, and I don't know if I should be worried or count it as a fluke. Let me explain.

Since I was to have dinner much later than usual, I would be taking my dinner pills when I should be taking Doxycycline (one of my antibiotics). My solution was to flip-flop the medication, which meant that I would take Doxy at around 6:45p and the other medication at around 9p or whenever I finished my meal. When I took the Doxy, I had a very empty stomach, so I decided to eat some raspberries. It seemed like a healthy, light snack to tide me over.

About 30 minutes later, I got this strange feeling in my stomach. I couldn't tell if I was just really hungry or tired, so I laid down. I tried to convince myself that I was just feeling anxious about staying up so late. Lying down did no good, so I went to the bathroom. I leaned over the bathtub thinking perhaps I had to vomit. But nothing happened so I went to the kitchen to eat some tortilla chips, concluding I only needed to fill my stomach.

Two chips later, all the food in my stomach - which was comprised exactly of the chips and raspberries (and most likely the Doxy, too) - came back up again. In the kitchen sink. Five times. By the last time, I had begun to dry heave. After about a minute of waiting and some good self-talk, I drank some water, wiped my mouth, cleaned out the sick and brushed my teeth. I dressed, combed my hair, and walked outside to meet my ride. "Do you have an Altoid?"

An hour later, after eating less than half my meal (I wasn't feel too hungry by that point) and taking my pills, my stomach started doing some crazy loops again. I quickly excused myself from the table and stumbled back to the bathroom. I leaned over the toilet, a sight that is worse than the stomachache itself. I waited and waited, but nothing happened. So I walked back to the table. My friends noticed something seemed off about me, so I told them what happened.

A minute later, my stomach turned back to feeling normal. I ate some chips. I laughed with my friends. I went on to watch an improv show. And yet I was left wondering what just happened.

A.

So We Went

2010-03-06T16:59:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

I had one simple request of my friends regarding the celebration of my birthday: "I would like to go out late and do whatever it is that adults do at night."

So we went.

Beginning at the late hour of 8p, first we went to dinner in Ballard, a Seattle neighborhood. Being so new to Seattle, I don't know too many people, yet many new friends came: friends I have met along the way during my adventures to Seattle, as well as from my adventures living here now. I wore a striped yellow blouse, the birthday present I gave to myself this year. I think I looked pretty.

At 10:30p, we headed to an improv comedy show downtown. I've never been to one of these shows probably because they start at 10:30p, 15 minutes after my phone shuts off for the night. The actors were enjoyable to watch, one of my friends won the award for best suggestion of the night (and, arguably, of all time), and I had my first drink in more than two years. (It's been a long dry period: After my friend bought me a gin and tonic, I promptly asked, "What's in a gin and tonic?") I don't think the alcohol had a negative effect on me - next time I'll try drinking more than a few sips - though the alcohol may or may not have contributed to my extraordinary giddiness, as I seemed to have more energy than everyone else.

My friends warned me that the actors tend to call people with birthdays up onto the stage. I don't like gathering attention, so the thought of going on stage or walking into a room full of new people makes me slightly nervous.

At some point in the show, the emcee said, "I hear we have a birthday in the room." I stopped breathing. "Is there a Stacey in the house?"

"Oh, thank God," I said out loud. The words initiated breath again.

I watched the actors sing a song about one good and bad quality each about the birthday girl, a song that was quite funny. The birthday girl looked really embarrassed the whole song through. Had it been me, I know I would have stood up to sing with the crew.

More than I care to admit, I've lived my life like this. It is often a great struggle to get me on stage - to just go - but once I'm there, I'm all there. I'm alive and giddy and moving ahead with abandon. Thus, much of the struggle is not a matter of whether I can go, but if I am willing to step into the unknown, to allow the scales of fear to fall away, to do what it takes to experience God's goodness. It helps, too, when I have friends in the audience cheering me on - people who are not only validating my experience, but also contributing to a shared one.

It is no longer I who is going, but now a we.

A.

Promise

2010-03-05T15:50:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

The sun is batting its eyelids today. My sleeves are rolled up, my step picked up, my manner lifted. I feel spunky, too: my body feels more normal than it ever has been, my clarity wouldn't go away if I paid it to, and my smile is bigger (if that is possible). I turn 28-years-old today. And I am filled with promise.

The thought of being 28-years-old is an odd one, actually. Because a good part of me still feels 24-years-old, that I am still young, still figuring out life, still confused. At 24, I remember having a job that I really didn't like and always running from activity to activity; if none were to be found, I always found a way to create white noise. I was wholly naive with blinders on. I thought life couldn't get any worse - or better - than what I was given.

Of course, we all know where this naivete got me. Just three months after I turned 24, life did get worse and, ironically, much better. Such is the paradox of life. Since then, I have experienced partial paralysis; loss of jobs; isolation; depression; confusion; hopelessness; heartbreak; and the confrontation of a life lived unhappily. Yet, I have also experienced love; peace; clarity (both physically and psychologically); a deep sense of exploration, adventure and discovery; choice; depth of wisdom; intimate relationships; boundaries; possibility; beauty; and this deep sense that my entire personality has been transformed into someone who - while incredibly familiar - keeps you on your toes. I feel more patient, more gracious and more cognizant and willing to communicate what I want. All these good things exemplify the effect of being.

In many ways, being young, unsure about life, and confused still remain no matter the age. But the difference now, at age 28, is that in just four short years, God has completely knocked me on my ass - and I mean that quite literally. What little faith I have, thinking that life will only be as good as today, believing that my limitations and pain are too great for Him. If He can do what He has done in the last four years, what will He do in the next forty? The imagination cannot comprehend.

I turn 28-years-old today. And I am filled with promise.

A.

Ferocious Courage

2010-03-03T17:55:00.000-08:00

You have seen my affliction;

You have known the troubles of my soul,

And You have not given me over into the hand of the enemy;

You have set my feet in a large place.

-Psalm 31:7ish-8

Dear friends,

Every time I walk into my physical training appointment I feel a little trepidation. The back of my knees feel heavy, my heart races, my body temperature rises. And each time I walk away from my 30 minutes of torture, I feel as if I just reclaimed a little more of the old-new Anna.

After just eleven 30-minute sessions, I have rediscovered my core. I have rediscovered the ability to lift weights. And I have rediscovered the ability to do lunges around the building. Most of all, I have rediscovered control over my body. I'm not speaking of the control that closes off access to others, that dictates my preconceived ideas about what my body should or shouldn't do. Rather, I'm speaking of the control that conquers - then removes - death, illness and acedia - the control that says "back off bitch." All this occurs in order for goodness, holiness and wellness to dominate. This is a reclamation of the holy, lively, beautiful space that Jesus gave me.

One of the foundations of physical training is the focus on form, specifically on the core. When I lift a weight or do a sit-up, I suck in my tummy, clench my butt cheeks together and relax my shoulders, all which make the task easier to do. At first, I could hardly find these muscles, let alone use them, and I was convinced that they had disappeared for good. Within maybe a week, however, after a little practice and patience, my core started to come back to me. Now, when I want to lift a weight, my stomach, butt and shoulders rapidly sync together to squeeze as one entity, enabling me to pushing the weight up, down or out. I have increased my weight limit threefold and just as many reps, too.

The entire recovery process looks much the same way. For a long time, I didn't believe health was actually possible. I couldn't see it; I certainly couldn't feel it. I had countless days that only felt hopeless and depressing: one day turned into another and another, and the emotional weight felt just as heavy as my legs. I had many questions, but few answers. I came into an intimate knowledge of what David means when he says he has had "years of sighing" (Psalm 31:10).

Much of the time recovery felt like walking around a room in the dark. I would reach my hand to the wall just to connect to something tangible, to remind myself that something could be deader than myself, yet I was never entirely sure about that. Not unlike the Bride in "Kill Bill: Vol. 2" who has been buried alive, I began to feel the demise, that I have actually been forgotten. But Jesus never forgot. He has always been sitting there - here - in His dwelling, the same one He brought me into, and fashioning this beautiful, extraordinary story in me, through me.

To be well requires stubborn patience and perseverance. It requires trust, relationship, love, hope. Consequently, today I live closer to life than death; to beauty than pain; to strength than despair; to clarity than confusion. Bit by bit, I am journeying forward, towards something new, grand, scandalous even. Four years ago, I couldn't have imagined a debilitating illness (or the end of one), or my living in Seattle, or even pursuing a writing career, but I am doing it.

Take courage, my friends. The dark is never as dark as we perceive it to be.

A.

The Beginning of Destination

2010-03-02T20:42:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

The other day, my friend Paul picked me up to go to church. As I walked out my front door, I saw him leaning against his car. His arms were folded and a grin reached ear to ear.

"Would you like to drive today?" he asked. "I've got to finish this homily."

"Sure!" I said without hesitation.

Not only did I drive the half-hour there, but ended up driving back home, too. The experience left me feeling happy, energetic and controlled - the meaning of which doing didn't occur to me until later.

******

When my bitch weaseled its way into my life, the first thing I chucked from my life was the act of driving a car. Lyme Disease does all kinds of things to varying degrees to people, and one of the ways it can mess with you is by inhibiting your ability to drive.

My bitch (also known as Lyme Disease, although "sometimes the best name for something so horrific is a swear word," a friend once told me) prevented me from lifting my legs and flexing my ankles and toes. In addition, Lyme caused spiraling fatigue that liked to appear out of nowhere. Just a few minutes of any kind of activity led to fantasies of lying in bed, cutting off a limb or even dying. Most of us don't realize it, but driving requires our undivided concentration and all our senses to be on alert. Consequently, the seemingly simple act of putting the right foot to the pedal, two hands on the steering wheel and both eyes on the road instantly became one of the most difficult things in my life - not to mention that it was putting everyone on the road at risk.

Not only did I give up control of driving my car, but I gave up control of deciding when, where and with whom to drive. There is something very powerful about driving, about traveling to a destination on your own, about having the means to decide when to arrive and leave. Once illness set in, I required a ride to church, to my doctor's appointments, and even to a meeting six blocks from my apartment. Relying on others felt extremely humbling. And I loathed that.

The inability to drive was very confining, too. Just before I became ill, I had already planned to move out of my apartment and house-sit for a few people that summer. That Independence Day was memorable. Even though my car sat in the driveway, I lay confined to the house. My legs felt four times heavier than usual and my head felt twice as big. The longer my body lay Velcroed to the couch, the more I thought about the holiday celebrations I wasn't participating in. The more I thought about where I wasn't, the more depressed I became. The more depressed I became, the more my body felt stuck to the couch. Around dinnertime, I finally called a friend, who quickly came over. I was happy to see another face, though I still resented the inability to leave the house.

For the next year, until I sold my car, I drove it very little. I relied on friends to drive me, public transit, or I didn't go anywhere at all. At one point, it took three months for me to fill up my gas tank. Having lost control of my body, over time, I seemed to lose trust in myself.

In the last three years, I have driven very little. Long distances have especially been worrisome for me. Driving to Seattle, then, was difficult at first. Cruise control and a stop in Centralia helped, though I still felt tired. To boost my adrenaline, I would crank up the music and dance in my seat. That was a little better, but I still felt as if I had just walked away from a half-marathon.

******

In that context, driving Paul's car the other day became a promising sign of the no-more. It seems that I have regained control of a necessary function of life: I can now do something so simple and so mundane that I don't even have to think about it. I don't have to worry about my reaction time being delayed or my mind getting too tired. I am starting to find that I can spend my energy on the journey - and still have enough left over to enjoy the destination.

So this is what wellness looks like.

A.

Tell Me

2010-03-01T22:20:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Tell me it's a new year. Tell me it's a new month, a new city, a new age, a new experience.

Tell me I am free. Tell me the past is behind me, the present around me, the future before me.

Tell me about love, about play, about faith.

Tell me the facts of life: of pain, completion and journey.

Tell me adventure and discovery will never cease, and death and listlessness will.

Tell me I will cross paths with the grace within others.

Tell me my 'very good' after You tell me Yours.

Tell me I am just beginning.

Tell me a new story.

A.

Color Me Here

2010-02-28T10:44:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

It is no secret the Pacific Northwest is known for its gray, cloudy, rainy days. Non-natives tend to complain of the depressive weather, eventually fleeing back to wherever they came from. Natives never really notice the sad weather, all the while gladly encouraging the non-natives to leave. Either we have synapses of steel or we have no emotion other than depression. The ironic thing is, I often hear this commentary of Portland, but have yet to hear the same of Seattle.

Besides 180 miles, what separates the two cities? Seattle's visionary use of light, that's what. The architects who designed the Seattle Central Public Library or Seattle University's Chapel of St. Ignatius clearly sought to eek out as much light as possible. Steven Holl, architect of the Chapel of St. Ignatius, chose "A Gathering of Different Lights" as his guiding inspiration. He designed light to bounce off of walls to color different parts of the chapel. For example, the narthex looks green and the east nave looks blue. According to SU's website, the metaphor "also refers to St. Ignatius' vision of the spiritual life as comprising many interior lights and darknesses, which he called consolations and desolations."

Everywhere I go in Seattle, I see color. In the urban park down the street, bright yellow chairs sit on top of monotone, lifeless concrete; these same yellow chairs transform into the audience for a nightly light show here. As I walk the treadmill in my gym, I study the juxtaposition of Elliott Bay's navy blue waters against the waterfront's bright green grass. A lone purple tulip sprouts in the middle of a nondescript strip of grass. Lime green escalators cut the library in two. A bright red ampersand, aptly named "Love & Loss," rises above the horizon.

Love and loss. Light and darkness. Wholeness and brokenness. These are the metaphors of my life. Where I see color, I also see grayness. Where I feel joy, I also feel sadness. Where I experience surprises, I also experience disappointment. I have a loved soul, and a broken heart, too. I have as many choices as limits. I am ambitious, yet my own fear gets in the way.

Like the color that bursts out of nowhere in Seattle, so, too, does hope, inspiration and possibility. As my life unfolds, as I continue to explore and as my alternative future becomes the present, I find that my hands become more open, more trusting, more engaged.

And the more color I can't help but see.

A.

Things Lost

2010-02-25T17:33:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

As of late, I have felt angry at this horrible, no-good illness.

My physical health has been fine: at best, I am handling the physical training; at worst, I get a wave or two of fatigue each day, which is my body's response to the exercise. What I feel now is nothing like I used to experience. Truly I am closer to life than I am to death, and the thought sometimes makes me weep.

One reason for my anger is this job search, which has become a daily reminder of what I have lost. With a Master's degree and a work history starting at age 15, I should be OK. But I look at the years of experience required for these things, and then I look at what I have missed in the supposedly spunky 20s, and I feel angry for losing four years of my life to this awful illness.

******

Last weekend, I went out with a friend until past midnight. It is pretty rare that I go out at night, even rarer that I would stay out to see the date change. As we were walking through Capital Hill, he asked me if I went out at night before I got sick. I paused for a long while. I can't even remember what life is like without illness. "Please tell me you did," he said. Eventually I remembered that I did indeed go out. Even though I've never been a night owl, before illness I didn't have to think or plan going out. I just did or I didn't.

I find it difficult to plan, to commit. I lost the desire to do so with this horrible, no-good illness. At first, I would tell people that I would show up to parties and events, but then never would. Eventually, I started being honest with myself and said no to everything.

When I walk into crowds, especially composed of people new to me, I put on a proverbial layer of protection. Smile, walk normally, act normally, I coach myself, and don't let on that you're sick. So I make pleasantries and I rely on my natural sense of curiosity. But I don't let on that the stimulation is terrifying - people aren't terrifying, but the stimulation can be. I say 'can be' because I can quickly go from being "all there" in a conversation, a sermon or an activity to mentally climbing the walls looking to escape. Of course, nobody knows this because it is all happening in my head.

I have learned to be a good actor, to sit there with a smile on my face, to engage in friendly banter. Often, I don't even know I'm doing it. I have struggled with opening myself up to others for most of my life, and Lyme Disease only exacerbated it. This illness suddenly gave me a nice excuse for literally hiding from the world.

As I step back into the world, as I begin to open myself up to new people, groups and other people's timetables and expectations, sometimes I fear that I cannot do it, as if I've gone too far down this road, this journey of illness, and I don't know if I can go back. My counselor advised that I train people to ask me how I am really doing. I assumed she said this so that people would finally know my real Self, but I'm thinking maybe this is more for my benefit than for theirs.

******

Yesterday, my friend Mike told me that he felt tired and brain foggy.

My eyebrows furrowed. "Normal people feel that, too?"

******

Before I intentionally entered recovery to kill the damn buggers, work was my easy escape. I worked into the night, on the weekends, at home. So, to not work - or, to put a positive spin on it, to live - has been a complete change of pace for me.

And I have to come to like it very much.

In the past 21 months, I have been given the rare opportunity not to engage in a lot of things other than the restoration of my physical, emotional and spiritual Self. I get to show myself to the world whenever I want, to go to and fro whenever I want, to do projects that interest me, and to choose whom to be around. I feel healthy, I am easy on the eyes, and I am happy. This stage of my life has mostly been about me.

Which is the way it should be.

There's a point, however, when things must change as one returns to the no-more. A few weeks before I moved to Seattle, my friend Heather told me that I was grieving: grieving a city, grieving a community, grieving a family, grieving an illness - the loss of one, that is. Thus, as I enter the no-more, I am starting to grieve the loss of the things that attached themselves to the illness. So not only am I getting rid of an illness, but I am losing the tangible and intangible benefits of having an illness; the way I ordered my life to accommodate the illness; and the energy I gave to it all. In sum, I am losing its provision, protection and priority in my life.

I am losing its provision, as the illness has given me the space to discover God's love and freedom on a level and scale likely inaccessible without this crisis. I have been given the chance to explore, to figure out what I want or don't want, to imagine, to create, to be. As I move into the no-more, can I find the space that would help me encounter similar things?

I am losing the illness's protection, too. The life in recovery created necessary shelter from many stresses that work, relationships and family tend to cause. I was given breathing room to heal, to rest, and to regroup. In the no-more, am I ready to shed this layer of protection, allowing others to see me beyond Lyme? What about me? Will I see myself beyond Lyme?

Finally, I am losing the priority that illness necessitates. I have been given the chance to freeze most other things in pursuit of health and wellness. Now in the no-more, I must respond to the priorities bobbing to the surface. Financially, what do I need to do to get back on the rails? Relationally, with whom do I need to make amends? With whom do I move forward? Spiritually, what kinds of disciplines have I let slide all in the name of recovery? And with things concerning my time, how much more time and energy am I now willing to give away?

Perhaps things lost make room for things gained. This I believe, this I hope.

A.

Physicology/41

2010-02-23T18:46:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

Something magical happens between a patient and health care professional when both present their true selves, remain honest, and view the other as valuable contributors to the problem. This is true between my Lyme doctor and me, my personal trainer and me, and, as of today, my lady doctor and me.

On my Lyme doctor's suggestion, I went to a gynecologist to get a pelvic exam (which has this way of making me throw my hands in the air and thank God that I haven't endured childbirth...yet) and to inquire about some hormonal issues that revealed itself the same month I got Lyme. Though I always had the feeling that Lyme Disease and the runaway hormones were connected, I never received a good answer from a medical professional. So as I prepared to go to the doctor today, I felt a little trepidation, expecting to get some bad news, like maybe I am infertile or turning into a man.

As soon as I walked into the waiting room, the receptionist greeted me with a smile and cheerful small talk. She handed me a form to fill out with my health history. A quarter of the way through, I heard someone say my name. Startled, I bellowed, "Yeah!" I never expected to be called in early.

When in the exam room, the nurse asked for all the medication I was taking, so I handed her my cheat sheet where I had scrawled all my medications and dosages. Since Western medicine is not equipped to recognize most supplements, she had to ask many questions about names and spellings. I was glad that I didn't use short-hand, though my handwriting could have been a little less messy. Fortunately, I have become so accustomed to explaining these weirdo medicines that I had no problem filling out my form and answering her questions at the same time.

Soon, I sat down with my lady doctor for a good half-hour to talk through my issues. Being that I was paying out-of-pocket (my short-term, high deductible insurance is useless to me), I think I nabbed more time with her than insured patients do. My lady doctor was patient and sympathetic to Lyme: She didn't assume she knew anything about Lyme (although I know she does) and she didn't assume that she knew more than me. She asked good, leading questions, which resulted in me telling her more about my life than I expected. The history, however, ended up working in our favor, as her consultative analysis really resonated with me.

In short, in the last nine months I have had a regular, monthly period, which is my body's way of telling us that something is being corrected. Being that I have never had a regular period before June 2009, this is beautiful news. As for the extra bleeding in November, December and January, she believes it was the body's response to stress.

Since my last period in February was fine, and my hormones show themselves to have stabilized since the summer (the free testosterone seems to be reined in), and my Lyme doctor has projected the near death of these bugs, my lady doctor feels that I'm on the way to normalcy. This means that I should have no problem getting pregnant (not that it's a desire or a plan anytime soon) and that I can lead a healthy life.

"You have worked really hard to get here," she said.

I smiled. "Yes, yes I have."

A.

The Answer to the Why

2010-02-22T21:04:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Both before and after my move to Seattle, people have consistently asked me one question: "Why the move to Seattle?" This is a great question, one that comes with many answers and, ironically, no definitive answer.

I moved for a few good reasons. For one, better job opportunities exist here in my field. Many companies are headquartered here; hundreds of others have offices here. Thus, my options have expanded tenfold.

Another reason I moved to Seattle was for the beauty and brevity the city offers. I think I had outgrown Portland; I came to know that city like the back of my hand. Without a challenge I can get bored quickly, and Seattle offered a new challenge, not only in its landscape, but in its intellectual opportunities, also. Seattle reminds me of a healthy blend of Portland and Chicago. On one hand, you have mountains, water, parks, laidback people and neighborhoods of character. On the other hand, you get academic institutions, corporations and amazing architecture. In sum, Seattle offers opportunities for creativity as much as intellectual stimulation, both which fit my personality better.

Of course, I moved here because my doctor is here. I feel more at ease having him a bit closer. There's something about proximity in a relationship that sweeps you up, taking you somewhere to a beautiful unknown. Unlike in Portland, where 80 percent of the time (after I moved back from Chicago) was spent being sick, I plan on being healthy the majority of the time I live in Seattle.

But even as I finish giving you concrete answers about why I moved to Seattle, a big part of me has no definitive answer. When I get at the heart of the matter, must I really have one? Honestly, I don't know what will happen - not how income will flow in, or how relationships will pan out, or how my health will progress. I feel like the answer is always being unearthed: as one day rolls over into another, as one moment with a friend becomes another moment, as details unfold as they should be.

A few months before I moved, I was sharing with my friend Sharon that I was feeling anxious about the move. She responded, "The decision to move is a fluid one. Just because you move there doesn't mean that's where you have to stay. You can always come back if you want."

I think that decision-making is like this. We sign up for a graduate program thinking we're going to do one thing, but instead end up doing another. We plan our lives with a significant other and little children in mind, but instead get a messy roommate and a bowl of ice cream. We live our lives in naivete, until our worlds get rocked.

Illness was never in my plan. It never is. But discovery, freedom, and shalom weren't in my plans, either. And they are here, here to stay, and here to travel with me wherever I go, whomever I meet and whatever I do. My answer to the why, then, is waiting for me in this beautiful city. It's waiting for me to say 'yes,' to persevere and to trust - all of which are enough for me to be here.

A.

Good Theater

2010-02-17T17:56:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Seattle bounced onto stage today. The Director lifted its gray curtain - revealing the snow-capped Olympic Mountains - turned on the lights, waved a bright blue banner, and commanded creation's actors to come out and play.

That included me.

I decided to say 'hello' to the Togo sofa today. We hadn't seen each other since last May, and we were way overdue for a visit. On the way there, I walked through the Olympic Sculpture Park, an urban park full of funky artwork, distinct angles and front-row seats to Elliott Bay and all its activity. The water was a navy blue today. I watched ferries come into port. Two freighters lay frozen in the middle of the bay. And a man urinated in the bushes.

I continued to walk south, accidentally finding myself in Pike Place Market. I think it's been 12 years since I last ventured in that area. And it may be another 12 years until I do it again - there are just too many tourists and too many distractions. I also suppose I just wanted to rendezvous with T.S. again.

When I arrived at Ligne Roset, I found him sitting in a new spot, this time on the other side of the floor and closer to the door. I sat down and heard myself release a sigh of relief. The salesman came over.

"Can I help you?"

"I love the Togo, but I can't afford one right now," I said. "If it's all right with you, I'm just going to sit here for a while."

"Yes, of course."

I sat down. The small of my back connected with the back of the Togo just as my neck found the top of the sofa. I closed my eyes. I listened to the construction across the street. I imagined what it would be like to have one of these sofas in my living room, what kind of furniture would go with the Togo, what color of floors I needed. I also dreamed what it would be like to be at the point when I could justify a purchase such as this. But mostly, I lay there. In peace, in hopefulness. And I almost began to weep.

Many minutes later, I got up to say goodbye to the salesman whose back was toward me.

"Thanks for everything," I said. He jumped. I sat there just long enough for the salesman to forget about me.

I continued on my adventure, deciding that I wanted to go visit the beautiful, modern beast that is the Seattle Central Library. I glided all the way up the lime green escalators to the highest point visitors may go. Through the honeycomb windows, I gazed south as far as my eyesight would let me. I tried picking out buildings I knew, only getting so far as Qwest Field and Starbucks. And being slightly afraid of heights - especially when only a railing separates me from life and death - I peeked down to the third floor lobby, which is described as where one could find, among other things, coffee and friendship. That made me smile.

And then I walked back to my neighborhood. As I write, the Director is slowly closing the curtain, dimming the lights and calling forth His actors home. This is good theater, and I want to be here.

A.

Expulsion

2010-02-15T14:04:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

Do you think it's possible to include a toilet plunger as a medical expense? What about toilet paper? I am not sure if the antibiotics are to blame or if it is due to some supplements I am swallowing, but I must go to the bathroom once every few hours. There are days when it seems that I could fill up a river; on other days I could create a few mountains, which often adds up to a small range by day's end. I think the bathroom time is a good thing, though. Because this is my body's way of expelling the bugs and nastiness.

Keep going, Anna. We're almost there.

A.

Love in the No-More

2010-02-14T21:52:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

I hear it is Valentine's Day. My friends' Facebook statuses remind me every time I open my account; I forget as soon as I close it out. Because I currently don't work, I hardly remember which day of the week it is, so it's pretty unrealistic to expect me to remember an irrelevant holiday.

As I walk into life-without-illness, the no-more, I have been considering what it would mean to open myself up to the possibility of a relationship with a man. For nearly four years, my dating life has nearly frozen. Just before I got sick, I was actually starting to date a little - at least more than I ever had before. But then Lyme knocked me over and the chance of being in relationship, or even wanting to be in relationship, decreased. I hardly had energy to make my own meals, let alone go out for one and carry on a conversation.

To my surprise, I was in a relationship for a short while. This happened just seven months after the initial onset of symptoms. At the time, my symptoms were beginning to subside, though they definitely didn't disappear. The symptoms had improved just enough to be dangerous or, in other words, easy to hide. Also, I had neither the understanding of appropriate Lyme Disease treatment and its controversy nor the emotional buy-in to make my health a top priority. Therefore, dating this guy was breezier than it really should have been. Sure, he knew about my health challenges, but I was nowhere near being in true recovery.

We dated for a few months and then went our separate ways for reasons other than my health. Nevertheless, I am so thankful I have been single during the past 20 months (the time I call the "recovery period"). I cannot imagine having to spend energy on anyone other than myself during this time. For at least the first year of the recovery period, I spent a lot of time in bed. I went out for just a few hours at a time and then went back to bed. I know some people who love their bed, but when you spend at least three-fourths of your day in it - when you make a butt dent - it gets old pretty quickly.

I also cannot imagine being forced to communicate with another person. How do you tell someone that your legs have spontaneously stopped working? How do you communicate to your significant partner that you must leave the dinner party - an hour after you arrived? How do you plan anything with him or her in advance? Being with people is exhausting as it is, so why would I want to commit myself to a significant other day in and day out? There were days when it felt the most cathartic to crawl into a hole, turn off the lights, and just be still. These days I could not plan, and I'm sure I would have resented having to come out to talk to my significant other.

Yet, recovery doesn't look this way anymore for me. I don't hang out in bed anymore, and the need to rest has decreased significantly (though I do choose to rest because it's important to make sure I don't overdo it). I can carry on a conversation for hours without getting brain fog or becoming weary. I don't walk with a limp or hold my arm to my stomach. I laugh with ease and think of the future often. People have commented that I have a glow; my friend Sharon calls me a catch.

More than ever before, I feel most hopeful about experiencing love in a way I have never known before. I think I am ready, able and willing to communicate to him how I feel, even when my health turns unexpected corners. I think I have enough confidence to respond to the uncertainties in relationship, even though I am deeply scared to include someone into my life. Mostly, I think I am in a place where I want to give my beauty away. To be in want is a great step for me.

A.

The Benefits of Illness

2010-02-13T20:49:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

When most people hear that I have a short-term chronic illness, they tend to apologize. Or they offer a comforting word. Or maybe they just don't say anything at all. I do get some out-of-the-box responses, though.

For instance, I had a friend casually approach me and ask, "So...are you contagious?" I laughed out loud.

My oldest niece periodically asks, "Are you still sick?" Once I scoop my heart off the floor, I smile, telling her, "Not yet. But soon."

Perhaps the gentlest response I have ever gotten was a friend who responded out of pure curiosity and, I felt, utmost respect. There's a reason he's still in my life.

All these responses are legitimate as man and woman struggle to grasp an imperfect human condition, to embrace suffering, to make sense of darkness. One of the ways I like to respond to this illness (which shall be no-more very soon) is by acknowledging what I do have. I mean, I don't have much. I'm very aware of how much money I don't have or how much energy it takes to go to a party. I also have neither a job nor employer-subsidized health insurance, even though both of which would be pretty great right now.

But I do have freedom. And that's huge. Moreover, there is life-without-working and life-doing-whatever-I-want and life-making-illness-an-excuse-for-not-being-married-and-having-kids. I could name infinitely more benefits from having an illness. Still, as I transition back into life-without-illness I know that some of these benefits will not make the journey with me. I will grieve over their death, place them in a coffin, and use my foot to push them out to sea. Many benefits, however, will survive the crossover: discovery, peace, confidence, possibilities.

But enough of this pie-in-the-sky stuff.

One practical benefit that I hope makes the cut is my appreciation for the value of health care. I don't mean "health insurance," which is often erroneously substituted for health care. Rather, I am referring to the value I am investing into my physical, emotional, mental and spiritual health. Specifically, I mean the money and time I give to medical professionals to journey down this path of wellness together to discover wholeness - something that I could not have found otherwise.

For various reasons, my doctor does not contract with insurance companies. (It is a rare Lyme-literate doctor who does.) Consequently, I pay for each doctor appointment out-of-pocket and at the time of the visit. Many people would balk at such a thing. For one, we are so conditioned that our employer-subsidized health insurance should cover these appointments minus a nominal co-pay. The problem with this is that we never know the real cost. And if all we ever know is that the doctor charges $10, then over time we begin to value our health just as cheaply. It's not unlike the $20 pair of jeans versus a $150 pair. Which one will we value more? Which one are we more likely to care for?

If you knew that I spent $220 on my doctor visit, would that scare you? It doesn't scare me. Because it's motivating. If I spent that amount of money on my doctor and then never listened to him, then I would be throwing my money away and I would have bought a Togo sofa $25,000 ago. But I listen to him, swallowing the medication he asks me to take, sleeping like I should, and listening to my body. In so doing, I am maximizing his value to maximize my value - so that I can eventually give it away.

I think if we knew the real value of our medical professionals, we would find ourselves in communities of wholeness. The catch, however, is that if the medical professionals based their fees on the real return of investment, they would charge more.

A.

A Cooked Noodle

2010-02-11T18:15:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

For the last two days, sitting down has felt like someone scraped all the fat away, exposing my pelvis to my furniture that seemed to turn uncomfortably hard overnight. My thighs ache and I have fantasies of getting a massage several times a day.

I have also had a little trouble acclimating to this new routine. While I experience a pleasant afterglow for several hours after exercising, I tend to crash later on, even into the next day. By 'crash,' I mean that I feel a tiny bit of malaise, which takes away most of my motivation. My friend Kristin suggested that I try to workout in the morning, a thought with which I wholeheartedly concur. A little bit of movement in the morning equals a very productive day. I think I have found the cure to the predilection of a slow, tough Lyme morning.

By the end of this week, I will have visited the gym six times, incidentally taking a sabbath on Sunday. Three times I will have gone to personal training, twice to yoga, and once to a personal pilates session. Besides walking and a little yoga in the Fall of 2008, I have not exercised since I intentionally entered into recovery in June 2008. Even then, I rarely exercised since getting Lyme in June 2006.

In fact, exercise was one of the first things to disappear. The Lyme bugs struck fast - within hours - making it a challenge to walk, let alone run or lift weights. I went to the gym once right after I got sick, but I left early. I even asked for a ride home. Something was definitely off, the sign of things to come. I remember those early days so clearly; that summer was soaked in a spiral of sadness.

I am not sure I can describe or even show you what my movement was like. It was slow. Slower than elderly people. I shuffled, which was my solution to the inability to pick up my legs or feet. People yelled at me when walking across streets or driveways. Buses did not wait for me. I began to plan extra time to get to my destination. I laid on the couch a lot, and then laid in bed at night for hours while I struggled to fall asleep. For the first six or seven months, there were no good and bad moments. Because it was all one bad moment.

Picking up normal objects, such as a pencil, a bottle of water or a bag, was progressively becoming impossible. Either the object felt too heavy or my fingers were unable to grasp it. The worst of the worst was when I was trying to knit. As I went to loop one needle over the other, my hands slowed down until they froze in mid-air. I had to intentionally think the action in order to accomplish it. I finished the loop, but I immediately put the needles down and haven't picked them up since.

The natural consequence of not moving is that one's muscles shrivel, tighten, and weaken. Joints became painful. For the most part, it felt the most comfortable to keep my hands in a relaxed fist because bending my fingers was too painful. Even typing on my laptop was so difficult that I could watch them slow in mid-sentence. Flexibility, then, became nearly non-existent. Along the way, my Lyme doctors told me to stretch or do yoga, but I was too lazy - or too exhausted - to follow through. Therefore, I have asked my personal trainer to help me with this. I need a lot of help, and a lot of motivation, with movement, stretching and otherwise becoming a cooked noodle.

I am a naturally athletic person. I primarily played soccer in my preteen and teen years, that is, until I had back surgery. For the following five years, I did minimal activity. Then, during the nine months previous to the onset of my Lyme symptoms, I received some personal training to strengthen my core, resolve my back issues, lose weight, and lift weights. I was never fitter, and I was doing more pull-ups than I ever imagined.

One of the most surprising things that I have discovered about my body this week is that I have not lost my athleticism. I have more strength than I realize, more stamina than I expected. I figured lifting a few pounds would induce a sudden herx, and any length of exercise would knock me out for a day or two. But shockingly, I'm good. I'm productive, I'm accomplishing what I need to accomplish, I'm applying to jobs, and I even have the energy to walk around the city.

The longer I exercise, stretch, build my core and gain strength, the more confidence I gain. And the more confidence I gain, the closer I am to wellness. Or maybe I have already found wellness: to be confident, to conquer the past, to realize the future.

A.

She Came Back

2010-02-08T16:50:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

I think I single-handedly induced a herx today. A combination of going to bed a little too late Friday and Saturday nights (I seem to have found a social life) and anxiety over my first personal training appointment today led to fatigue and slightly heavy knees. My stomach was in knots as I walked to the gym, and I felt more subdued than usual.

My personal trainer, David, a hockey-lover, skier, Scooter-driving Canadian, quickly put me at ease. The gym owner had already briefed David on my story, which allowed us to get into the training fairly quickly. Today's appointment was fairly low-key. David tested me for body composition, flexibility, nutrition and balance. After each point where I tested rather poorly, I tended to follow up with a comment like, "Yeah, all Lyme people have that problem." It certainly made me feel better.

David wasn't fazed, though. Actually, he said that I was doing OK for someone who has not regularly exercised in nearly four years. He listened, asked me to communicate how I was doing and coached me to only do what I was comfortable with, the latter of which will be the most difficult for me to do. I have been an athlete from the time I started to walk, and most of the coaching I got was to push myself, to keep going until I get my second wind, to play through the pain.

Fighting this illness, however, requires doing almost everything opposite from what I grew up learning. Recovery requires vision, prudence, few quick movements and steadiness. It means embracing relationship (including others into the journey), saving your energy, slowing down. It also involves making a lot of small decisions all which preferably add up to a better future. Investing my money, time and priorities on my physical health - on building strength to get my body to naturally fight the Lyme - will pay off big in the long run.

After my personal training session early this afternoon, I felt a little tired, probably because I had just used my body in ways it hadn't seen in years. But I felt happier, more alive and more optimistic about the future. In our appointment, David shared that he had a friend with Lyme.

"He disappeared for about three years," David said. "But then he got better and he came back. Now he's playing soccer with the rest of us."

Someday soon, "she came back" is what I fully intend to have others say about me.

A.

Trial and Error

2010-02-06T16:34:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

"How long does Lyme treatment typically last?" the gym owner asked me this afternoon. Kristin and I decided to sign up together in light of the good deal the gym was having this weekend and that I really needed to start personal training.

Upon the gym owner's legitimate question, I turned to smile at Kristin. I turned back towards the gym owner. I took a deep breath.

"That's the thing," I said, "few people get better. I mean, I know of people, but I don't know anyone personally who has successfully completed treatment. No one in the medical community can give you a checklist about how Lyme treatment should be done. And I don't know anyone who has gotten to the point where they need to start personal training or physical therapy.

"What I am doing is entirely in its beta phase. I cannot tell you what I can or cannot do, or what I should do, or how I should do it. Personal training will be entirely trial and error for a while."

"Why don't people get better?" he asked.

I turned to smile at Kristin again.

"Oh, boy," Kristin said. "How much time do you have?"

"I will be short," I said. I didn't believe my words for a second.

A.

What I Want

2010-02-04T22:13:00.000-08:00

"What do you want Me to do for you?" [Jesus asked the blind man]. And he said, "Lord, I want to regain my sight!" And Jesus said to him, "Receive your sight; your faith has made you well." Immediately he regained his sight and began following him, glorifying God; and when all the people saw it, they gave praise to God.

-Luke 18:41-43

Dear friends,

After my umpteenth reading of the gospels, I am beginning to notice that the authors spend a good amount of time relating stories to us of Jesus healing people: the man with dropsy who Jesus heals on the Sabbath in front of - gasp! - the Pharisees; the woman who walks around doubled over; the centurion's slave on his deathbed. The stories of Jesus healing the sick seem endless.

I have often wondered why there aren't more stories in the Bible such as, The man heard the Good News, he received Christ, and now he has an individual relationship with Christ. The cultural construct from which this language is derived notwithstanding, it seems that the stories we hear about Jesus healing diseases and ailments are a tangible, outward expression of God's desire to recapture those He loves. Illness is a horrible wasting away of the body. Not only is the declining body a daily reminder of our imperfection, but it is also a metaphor to describe the leg we don't have to stand on (and I mean that literally). Without His inbreaking into our lives and communities, my life is rather empty.

It is easy to conclude that knowing Christ is a one-way street, like Jesus has his hand over the trigger. One wrong move and - bam! - there goes your immune system or - bam! - there goes your knee. We assume that we have no say in our health. To some degree, that is true. We don't get to determine who gets Lyme Disease or pancreatic cancer. If we truly had a say in that, no one would choose illness; and anyone who did would be labeled sadistic.

But, to some degree, we do get a say in the matter. In Luke 18:41, Jesus asks the blind man, "What do you want Me to do for you?" Jesus gives up His power and His right for control into the hands of the sick. He includes the sick in the solution. He gives them choice. He gives them room to use their creativity and imagination. And He includes them because they were made citizens of heaven.

Peter Block, one of the most innovative thinkers in the Organization Development and Community Development fields, writes, "A citizen is one who is willing to be accountable for and committed to the well-being of the whole" (2008, p. 63). In the same way then, citizens of heaven are made accountable and responsible to their well-being, both individually and communally.

People who know me know that I hardly leave anything undone. I dislike dirty dishes in the sink, my bed unmade and clothes sitting on the floor. Most of all, I hate that my health is still undone. I loathe that my muscles are sore, that I rarely go out at night, that I use the illness to keep my distance from others. My dissatisfaction is precisely why I choose to make my health and my wellness a priority, to continue to fight, to remain stubborn, to never give up. So long as it's up to me, that is.

Because the most important part of the wellness equation is Yahweh. He asks us what we want, yes, but that is because He is willing to answer our pleas. Therefore, my answer to Jesus' question is: Two things: to experience full health and wellness, and to know and experience love. For real.

This is what I want. He asked, didn't He?

A.

Block, P. (2008). Community: The structure of belonging. San Francisco: Berrett-Koehler.

Thirteen Thousand Five Hundred Thirty-Six Dollars

2010-02-03T10:13:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

In the year 2009, I spent $13,536.51 on medical expenses. On average, I spent approximately $1,128 each month on the most extensive renovation I will ever embark on. I spent money on prescription co-pays (and, since losing my medical insurance, prescriptions that are entirely out of pocket); blood tests; insurance premiums; supplements; and doctor, acupuncture, rifing, massage and chiropractic visits. I personally drove 1,987 miles to visit my doctor and to go to coiling treatments. (And all that without owning a car!) Had I driven to all my coiling treatments, I would have to tack on another thousand miles or so.

Like in 2008, I technically spent more than I earned all year, not including some small house-sitting gigs I had. Sometimes I don't know how I do it. But then I remember that I do have the help of my parents who have always been incredibly supportive in that area. They gave me quite a substantial sum last year to meet my expenses, both living and medical. A good part of me feels really bad about this; I wish it weren't this way. Because I spent the few years I had between high school and the point of illness striving for self-sufficiency. Relying on my parents was not in my plan. Ever.

Yet, I remind myself that this too shall pass. That I have no other option. That without adequate - no, excellent care now, the costs will only soar later. In just under two years, since the point when I made a conscious decision to treat Lyme in all its glory, I am nearing the end. I am applying to jobs (for real this time), I am living on my own, and I am healthier. Most of all, I can imagine the future, that is, if it's not already here.

A.

Physicology/40

2010-02-02T11:52:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Being 99 percent moved into my new Seattle apartment, I now feel the urgency to establish myself, to discover new places, to meet new people, to find a new rhythm, to grieve, to heal, to move towards the future. My body, however, is communicating something to the contrary. My muscles ache, my concentration is limited, my throat feels scratchy. All signs point to a post-stressful event crash. Consequently, I have little creative energy and motivation.

This tug-of-war doesn't settle well with me. I live in the city for Pete's sake. It's time to live like a 20-something woman, right? Unfortunately, it's not that easy. Illness, family heartache, and other sufferings follow you no matter where you go. But if the crappy things are going to follow me, then I will take them to beautiful places.

Like the Seattle Central Library. This building is architectural heaven, a bit futuristic in fact. The outside reminds me of a giant spaceship; the inside feels like being inside the womb. It proves that books really can take you somewhere safe. I envision a long, vital relationship with this library.

Rest, play, work, study, friendship. In baby steps, they will come.

A.

Just Me

2010-01-31T19:01:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

The weeks leading up to the move to Seattle were fraught with many trips to the store, leasing an apartment, setting up accounts with the appropriate utility and Internet companies, lining up movers on both ends, packing, saying goodbye to friends and family and making the drive from Portland to Seattle in a big yellow truck that should require a commercial driver's license.

After nearly four years of having Lyme, I have honestly forgotten what normal activities are like without Lyme. Everything I do, including moving, is seen through Lyme-colored glasses. Almost always I think about how much energy an activity will take. I compare that to how much energy I have at that moment I'm thinking about it, as well as how much energy I estimate I will have at the time of activity, factoring in activities (if any) in between, and then make a decision about how much time and energy I will put into said activity (if any). It's an equation I have mastered throughout the years, with the occasional misstep, of course.

Yesterday, I successfully moved into my apartment with the help of a few handfuls of new and old friends. On both ends, I hardly lifted a box. On the Portland side, the truck was packed in less than an hour, allowing me to leave 30 minutes earlier than expected. On the Seattle side - when I was more noticeably weary and the maneuvering of furniture through tiny stairwells more noticeably difficult - I just stood to the side. I held doors open, I answered Kristin's questions about where kitchen items should go, and I watched my niece Madison, 16 months, while her mom helped unload boxes.

By the end of the day, as the male movers put their shirts back on (no, just kidding), I thanked them for their help.

"Honestly, you don't know how much this means to me," I said. "Thank you for all your help."

One guy, whom I had just met and who has no knowledge about the illness, responded, "I know how tiring moving is, so it's my pleasure."

The movers weren't just carrying linens and books in large boxes. They were also bringing with them love: Love for a woman who could never have done what they accomplished. Love for a woman who is weak. Love for a woman who is ill.

But then again, I don't have to be ill or weak or even normal to be loved. I just have to be me.

A.

Blush

2010-01-26T21:57:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

"Hi, can I get your gym membership rates?" I asked the front desk person at the Queen Anne gym last Friday.

"Sure, you guys will have to sign these forms here," she said.

I had little time for a tour and the entire sales pitch. My friend Mike had come along with me, and we were headed to his school to study.

"No, thank you. We don't have much time. I would just like to get your gym membership and personal training rates."

"One moment," she said. She motioned for a man to come up to the desk, who quickly walked over.

"How can I help you?" he said.

I repeated my request to him. He heard me, and then told me the latest offers and initiation fee.

"I'm looking for a personal trainer who will be able and willing to work with my special circumstance," I said. "Is there a way to talk with and interview trainers?"

"Can I ask, what is your circumstance?"

I glanced to the side, fixing my gaze over his left shoulder. "I have a chronic illness. Lyme Disease."

"I'm sure we could find the right personal trainer for you. Here's my card." He went on to tell me that they could probably split up the personal training sessions since I am only able to work out for 15 minutes at a time.

"Thank you. I really appreciate it."

Mike and I stepped out onto the sidewalk. The sun and the clouds were fighting for control. At points, the sun seemed to be winning; other times, the clouds had gained control.

"Your cheeks became red as you revealed to the man that you had a chronic illness," Mike said. "Did you realize that?"

"Oh," I said with a sheepish grin on my face. "No, I didn't. I suppose I still haven't fully accepted that about myself. I am afraid that people will take advantage of me if they find out I have a chronic illness. I don't know why I still feel this way, I just do." My voice trailed off and the conversation moved on to other topics, yet Mike's astute observation remained with me for a long while after.

I just wanted gym membership information, but I left discovering something new about myself. That's what happens when I begin to consistently invite others into my journey again.

A.

My Good Fortune

2010-01-25T21:11:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

A few days ago, I signed a lease for an apartment in Seattle. Such a common event could have come and gone without much notice. But for me, having lived at my sister's for the last 20 months, putting all my energy into recovering from Lyme Disease, being given the opportunity to rent my own place (an apartment with four rooms!), and finding the best place for me with the best deal, I am completely blessed.

My good fortune didn't hit me until after I chose the apartment. Within walking distance of my new home are: my good friends, a handful of grocery stores, post office, restaurants, coffee shops, many bus stops, FedEx Office, a movie theater, gyms, museums, downtown, Elliott Bay, and the Space Needle. Not only that, but I'm at the bottom of the hill, too, keeping me from doing the equivalent of a StairMaster each day. I really can walk out my front door and say, "Where shall I go today?"

Besides the location, the one-bedroom apartment is not too large, not too small. The kitchen has L-shaped countertops and plenty of cabinet space, I get three good-sized closets in the whole place, and the living room is large enough for an office area. The floors look brand new, the windows are new, and I am on the top floor at the back of the building, keeping the space extra quiet.

Most of all, Mike and Kristin live three blocks away. Though I wasn't specifically looking to live near them, I think it will end up being an easy pathway to plant some roots in my new city. I can hang out at their apartment as long as I want without worrying about catching a bus or getting a ride; if the hill becomes too steep for them, they know where to rest their calves.

Ultimately, community is one of the most important things for me in Seattle. I have already fielded questions about which churches I will be looking at, if I will seek out the Seattle Lyme Disease Support Group, if I will join a network of Organization Development professionals, and if I will join other support groups. These are on top of finding a job, finding the right personal trainer and gym, and otherwise figuring out my normal routine.

When I moved from Chicago back to my birthplace four and a half years ago, I could count the number of people I knew and was in contact with on one hand (besides my family). In contrast, I know and am in contact with a few dozen people in the Seattle Metro area: Northwestern friends, Gonzaga friends, Portland friends, high school friends, friends of friends I have already met and OD friends. One set of friends are even moving up to Seattle the same day I am.

Thus, I will not be alone. I am only gaining more opportunities to intersect with people in God's image. And I trust all will fall into place in their own time and as they should be.

To the possibilities,

A.

Declaration

2010-01-21T17:54:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Today I am declaring that Lyme Disease is my bitch. She is in my back pocket, on the bottom of my sole, six feet under. Basically, She and I are done being friends. It's time to shake Her loose.

Why the falling out? After an encouraging appointment with my doctor this afternoon, I have decided that it's time to part ways with Her. My doctor said that I am on schedule to eradicate the disease once and for all. It could be in two months, six months, or even 12 (I hope this is not the case), but no matter what, my body is making strides that indicate total wellness.

My doctor said that I could probably stop coiling, which is what I was probably going to be doing anyway once I move to Seattle. His reasoning is that my treatments need to turn from tearing the body down (rifing) to building the body up by taking advantage of physical therapy or personal training. Given that Lyme sufferers literally stop moving once they become ill, most of us are deconditioned and weak. His directive to start training was actually what I have been thinking about lately, so it was nice to know we are on the same page. I am blessed to have such a telepathic relationship with my doctor.

My energy is at 9.5 out of 10. Until I move, settle down, find a job and then evaluate how my energy holds up, I probably won't say that I could be a 10. The goal, however, is to get to a 10 and then to stay there for two months (well, the rest of my life, too). Until I get there, I will remain on antibiotics. Speaking of medication, I will continue to take Doxycycline and Diflucan, though the doctor removed Nystatin and Lumbrokinase, the latter two which just so happen to be the most expensive medication I take. I can already see my medical expenses dropping. The visual feels so good.

One more thing he recommended was that I go to an OB-GYN doctor here in Seattle. I have had some irregular bleeding as of late. Contrary to my history, I have been bleeding a lot, a fact that has contributed to some funny conversations initiated by my nieces. For instance, last month, Jazmyne, my eight-year-old niece, asked me to go swimming with her, but I had to decline due to this irregular bleeding and, trying to assure her that I had a valid reason for not getting into a pool, told her why. Last week, she asked me to go swimming again and, again, I was bleeding. I took her swimming this time, though I just watched from the pool deck. Then, last night, I received this voice message from her:

"Hi, Anna. I miss you. Next week could you take me and Jasmine Marie swimming...unless you are bleeding? Uhh..."

I then hear a long pause followed by giggles.

"OK, call me back. I love you."

I laughed out loud.

My doctor recommended a few doctors up here who understand Lyme and how the disease could mess with hormones and such. I am hopeful that the doctor will address the problem so that my nieces aren't so confused and that I can take them swimming whenever they want.

******

At the doctor, when I went to pay for my appointment, I walked through the waiting room filled with gloomy patients and their loved ones. I had this strong urge to tell them that hope really does exist, that this girl bouncing through the office, joking around with the receptionist, and smiling real big was once just like them. There will be suffering, but there is much reward at the end: mental clarity, movement, happiness, peace, harmonious relationships.

For me, I found it advantageous to declare Lyme to be my friend. I nuzzled right up next to Her, getting to know her, treating Her well. Now She is my bitch; I own Her. We are beginning to walk in divergent directions. Even then, I hope this phase doesn't last too long. Because someday soon I hope to declare, "I hardly knew Her."

A.

Physicology/39

2010-01-20T18:18:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

I almost forgot how tiring moving can be. For the last week, I have been packing boxes, moving boxes, buying household items, schlepping those items home - on foot, and generally trying to purchase as many tax-free items as I need to move into my new place. Consequently, my shoulders could use a massage, my arm muscles are weak, and my anxiety is in its pre-Lyme stage.

But I am happy. I cannot wait to find my new home this week, to finally load all my stuff into a moving truck, and to have my first very own space ever.

Despite the sore muscles, I am doing well. I have consistent energy that doesn't drop in the afternoon. My sleep is sound and I wake up rested each morning. The only thing that worries me is the herx I experienced last week after coiling. I coiled for 48 minutes at the 254 frequency, which caused my legs to get heavy, my whole body to ache, and my body to feel very fatigued. I even fell asleep that first morning afterward, something I haven't done in months. The herx came and went over the next two days, and then it disappeared. I plan on doing the same frequency tonight.

As always, I am torn between the desire to herx - which means that not only did I find a frequency that works, but also that the Lyme is being blown up into tiny bits and pieces - and the desire not to herx - which means that I won't have to endure the pain that comes along with one.

Speaking of coiling, I want to share with you the frequencies I have used since I began to use the Doug coil last March. The first frequency I used was 612. I stayed on that for months. While I am no doctor, I would suggest that this be the first frequency any Lyme sufferer uses. Part of the reason I spent so much time on this was because I had to build up my time. At first, I spent using it 30 seconds at about eight different parts of my body for a total of four minutes. Once I stop herxing at that time (if I did at all), I moved up to one minute at eight spots, then two minutes, three minutes, four, and then five. I usually stop at five minute increments, but sometimes I go all the way up to six minutes. It all depends on how I feel and if I believe increasing the time will make me herx or not.

In the past ten months, I have used the following frequencies (in no particular order): 742, 254, 525, 612, 306, 864, 412, 414. My coiling partners and I have found these frequencies through conversations with knowledgeable people, credible web sites, and books in print. While the experts have a good idea which frequencies apply to Lyme and its co-infections, there is no way of knowing which ones will work on any one person. Thus, it means doing a lot of trial and error.

******

My teeth continue the streak of nearly 28 years of perfection. If my pearly whites are the only healthy thing on my body, I will wave that flag until my teeth fall out.

******

Tomorrow I will drive up to Seattle to see my doctor and to find an apartment. Four months ago, my doctor said that I was in the last six months of treatment, so if I do the math right, that means I have two months left to prove him right. And since I cannot stop taking antibiotics until I experience two symptom-free months, the countdown starts now. Can my body do it? More news about my appointment to come later this week.

Thanks for your prayers.

A.

P.S. As always, my words should not be taken as medical advice. In other words, please don't sue me or execute a citizen's arrest. Because that just wouldn't be cool.

The Gentle Return

2010-01-18T20:45:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

When I wished to go out for a night of line dancing in December 2008, I never would have guessed that it would happen at just the right time when my smile absolutely needed to return. For the three weeks prior, I had been swimming in the five stages of grief (otherwise known as the Kubler-Ross model) due to a horrific event around the holidays.

Denial was first. For the first week or so, I walked around like everything was fine. Then I became angry and all I could do was blame everything on everyone else. I could feel my heart's fortress had taken up construction again.

After a little while, I jumped ahead to sadness, which became my soul's anchor. The knowledge of the reality of the tragedy informed all my conversations with others. To avoid tears, I retreated from as many relationships as I could. Somewhere in all of that, I began to bargain with God, determining that I could fix the situation by ceasing to write or otherwise becoming less of myself for the sake of others. Fortunately, that phase didn't last long and now I'm yo-yo-ing between a version of all four of those stages and acceptance, the last stage.

I really have my sister-in-law, Terri, to thank for gently advocating for the return of my smile. Early last week, she asked me to go out with her and her friend, Tara, to one of the best country line dancing bars in the area, which happens to be just down the street from us.

"You need to have some fun, Anna," she implored.

"I have to look at my calendar," I said, as if my nights are always booked. Though I didn't really have to look at my calendar, I needed some a moment to think this through. Do I really want to go out Thursday night? Do I really have the energy to try something new? Can I really smile again?

I said yes.

Terri, Tara, and I arrived at the bar at 8p. They ordered alcohol, I ordered a 7-Up. Being much too sugary for me, I sipped on my soda for the next few hours until it became too watery. By the time I left, I hadn't even drunk half of it. Meanwhile, I watched Terri and Tara share two 32-ounce drinks and drink many more on their own. For some Lyme sufferers, the inability to drink alcohol is a major struggle. For me, though, I have never been a huge drinker. Before I got Lyme Disease, I would have ordered an alcoholic drink and sipped on that for a few hours. I suppose my drinking habits haven't changed.

The bar provided a free line-dancing lesson for the first hour. We eagerly embraced this opportunity, learning one dance pretty well. After that, the bar opened up the floor to everyone. I really wanted to cut a rug, but the problem was just as you would get the hang of one dance, the song would change and everyone would start dancing a new dance. Thus, for the next hour, we sat down at our table talking and watching all of the really good dancers.

There is something really communal about line dancing. To be in sync - whether with one person or 50 - is a beautiful metaphor of a community walking in step with other. When a person makes the wrong step, the others keep dancing while, at the same time, also making eye contact with the drifter, their gentleness guiding him or her back in step with everyone else.

After a while of looking on, a really good male dancer - who was wearing cowboy boots probably worth a few thousand dollars - offered to teach us the dances. His invitation was enough to get me on the dance floor again, even if I couldn't stay long. (Lyme Disease doesn't take a vacation.) By the time I left at 10:15p, I found myself happily learning something entirely out of my element, giving myself permission to make (many) mistakes, and even attempting to flirt with the hot waiter ("Yes, you may pick up our empty glasses"). Most of all, I found myself laughing often and smiling big, discovering, to my surprise, that brightness could return so fluidly.

"I'm glad to see you smiling again, Anna," Terri said just before I left.

Yes, me too. Me too.

A.

Where None Existed

2010-01-15T12:12:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Is it possible to strain a muscle from a book? I think so, because my left shoulder has been awfully sore this week by carrying around a 1,000-page book for my current graduate school class. One of my books for this class covering Organization Development consulting weighs three pounds (I weighed it at the grocery store), even though it feels like ten. While I suppose the information in the book is necessary, the sore shoulder is the perfect argument for the purchase of an e-reader. The injury, nonetheless, won't sway me from carrying books around. Or buying them. I absolutely love reading, and graduate school is my built-in way to satisfy that itch.

For those of you unfamiliar with my graduate education, since June 2008, I have been enrolled in the online Organizational Leadership program at Gonzaga University in Spokane, Wash. I complete one class every eight weeks. While the program is designed for working people, it has allowed me to focus my energies on recovery from Lyme Disease while also investing in a future career in leadership and the OD field.

At the moment, I have just two classes to go (including the current one) before I write my thesis. I will finish my education in August, and I will walk across a stage wearing a cap and gown in May. Somebody pinch me. Could I possibly finish both my Master's degree and my treatment within a few months of each other?

In the first half of the Fall 2009 term, I completed the Research Methods course. This class was by the far the most demanding class I have taken - and for good reason. The class essentially prepares students to earn a doctorate someday (if they want to). Last summer, I wrote that I had a strong desire to do some kind of thesis on the relationship between physical space and organizational theory. Initially, I started to look for past research studies in that area, but I was coming up with few leads. At the same time, I discovered that my interest in it wasn't strong enough to forge ahead. I suppose it's more of a personal hobby than an academic area of interest, which is just fine by me.

Upon ditching that topic, I quickly re-focused on a topic that gets me all giddy inside. I chose to design my research study on the effect of citizen-based participatory research (CBPR) in the Lyme Disease community. In other words, when CBPR is applied to Lyme research, how does that affect the Lyme community as a whole? Researchers have explored the impact of CBPR in other kinds of health research, in addition to civic issues, but no one has made an effort to do the same with Lyme research. My hope is not only that CBPR would lead to innovative and useful research outcomes, but also that it would be the catalyst to a more united community of Lyme sufferers.

My second class of the Fall semester was called Leadership, Justice and Forgiveness. Like every other part of my life, this class could not have been timed more perfectly. With the fallout from my church and family, coupled with my move from Portland to Seattle and all the grieving that goes along with that, I have much to forgive and - perhaps what is often most difficult to do - I have much to ask forgiveness for. Asking for forgiveness is not unlike, as a male friend successfully argued once, the fact that it is much harder for the man to ask a woman on a date than for the woman to wait for the man to ask her. Sigh. "I suppose you're right," I said.

Such is the reason why the professor challenged us to focus on seeking forgiveness more than giving it. For me, it's much easier to be the superior one, the powerful one, the right one. I loathe being wrong, and what's worse is when I'm wrong and I hurt someone in the process. And then, to have to lower myself, to kneel at their feet, so to speak, to humbly confess my wrongs and my shortcomings - sometimes that feels too much. But it's not too much. Jesus lowered Himself. He knelt and He even washed our feet. He stood in the back of the line so that we might know a different way.

One of the most powerful books I read in this course was No Future Without Forgiveness by Desmond Tutu. He writes of his experience as the chair of South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), which was Apartheid's Nuremburg trials except without the reparations and retributive justice. Rather than taxiing the country's resources and valuable time, South Africa decided to try something new: restorative justice. The TRC provided amnesty to all perpetrators if they told the truth, that is, if they admitted to all their crimes and described exactly what they did to whom and where they placed the bodies.

The TRC also provided the space for living victims and families to testify. "We found that many who came to the commission attested afterward to the fact that they had found relief, and experienced healing, just through the process of telling their story" (Tutu, p. 165). Victims, then, are not disposable. Their experiences were deemed valid, and they were heard. No perpetrator got off easy. For one, is very difficult to sit before your peers and victims and confess exactly what you did, and two, the court system was still free to charge them with crimes. As a whole, however, the TRC did its best to redeem a whole group of people, both victims and perpetrators.

The TRC provides us with a modern-day example of a whole organization choosing a different way. Millions of people had to learn to forgive; thousands others had to learn to confess their wrongs. If they can do it, then so can we.

So can I.

We just might find light where none existed before.

A.

Foolish

2010-01-14T13:06:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

I think I have been foolish to assume that everyone else around me will be walking at the same clip as me. Other Lyme sufferers, family, friends. I figured that if I take care of myself, so, too, will everyone that I love and care about.

Last night during treatment I found myself complaining to my friends about Lyme sufferers who will state that they aren't totally sure they have the disease because their Western blot (Igenex blood test) didn't come back 100 percent positive. The fact is, most of these tests actually come back with "negative" results, but that doesn't mean one doesn't have Lyme. The truth is in the interpretation: the number of positive and indeterminate bands, the clinical symptoms, and medical history.

The thing is, in that moment of anger, it didn't matter who was right. I refused to sustain compassion for people who are grieving themselves, who are grappling with acceptance of a disease, a disease that they probably never considered or ever heard of until just a short while ago. How can I expect someone, who for their entire lives has assumed the integrity and reliability of the medical establishment, to do the exact opposite of the general medical opinion? How can I expect someone to be persuaded they have Lyme, which is, after all, only the latest diagnosis in her medical file? How can I expect someone to easily leave his job, change his diet, and spend most of his savings on medicine?

All I have is me. All I can do is walk the path I feel led to take, continue to listen to the Spirit, and continue to remain accountable to trusted folks in my life. I so long for others to know the same: the same healing, the same grace, the same redemption. Yet, to be responsible for their decisions is beyond my responsibility.

What does it look like to keep walking while potentially leaving others behind?

A.

This is Grief

2010-01-12T22:34:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

A punch to the gut,
My spirit in ashes.
A knifing,
My glow dims.

Ten years in the making,
Tears only fall.

This is grief.

A.

My Treatment Plan

2010-01-09T19:24:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

A reader requested that I post my treatment plan, including all the alternative treatments I am doing. I have posted this below, as well as a little of what I have done in the past 20 months or so.

Before I get there, I want to discuss a few things. First, I am not a medical doctor. This is not meant to be medical advice. I don't really get science; I'm more of a big picture gal. I can't always tell you why I take one medicine or another. I'm sure that information could be found somewhere in my notes, but when it comes to medicine and whatnot, I trust my doctor more than myself.

That brings me to my next point: Find a doctor you trust and whose plan is working for you, and then stick to his or her protocol as best as you can. One of the best contributors to long-term health and wellness is consistency. I know that we prefer instant gratification, but Lyme Disease is the anathema to our culture. If a tick could cling to your body for more than 48 hours - and then multiply like a 1990s stock portfolio - you can bet that it's not going down without a fight.

I suggest that you find a doctor for a few reasons: For one, they have medical knowledge. I know most Lyme sufferers lost trust in doctors right after they were told this illness was all in their heads, but good doctors exist. I know because I have found one. Plus, we all need an advocate. We need a cheerleader to help guide us down such a nebulous path.

Second, doctors become experts of you. Each patient has a unique medical history, unique body, unique disease. I know that I am fighting Lyme and there has also been some speculation I had the Bartonella Henslae co-infection, but my test results and symptoms have been inconclusive. Whatever I have (or had, as Bartonella does not show up anymore), my situation is different from anyone else's. Therefore, my treatment protocol will be different, too.

Third, I suggest finding a doctor for two practical reasons: prescription (scrip) medicine and proper dosages. The first reason is obvious: No doctor, no scrips. The second reason is because I hardly get science. I could not tell you how 200mg of Antibiotic A will interact with 600mg of Antibiotic B. The same rule goes for supplements, too. I would rather not harm my body more than it already is.

Finally, I am refraining from sharing many details of my treatment mostly in order to protect my doctor. To share details of my medical protocol could put him at risk. I take precautions (for instance, I do not publish his name), but I am aware that anyone can read this here. If you care to know more, you may ask me via email.

Without further adieu, here is the medication I currently take:

Diflucan (antibiotic; scrip)
Doxycycline (antibiotic; scrip)
Nystatin (scrip)
Levoxyl (thyroid; scrip)
Ashwaganda (supplement)
Glutathione Precursors (suppl)
Quercetin (suppl)
Evening Primrose (suppl)
Iron (suppl)
Bio D Mulsion Forte (vitamin D; suppl)
Multivitamin (suppl)
Phytostan (suppl)
Lumbrokinase (to tackle biofilms; suppl)
HMF Forte (probiotic; suppl)
Sacro B (probiotic; suppl)

In addition, I am using the Doug coil twice per week. Though I hardly herx anymore, I am still searching for a code that will do so. I have coiled regularly (1-2 times/week) since April 2009.

I did the GB-4000 rife machine August 2008-October 2009. I went twice a week for the first half of that time, and then once a week thereafter. I believe it helped me for a good while, though the effect dropped off quite dramatically. This is a good "starter" machine before one uses the Doug coil.

I have also engaged in alternative care: chiropractic, acupuncture, and massage. I no longer need these therapies, but I highly recommend them.

Mostly, I have found people (or, perhaps, they have found me) to journey with. Surrounding yourself with people who love and support you is absolutely vital.

I hope any of this information helps you find health and wellness.

A.

Married People Are Smart

2010-01-08T15:38:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Married people are smart. They find each other - or perhaps they are found by each other - they fall in love "or whatever," a friend once conjectured, get engaged, and plan a wedding ceremony with a large party to follow. In the meantime, they register for items that, when assembled and arranged side-by-side, make up a kitchen, a bedroom, a home.

I want a home. I want a kitchen full of mixing bowls and wooden spoons and measuring cups. I want a living room where the Togo sofa is the main attraction and my growing book collection my audience. I want thick curtains that block out the light at night and color on the walls that bring light to my day. As I make plans to move into my own place in a few weeks, I guess that what I mostly want are all the perks of marriage...without the actual marriage.

Of course, I do have the essentials. I used to have a basic kitchen until three years ago when I gave most of it to a friend. It was during a time when I thought I could be married by now but, because I was so sick, wasn't really considering my future. That contradiction was mostly unconscious, of course. To make up for what I lost, this Christmas all I asked for were kitchen items. To my surprise, I received many kitchen items, including appliances that I had never owned before. Now I have a toaster, a blender, and a hand mixer. God is good.

Married people, however, have hit on the secret to receiving not only the essentials, but all the extras, too. Like chip clips. They are like magic: they keep your potato chips crispy and your bread soft. But while I could make a case for purchasing a cast iron skillet (that egg isn't going to cook itself), for the single person on a tight budget, chip clips are a frivolous buy. Rubber bands could do the same job; for the truly poor (or lazy), rolling up the bag and putting some weight on it would also work. But if I got married, oh man oh man, I know somebody would spring for them.

I am growing more and more excited to have a place to call my home. Having a place to call my own is a sign that I am moving on, of starting over. It is a sign of capability, of readiness. And it is a sign of wellness, of peace. Putting a home together is expensive, but independence and a future is priceless. Each day is one day closer to something new, to a new place, a new adventure, a new way of living. I may not have chip clips, but I do hope to practice love. For God, for others, for myself.

A.

Time Bought

2010-01-03T22:34:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Good news! I have medical insurance again. Well, actually, just for a short while. I decided to purchase short-term insurance for two months only for a few reasons: First, it buys me time. Having insurance to fill the gap since I lost it just before Thanksgiving allows more time for me to move to Seattle in a few weeks and to find a job with benefits. Second, since looking for insurance, I have discovered that insurance plans don't move with me. If I had purchased a good insurance plan in Oregon, I would have had to turn around and buy a good insurance plan in Washington. Therefore, it seemed reasonable to purchase a plan that was cheap and somewhat disposable.

My new plan does not cover pre-existing conditions or prescriptions, but it was also just shy of $70 for two months, including the administrative fee. While I have to pay for the prescriptions out of pocket, the total cost of everything that was covered by my old plan comes out to be less than what I was paying for my old insurance plan, not even including the co-pays I was shelling out.

I feel very relieved to have a stop-gap for this insurance issue right now. It certainly reduces some stress in order to focus more of my energy into finding an apartment, moving, and looking for and/or starting to work. Speaking of moving, some of you have asked me if I'm already in Seattle. Like I said above, I will be moving later this month. I will keep you posted on the move and, of course, my new adventures from there on out in my new city. In the meantime, I covet your prayers for a cost-effective apartment and a job that brings me as much joy and energy as I intend to bring to it.

Finally, I do hope that you will continue to follow me in Seattle. I feel loved and motivated knowing you care enough to take the few minutes to read what I share here in this space.

Much love to you,

A.

The Ass Kicking of the Decade

2010-01-02T17:52:00.000-08:00

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept."

-The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams

Dear friends,

If you have read my blog any, you will know that my main mode of transportation is the terrific TriMet bus (and sometimes the MAX and, less often, the pretentious Streetcar). Though I have been riding the bus exclusively for 2.5 years now, I have been a rider for most of my life. My father has been a bus operator since 1987, and until the age of 21, the company treated me to a free bus pass. Of course, like most children embarrassed by their parents, I didn't like taking the bus much. Now, I would do almost anything (legal) to get that free bus pass back.

When I first started riding the bus in the summer of 2007, my car had just been sold and then, six days later, my bike stolen. In hindsight, losing both these forms of transportation was a good thing. I was immensely sick, even if I couldn't see how much so. Driving was too tiring for me (I wasn't doing much anyway) and riding my bike would have been suicide. Reluctantly, I became a regular bus rider.

Having grown up with TriMet (I have fond memories of playing pool while visiting my dad in the bullpen and eating unlimited ice cream bars at the annual company picnic), I should have been more comfortable with the lifestyle of being a bus rider. But the abrupt change was still difficult to get used to. I didn't know the routes very well, I didn't know the schedule, and it seemed like it took forever to get anywhere. I hated waiting in the cold and I hated when the bus was too full to get a seat.

In retrospect, I was very sick. I was too tired to stand at a bus stop. I tried to time my arrival at the bus stop just a few minutes before the bus, but one can only be successful at such an endeavor maybe a third of the time. When the bus was full, I was forced to disclose that - contrary to how I may have appeared - I did in fact have a disability and I needed a seat in the predetermined section of the bus. And I was so sick that I needed to spend as much time in bed and less time riding or walking home from the bus stop. Oh, yes! Walking anywhere was a real drag. For me, the problem was, do I walk slow to keep me from getting too exhausted? Or do I walk fast so I can get home to bed quicker? It seems like there are larger problems than that, but this quandary was my daily crisis.

More than two years later, I cannot see myself doing anything different. Taking public transportation is normal and healthful. I don't mind waiting at a bus stop, and I usually don't think about how long it takes me to get anywhere. All the time I have at the stop and on the bus is my time to read, to think, to dream, and to listen to funny conversations. Surprisingly, walking has been one of the best contributions to my improving health. With Lyme Disease, I am not able to do any cardio or other strenuous exercise, but walking I can do. It is low-impact and gets my muscles moving. Riding the bus provides built-in exercise without having to pencil it in to my schedule.

I think recovery is a lot like this: We are forced to sell our car, our bike gets stolen, we get sick. Without warning, we get thrown into fighting an illness we don't want. Unfortunately, it has now become our plight. What do we do? We go find the next solution. For some, such a solution is to do whatever it takes to get a new car, as the car is what they know best. It makes a lot sense, actually. They know the exact way to get from home to work and vice versa, and they know that their time is limited: they only give themselves 20 minutes to get from point A to point B.

But for me, I chose something different. OK, maybe it wasn't a real choice at first, but over time, it has become a choice. I chose something that many people find unacceptable, not that TriMet is in itself, but many people find public transit unacceptable because most people have little regular experience with it. Few people enjoy submitting themselves to a fixed route and a fixed schedule. Even fewer people enjoy walking five blocks to the bus stop when they could walk to their car parked in the driveway. Yes, riding TriMet is different, just as the treatment options I choose for Lyme Disease are different, and just as the way I approach my abuse recovery is different. It's easier to go the safe route, the one the "experts" tell you, the one that's always been done.

I'm not really that kind of woman, however. From a very early age, I just didn't accept things just because they were. Ten years ago, at age 17, I made that very clear. I went to the police to report my oldest brother's abuse. This was not an easy decision, but it had to be done. If my family had a future, I had to help change its course. Ten years ago, I was a confused, frightened teenager who felt very, very alone. I remember that New Year's Eve. Everyone was afraid the clocks and computers would spontaneously combust at midnight of the new millennium. I could care less, though. I was too concerned that my life would be the one to spontaneously combust.

In fact, I seriously doubted I would ever see the year 2010. It was more than just the typical mentality of youth, one of invincibility and of energy. The feeling I had was that my life was deteriorating and growing more and more hopeless. More days than not, I struggled just to get through the day; I had no capacity to think about getting through the decade.

I have been meditating on Ecclesiastes 3 - you know, the "time for everything" passage. There is a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to search and a time to give up as lost.

Before I got sick - and when I was driving - I liked to cram a lot of activities into a small window of time. Work, exercise, eat, shop, bible study, ministry, email, watch TV, read, sleep, talk on the phone, do nothing, spend time with friends and family. There is nothing wrong with any of these things, but the problem I had was the complete disregard of rhythm and moderation. Upon reflection of Ecclesiastes 3, I think we sometimes dwell too much on the verbs in that passage - plant/uproot, kill/heal, search/give up - and then order our lives as such. We go straight to balancing our lives. I'm exercising three times a week, we cry. I've read three books this month, we gloat. I've spent 30 hours this month on ministry. I read my Bible for 50 minutes each day. And on and on we go, proving ourselves that we have lives outside of work.

Every now and then, I will get the use of a car. And then I go crazy. With the bus, it could take me a whole hour just to travel to my destination. With a car, I plan six things to accomplish in a whole hour. I circle the parking lot looking for the closest parking space to the store - nevermind that without a car, I would easily spend the 10 minutes walking there - and then I rush through the store so that I can get out as fast as I can to drive to do my next errand. And on and on the cycle of torment goes. Meanwhile, my heart is pounding, I feel highly anxious, and I am sorely discontent.

College was the same. I rushed around like someone was paying me to do it. I always took a full load (at a very rigorous university no less), worked part-time, and worked even more hours in volunteer ministry and at church. Eating was optional; sleep even more so. I felt that I had to work hard. Sometimes, this was good. I spent a considerable amount of time working hard in my abuse recovery, in counseling and journaling, which gave me a head-start on most others my age who had experienced similar things. Other times, working hard was detrimental to my well-being. I was unhappy, a bit overweight, very unhealthy, and behaved strangely in my relationships.

I have grown so accustomed to the lifestyle of a regular TriMet passenger that sometimes I will walk. Just because. For example, early today I was over at the Bakery Bar (a lovely coffee shop) at NE 30th and Glisan. I could have waited for the No. 19 bus. But I decided that I would walk the four or five blocks south to E. Burnside to catch the No. 20. I saw one bus go by, so I decided to walk over to tranquil Laurelhurst Park, which is another two or three blocks away. I walked along the northern perimeter for another six or seven blocks, and finally walked back to E. Burnside to catch the next bus with four minutes to spare. I got off at SE 102nd so that I could drop off a piece of important mail at the post office there, and then I walked two blocks north to the MAX. (I am house-sitting close to Gresham right now.) I saw the MAX go by, so I decided to walk to the 122nd stop - about a mile up the road.

I walked briskly, but not any faster than I normally walk. I smiled at our elders taking their afternoon strolls and watched teenage boys jaywalk across the street. Mostly, though, I thought about the book I am reading. At moments, I allowed my mind to shut off. At other moments, I considered my response to a stressful situation right now. And still at others, I began to write this piece here.

Because in movement is the time to struggle, to meditate, to give yourself space. In movement is the time to dream, to love, to make amends. In movement is the time to gain peace and understanding. In movement is the time to change and the time to sit still. In movement is the time to heal.

For those of you who don't know me, I have been trained in journalism. I originally went to Northwestern to get a journalism degree, but decided during my sophomore year that I was too bored - I wanted to be challenged - so I decided to learn about people. People are never boring. I was fortunate to have received a ton of journalistic experience before the age of 20 (so that's where all of this writing comes from.) One of the habits my training taught me was that, immediately after conducting my interviews and observations, to spend the time it takes to travel between the event and my desk to write the story in my head. That way, no time is wasted and I don't find myself sitting at my computer wondering what on earth I'm going to write about.

In movement, then, is the best place for the story to be written. Just how fast - or how slow - that movement should be is best decided by the situation. Going back to Ecclesiastes 3, I wonder if the writer is asking us to consider the speed at which we perform such duties. "He has made everything appropriate in its time" (Eccl. 3:11). There is a time to take a car and there is a time to take the bus and there is a time to take a stroll. As much as I want to take the string of local buses all the way from Portland to Seattle someday, I know that it is best that I drive right now. I carry too much medicine to do such a thing. I know that most errands in the city, however, can be taken by bus. And I know that when I need to allow this story to be written in me - when I must give myself the space and time to heal - it is best to take a walk, one that slows me down, that allows me to rest and to recharge.

If I have learned anything in the "Oh-Ohs," it is that I am on a journey. A journey of health and well-being, a journey that is traveled "bit by bit," a journey of becoming. It is a journey of now, but not yet; a journey of smooth, flat roads, but also mountains with overgrown trails; and a journey of peace, but pain.

This is the ass kicking of the decade: That I can see myself with life in 2020, 2030, and however many more years I am given here on this earth. The journey will no doubt continue to hurt, but knowing who I was ten years ago and knowing who I am now, I see very little resemblance...yet oh-so-much resemblance. I am fighting to grow into the woman God made me to be, one that has suffered seemingly so many detours, but without such hardships, my life would be dull and almost meaningless. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, I may smell and look funny, but I believe Christ has given me legs where I once had none.

In movement, He is making me Real.

A.

The Future of Beautiful Hair

2010-01-01T21:37:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

If you take a look at my picture to the left, you will notice that I have a lot of hair. It's thick and beautiful and healthy. I love my hair. I love the way it feels, I love the way it looks, and I love that I have natural highlights of reds and yellows and oranges. Lately, my hair seems to be turning from dark brown to very black, and I love that, too, proving that even dead things can change. If you were to look at my floors, you would notice that I shed a lot of hair, too. I shed hair when brushing it, straightening it, washing it, and every minute in between.

And yet, God knows every hair on my head. He is so attentive that when I lose a single hair, He promptly recalculates the tally. He knows how many gray hairs are beginning to grow on the top of my head, and He knows how many split-ends are forming each day I put off that haircut.

"Indeed," Christ declares, "the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows" (Luke 12:7).

He knows how many hairs I lost in 1999, and He knows how much there is to gain in my future. Do not fear, He says. You are worth it. On this first day of the year and the new decade, this is my creed.

A.

Physicology/38

2009-12-30T19:37:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

Last Saturday, I took my two oldest nieces, Jazmyne, 8, and Jasmine, 5, ice skating. This was a new adventure for them, and I was proud that they wanted to go with me. The first thing we did after arriving at the rink was to find some skates for the three of us. Both girls weren't sure which size they needed. Jazmyne took off her shoe to find her current size; the other Jasmine just guessed.

"Twelve. No, eleven. Ten. Nine."

"Try a nine," I told the counter lady.

After trying sizes nine, ten, and eleven, Jasmine fit into a size twelve. Go figure.

Soon, we were on the ice. I held their hands for the first few laps. Both girls got the hang out of it rather quickly - I'm pretty sure it's taken me 27 years to do exactly what they were doing - but both remained hesitant for quite some time. Jazmyne liked to hold onto the wall while skating; Jasmine preferred to let go of my hand, slide for a few seconds, and then grab my hand again. I finally suggested to both that holding onto the wall or my hand will actually hinder them from skating well.

At one point, Jasmine complained about her perceived lack of progress.

"I'm never going to be like that girl," she said. "That girl" had just come back to earth after completing a single jump.

"Honey, neither will I," I said.

Soon, the girls were feeling so confident with their skating abilities that they told me to go on ahead. They assured me they wanted to take a break next to the wall. Reluctantly, I left them. Thirty feet later, I heard Jazmyne shout my name and turned around to see Jasmine on the ground. "She hit her head!" Jazmyne shouted.

I raced back to help pick Jasmine up. She was crying so hard her hair was already soaked. All three of us skated to the exit and sat down. I pulled Jasmine in close and caressed her head. In between cries, she told me that she didn't want to skate again. "I'm done," she cried.

A few minutes later, Jazmyne and I left Jasmine to go skate. After a lap, I noticed Jasmine had stopped crying and was now watching us slide around the ice. Two laps later, I noticed Jasmine had walked to the rink's entrance.

"Do you want to come skate with us?" I asked.

She smiled and nodded; I held out my hand. All three of us continued to skate for another hour or more. Though both girls fell down many times, they always laughed about it while they picked themselves up off the ice. They skated with each other, by themselves, with others, and with me. I couldn't believe that only an hour before, Jasmine had declared she was finished with skating. Now, both girls were telling me they were having so much fun that they wanted to come again.

******

I think this is what having Lyme is like. It takes us a while to find the right fit: the right doctor, the right medicine, the right treatment.

Then, once we're in treatment, we want others to hold our hand: It's natural to want others to feel our struggle, to have the same experience with pain as intimately as we do.

Then we complain that we're never going to be like so and so: We're not going to make as much money, or run as fast (or at all), or be as well as everyone else.

And then we fall down and hit our head: We have a big herx or something that makes us feel like making a living will, so we decide to remove ourselves from the struggle, declare that we are finished, and resort to watching from the sidelines.

The big question is, who are we watching? When I first became ill, I had no one to watch. I wish I had known someone - anyone - to tell me what to do, to tell me why I couldn't find one doctor to take me seriously, to tell me how Lyme was best "cured."

Ten months later, I met one other Lyme sufferer. I felt sad for her 20-year plight, but after comparing her symptoms to my symptoms, I decided mine weren't ever going to be as bad. So I continued on with my life.

Ten months after that, feeling more discontent, I finally met a whole group of Lyme sufferers. I found a better doctor and treatment plan, which led to the best doctor and treatment plan. I have improved faster than anyone expected.

Yet, something always seemed to be amiss. My Lyme friend, Lisa, and I have talked a lot about the fact that we knew not one person who has been "cured" of Lyme. Not one person. This is disheartening, to say the least.

Because what do we hope for? Mediocrity?

What do we aim for? Fatigue only two hours of the day?

What is our future? Long-term disability?

Hell no. It doesn't have to be.

It's natural to want a story to cling onto. It's natural to say, "If they can do it, so can I." I think that's why Jesus is so popular, because He became a man just like us. He had to deal with his family just like us and Satan's temptations just like us and probably even blisters just like us.

By no means am I comparing myself to Jesus, but if you need a Lyme sufferer to watch - if you need a story to relate to - watch me. On a scale of 1-10 (10 being mega-high), my aches and pains are at a 0.5 at the most; my fatigue is at a 2 or less; my overall energy is at a 9.5. It was a completely different story only 14, 19, and 43 months ago.

I know I'm not the only one. (For example, my coiling buddies, Lisa and Joel, are neck-in-neck with me to see who will finish this race first.) If you prefer to watch someone else (which I suggest), find someone in your community (preferably a person with whom you can sit face to face) and listen. Listen to their stories. Ask them about their journey. Ask them what they did to get where they are today. Consider the cost. Consider what it's going to take for you to get from where you are to where you want to be.

And then get out on the ice again.

Though you may fall and you may hold onto the wall and you may even be wearing the wrong shoe size, you will be going somewhere. In movement is the best place to be.

A.

Shake, Rattle, and Roll

2009-12-29T14:59:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

The other day, I read my friend Marisa's blog describing her experience of her and her husband's car (which they name "Wally") running out of gas in the middle of Kansas. She wrote:

all was going smoothly, we used my handy iphone to find a pizza hut in oakley about 20 minutes away and called in an order, and the low fuel light popped on. no biggie, we figured we could stop in oakley and fill up on our way to pick up dinner. driving, driving, then suddenly the car starts shaking and scott says, "oh crap." we were running out of gas. we put on the hazards and got onto the shoulder in case the car stopped - i could see the lights of the oakley exit, but didn't know how far away it was. i think we made it about two miles after wally started shaking, and managed to coast down to the bottom of the oakley exit ramp. thankfully the gas station was right at the opposite corner of the intersection that we landed at, and it was a big travel center that had gas cans for sale.

My body has a similar experience almost every night. Beginning somewhere between one to four hours before bedtime and no matter how good of day I had, when my body decide it wants to shut down, it will shut down. First, I begin to shake. This is when all my muscles begin to remind me exactly where they are located. Like the gas light in Scott and Marisa's car, this is my first warning.

If I ignore that, then my body will begin to rattle. At this point, my mind begins to shut down and if I'm talking, I will begin to talk faster. (My voice, then, is the rattling.) And because my mind is shutting down, the words coming out of my mouth tend to miss my mental filter more than usual and serve as no more than a mask to hide my real physical pain. This is my second warning telling me to pull over or get run over.

No matter what time of night it is, before I actually fall asleep I usually need 30-60 minutes of time lying in bed to allow my body to work out the kinks: Here, my body is the dough, the Lyme Disease the air pocket, and the immune system the rolling pin. If I don't give myself the time to allow the toxins to roll out of my body, then my body will not only work out the kinks as I'm trying to fall asleep, but also take much, much longer to do so than if I had allowed my body to rest in the first place.

This is precisely why I don't go out much at night. I can't afford to stay out until 10p because then - with the rest I need, plus taking a shower and any other things I need to do - I probably won't be able to fall asleep until well after 11p. Sleeping in the next morning is not an option either. For one, I always wake up at 8a to take medicine, and two, my body will naturally wake up anyway.

******

I think this is our body's way of telling us when we're running out of gas. Like my friends, I tend to ignore the gas light. I can overestimate my body's performance ability, or desire the steamy, delicious pizza rather than dealing with the problem now, or, if do what I did when I first became ill, assume the problem will magically go away.

Unfortunately, most things just don't disappear on their own. Lyme, in particular, will not go away without an intentional change in lifestyle, diet, exercise, social life, and financial priorities. Even the tick remains stuck to your body for at least 48 hours. A slow entry equals a slow exit.

Recovery then, in whatever form, takes time. It requires us to stop, to be still, to listen. It requires us to go to bed at a healthful time. It requires a lot of stubbornness and a lot of hope for a life of authentic wellness. And it requires us to press up against one another - to ask questions, to share stories, to learn - its friction sparking a new creativity, contribution, love, and future among us.

A.

A Disarmingly Rosier Christmas

2009-12-23T09:40:00.000-08:00

Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.

-Proverbs 16:24

Dear friends,

Late last year, I wished for a night out on the town, something like country line dancing. I got to do some pretty fun things this year, and I would be lying if I said that I haven't been out this year, though none of my evenings were as intentional and as delightful as the one I had last Friday night.

Early this month, my friend Sharon (not her real name) invited me to the Rosie Thomas Christmas concert. I have some of Rosie's music, so I found it to be a real gift to see not only her in person, but Sharon, as well, a woman whom I love much and see far too little.

The show started at 9:15p, requiring me to mentally psych myself up for a long night. To keep me awake, I ordered a ginger ale from the bar, the latter of which made me feel like a true 27-year-old. Rosie didn't come on until 10:15p, unless you count her character, Sheila Saputo, which neither Sharon nor I understood until the next morning when I visited her website. All I can say is that Sheila reminds me of a "Saturday Night Live" skit.

Rosie's talking voice sounds like a "five-year-old" (her words), which was disarming at first. Having only heard her sing, I never would have expected her to talk like a chipmunk. Over the entire night, however, her voice grew on me, and I found it to fit with her personhood: so free, genuine, innocent. Then, once Rosie began to sing, yet again her voice disarmed me: it felt like the moon lying on top of its dark canvas, gently cutting to the hard-to-reach places in my soul. Her arrangement of Christmas classics, such as "Silent Night" and "O Come O Come Emmanuel," were immensely cathartic.

It may come as a surprise to you, but I really dislike Christmas. Don't worry, I play no favorites. I dislike all holidays right now, even my birthday. Historically (and by that, I mean the last 21 years of my life), holidays have been hell. If I wasn't being beaten up, then I was walking on egg shells hoping to God that it wouldn't happen. In other years, life was just too stressful to be joyful. And even though I have some great boundaries, the inflicted pain is always the same. Consequently, I rarely celebrate the holidays like you would expect, and I am happier this way.

Because holidays come with way too many expectations - and too much grief - attached to them. It's like the present you don't want, except it's so ugly you would never re-gift it.

Towards the end of the concert, as Rosie sat on stage alone, she paused, looked at the audience, and then spoke. She shared with us about how she decided to sing, that all she has wanted to do is entertain people. She shared that she often feels down (which explains most of her songs), though she continues to do what she does because "I think people can relate," she said. Finally, she told us that she sings because she feels like life is all about giving to others. Her spontaneous prose was one of the most inspiring experiences I have had in a long time. If she is doing what she is made to do, then so can I.

Throughout the entire night, I found myself singing along with Rosie, giggling every time she shouted "band!" and sensing a profound peace in my heart. Sharon and I walked away in delight; I felt as if I had just experienced the definition of purity. Since then, I have been listening nonstop to Rosie's Christmas album, "A Very Rosie Christmas," seemingly forgetting that I pretty much disdain most Christmas "paraphernalia."

If the closest I get to celebrating Christmas is listening to Rosie Thomas sing, then I could say that this has been a truly joyful Christmas season.

May you experience a disarmingly rosier Christmas.

A.

The Jury and the Train

2009-12-22T20:27:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Last week, I spent two days of my life in jury duty. It was my first time doing my civic duty, and I had no idea what to expect. The anticipation leading up to jury duty reminded me about what it felt like when I was readying to travel by Amtrak from Portland to Chicago - a 48-hour trip. This was my first Amtrak trip, so I didn't know what to expect when traveling by train. But given that I had spent just $63 for the entire trip and was a poor college student, I wasn't really thinking about the details.

One of those helpful details to know would have been to carry a sweater, as the train cars turned out to be mighty cold. A nice man lent me his sweatshirt for the entire trip. Another detail to know would have been to bring plenty of reading material. Back then (circa 2002), few people owned laptops and the ones who did probably needed an antennae to pick up wi-fi. I didn't even own a cell phone then. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time writing in my journal - with real pen and paper - and looking out the window. The experience was a lonely time, but not useless. Just because I wasn't doing anything productive doesn't mean I wasn't going somewhere. After all, I ended up in Chicago two days later.

More than seven years later, I own a laptop and a cell phone that happen to be both failing, and I have yet to own an iPod or any other gadget. I did figure out, however, that I should bring a book and laptop to jury duty, and I did bring a coat. In the two-day period, I finished one book and started another; watched an episode of "The Office"; talked with a friend's husband who happened to be called to the same trial; listened to music; did some school work; and played around on the Internet. I also filled out a questionnaire, waited in a few lines, and sat in a real juror's seat in the courtroom.

I got to play juror on the second day. Half of the juror pool was called into the courtroom and seated "randomly," although it was rather suspicious that at least half of the people in the juror's box ended up being selected for the trial. The Court is really protective of the details of the trial. We knew the defendant was on trial for murder, but we didn't know anything else. For the first 30 minutes of being in the courtroom, I didn't even realize the defendant was sitting next to his defense attorney. I figured he was a colleague. For the sake of a fair trial, I appreciated the lack of knowledge of almost everything, yet I felt frustrated that nobody explained any of the procedures to us. Sometimes I can be such an overachiever.

While I expected the prosecution and defense to ask each potential juror a question or two, both parties then lectured us about law, ethics, morals, and rules pertaining to how we should approach the case. The lecture was actually less a dry soliloquy and more a discussion, something that surprised me. In retrospect, it makes sense. This was yet another chance to allow jurors to respond and to ask their own questions, which further weeded them out. In fact, a half-dozen jurors or so were axed here. Some had personal appointments that conflicted with the trial schedule, others were unsure they could handle the emotional turmoil of handing down a verdict, and others felt their opposition to capital punishment would interfere with their verdict (despite that this jury would not be sentencing the defendant if he were found guilty.)

During the portion when jurors were being asked specific questions based on their answers to the questionnaire, the defense asked me just one question.

"Now, you may want to answer this in private. It is regarding your health status." The attorney's tone was incredibly respectful.

I smiled. "Oh, I'm fine. You may ask here."

"You wrote that you have Lyme Disease. How are you doing? Will you have enough energy to last this trial?"

"Oh, yes, I'm fine." I smiled. "I'm near the end of my treatment."

Both defense attorneys smiled, which made me feel good.

At the end of the day, I was not picked to sit on the jury. I was genuinely disappointed because I really wanted to experience a jury and trial. The entire process had been fascinating thus far, even though I had spent most of it in the juror waiting room.

But I was kind of tired the next day. And the next. And then I thought about the train ride: I remembered that I am going somewhere, even if all I'm doing right now is looking out the window.

A.

Acceptance

2009-12-18T12:21:00.000-08:00

Seeing is not a passive act: the grid that was formed in the past plays an active role in shaping what we see in the present and how we see it. We see what our grid has predisposed us to see.

-Leading with a Limp, Dan B. Allender (p. 83)

Dear friends,

A few weeks ago, a Lyme friend called me up. At first, we made small talk, and then her voice dropped and began to quiver.

"Anna," she asked, "is it all right to talk about my faith with other Lyme people?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, I was in a group of other Lyme people when one of the people began to talk about her spirituality. I wasn't sure if it was OK to share my Christian faith."

I smiled.

"In my experience, the Lyme community is incredibly accepting of everyone," I said. "Plus, having a chronic illness tends to challenge people to rethink the meaning of life, opening them up to some kind of faith or spirituality. I'm sure those people would have loved to hear how your faith interacts with your chronic illness."

Since this conversation, I have been pondering the idea of acceptance in community. Communities are formed around a common idea, goal, circumstance, or geographical location. In the case of the Lyme community, our common bond is Lyme Disease. If it weren't for the illness, I am absolutely sure that I would never have met these people: gay people and straight people; the wealthy and the poor; the educated and the non-educated; city dwellers and suburbanites; the young and the old; the isolated and the activists; and Jews, Buddhists, Christians, and agnostics. We can be an eccentric bunch - I could not have imagined talking about my bowel movements before I became ill - but we are an accepting bunch of people. I have never ever felt as if I could not talk about Jesus with Lyme people.

To be honest, I can't say that about the Church. I mean, I think the Church would like to get there, but it will probably remain a weakness for quite some time. Acceptance does not mean I condone people's behavior, a truth I am learning daily. I have previously written about my desire to convince people that they're doing their treatment wrong. I truly struggle with wanting to be so right (which explains so much) that it hinders some relationships. I am learning that I can have my opinions and, in the right context, I can share them with others, but ultimately, the decisions people make are not my burden to carry.

I have found that modeling, living by example, and being consistent tend to go the distance more so than polished arguments. Case in point: The feedback I have recently gotten regarding my improved health. One Lyme friend says that he has seen so much improvement in me since I started going to my current doctor that he has now decided to go to the same doctor, as well. Another one said that I have one of the most dramatic improvements he has ever seen. Many others compliment me on how good I look. They say I have a glow. This is the sign of health. It didn't happen because I talked a lot (in spite of it, actually) or because I happen to be smart (also in spite of it). Instead, I have stayed on the path, doing what my doctor tells me to do. I attribute this unwavering attitude to my abuse recovery and soccer training, both of which taught me to lean into the pain, to persevere, and to never give up.

That doesn't mean that I wasn't (silently) cursing my coaches or displacing my pain onto others. Oh, I was. In fact, one of the keys to recovery is honesty. It means telling the truth, even if it is dissent. In his book, Community, Peter Block says that dissent does not mean that the truth-teller loses her place at the table. Only the dishonest person loses her place. Rather, dissent opens us up to a whole new set of questions and possibilities. It calls us to question the reasons why she is dissenting. For Lyme people, dissent could occur for a number of reasons: previous treatments that damaged the gut, incompatibility with antibiotics, lack of finances, lack of support, etc. Dissent (and the questions that follow), then, open us up to new solutions, new possibilities, and perhaps new ways of doing something that were never possible without someone saying "no."

My friend can talk about her faith with others just as much as others can talk about their own faith journeys. We can do this because we're all on a journey, a journey of wellness, of finding our place in the world, and of being known by our Creator God. I liken it to the experience I had with my youngest niece, Madison, last night. Up until a week ago, her daddy was overseas for three months. Being that she was just 11 months old when he left, she was unable to verbalize her feelings of loss. She clung to her mother almost always. She rarely allowed me to hold her, even though I am really close to her. So, I just hung out. I played with her and her older sister. I ate dinner with them, took them on walks, and taught them all my really good dance moves.

Madison's dad came home last week.

Last night, as I walked into their house, Madison came running to greet me all the way from three rooms over. She gave me a big smile and lifted her arms. I bent down and lifted her up. She threw her arms around my neck and embraced me - the kind of embrace when the person feels twice as heavy and twice as soft. She placed her head on my shoulder, and I think I heard her coo. A few moments later, she pushed away and I gently placed her back on the floor. She ran away in delight.

I think this is what acceptance is like. When we just be ourselves, when we love no matter how the other loves us back or not, and when we "allow people to be dumb," as my friend Mike says. When we give people the space to work something out, and when we allow the Lord to take into His hands the broken pieces, that's when we will see that He is already making all things new.

A.

Physicology/37

2009-12-17T16:02:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

I think I have gained five pounds in the last month. I attribute it to the cold weather and fewer places to travel to on a regular basis. I don't have to walk to and from bus stops as much, I don't have to go to many appointments, and, due to a switch in medicine, I don't even have to go to the pharmacy as much. (Where previously I could stop into my pharmacy on an average of six times per month, now it's more like three or four.) All of this inactivity, in addition to the weather that has been giving us the stiff arm lately, leads to a little weight gain.

The sky's gray blanket has been laid out, finally warming up the city and dumping a lot of rain on us. The sun is nowhere to be found, yet things have been looking brighter for me: Today, the clouds spit on my bare hands as I walked the 1.8 miles to Bipartisan Cafe. I walked briskly and happily, making it to my destination much faster than I had expected. My mind is sharp, my concentration always at the ready, and my emotional state is at shalom.

To my surprise, the stress in the last few weeks has not affected my physical health. The loss of medical insurance, my decision to leave my church, the sadness that comes with the disappearance and presumed death of a beautiful young woman from my church, and even the stress of jury duty have done nothing to set my health back. I haven't even begun to tell you about the holidays, grad school, or the situation that occurred that almost made me stay in Portland.

From the beginning of this illness, one of the things that I have had to keep in check is the amount of stress in my life. Sure, there are good stressors as much as there are bad stressors. But the body doesn't really decipher between the two. Thus, traveling to the grocery store may be as stressful as getting into a fight with a loved one.

And then there's the whole notion of adrenaline. One Lyme friend told me how great she felt while completing a five-hour gig. There was not one point during the gig that she was reminded that she had Lyme. Of course, as soon as she got home, her symptoms appeared again. A little adrenaline, then, gives us the strength to continue doing necessary life things, such as gaining the satisfaction of contribution, enjoying a relationship, or maintaining our sanity. But too much adrenaline can keep us from getting sufficient rest, which will ultimately lead to a decline in recovery, relationships, and health.

I feel like I have found a good balance between stress and adrenaline. Lately, I have been "lying low" in the mornings, and then coming out to join the rest of the world after lunch. I find that I have much energy even into the night time, which, unfortunately, gives me the illusion that I don't need as much sleep. Of course, this is a mistake, and I end up paying for it the next day, which is why I've been lying low in the mornings. I am doing my best to stop the never-ending cycle.

Overall, my symptoms are almost non-existent. I can feel a little tired, but sometimes I have to remind myself that people are supposed to feel tired in the evenings or after doing a particularly taxiing activity. The other day I was in a meeting that was getting a little boring, which made me feel tired. Once I made the distinction, I rejoiced that I was finally experiencing fatigue due to boredom rather than from Lyme.

I think that I would like to feel bored more often.

A.

Jesus, Please Come

2009-12-16T12:00:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Last December, just before Christmas, I posted a wish list of sorts. It was different than a typical Christmas list. Sure, I had a few material things on there, but mostly it was a list of prayers and dreams. Again, as we near Christmas, I want to revisit a few items on that list, and then close with my wish list for this upcoming year.

I asked for energy. Twice. I got ten times as much.

My medical bills should decrease in a few months, once my treatment ends.

I have had a lot of adventures both big and small: St. Andrew's Abbey (Valyermo, CA); San Francisco; Seattle (eight times!); Spokane, WA; Madison, WI; Eugene, OR; Southern Oregon; the Columbia Gorge; the Oregon Coast; and, mostly, right here in the Portland-Metro area. Relationally, I have also experienced one potential arranged marriage; one spontaneous evening with a gorgeous and intriguing man; many, many coffee meetings with some very interesting people; and a "love at first sight" encounter with T.S., that is, the Toga Sofa. God sure answers prayer in mysterious ways.

I have been absolutely surprised by this year. There were times when it seemed like every day I rounded the corner to discover something new, which always made me gasp in delight. Of course, there were many things that occurred that I never asked for, but then again, the element of surprise would not exist if I had already asked. I love how God knows us so well and will take us on such a unique journey, past road signs and rest stops, through valleys and over mountains, with some wheels or on our own two feet. I feel so incredibly loved and known right now.

As I enter the year 2010, I pray that I will listen. And that I will trust. I also pray that He will continue to complete in me, in us, something worth writing down. Well, that and the following wish list:

Secure a book agent.
Secure a book contract.
Be "cured."
Love and understand my family better.
Kitchen things.
Laptop. (Preferably a Mac.)
Know more love.
Trust more: the Lord, myself, and others.
That Jesus' presence is felt.
Togo Sofa.

Jesus, please provide; please come.

A.

Something New

2009-12-15T21:16:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

In June 2008, I decided to stop working to focus on full-time recovery from Lyme Disease. As I readied to leave, my former employer, which also happened to be the church I have been a member of for more than four years, told me I could opt into COBRA (the Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act). The COBRA program allows people to retain their former employer's group health insurance for up to 18 months. In most cases, that means the person has to pay the monthly premium. I chose to opt in and paid roughly $270 each month. Two days before Thanksgiving, I lost my medical insurance. While you may be assuming that I lost the coverage because the 18-month period had expired, unfortunately, that is not the case. Let me explain:

Sometime in the summer of 2008, my former employer began to tell me that I had 24 months of COBRA coverage. I challenged them on this, as I had never before heard of the extension, but they stated that this was true. I continued to challenge this idea every six months or so, but they always assured me it was true. Since the protocol is to talk to one's former employer about COBRA matters, I had to take them at their word.

Fast forward 17 months. In early November 2009, I was talking with some of my Lyme friends, one of whom was nearing the end of her own employment. I told her that I was being given 24 months of COBRA. She challenged that notion, saying that none of her lawyers suggested she had two years of coverage - only 18 months. So, I did a little investigative work. I scoured the COBRA website and found nothing about coverage for two years, not even for the recession. Then I emailed my former employer asking them to confirm how much longer I had. I reminded them that if I only had 18 months, then I needed to know since that would mean it would expire at the end of November.

On the day before Thanksgiving, nearly three weeks after I sent the email, I received a short email from my former employer telling me four things. First, churches are exempt from the COBRA program; my former employer is not required to opt-in. Two, my former employer never notified my insurance company of my termination from employment. Three, I was never on COBRA insurance. Rather, I remained on the group insurance as if I were still employed there. And finally, apparently upon discovering their mistake, my former employer terminated my insurance...the day prior to this email notification.

Not only that, but they told me not to panic. They suggested I fill out an Oregon Continuation Coverage form, assuring me that I could gain six more months of coverage. Later that evening, I opened up the document. I read it once, then once more. Something didn't seem right. I set it aside. I opted not to deal with it on Thanksgiving Day. The day after, I read the form again. Something still wasn't settling right with me. Because the cover letter to the form was telling me (twice, in bold ink) that I would only be eligible if I had been involuntarily terminated between September 1, 2008 and the end of this year.

In case you didn't catch it, I was neither involuntarily terminated nor terminated between those dates. Call it what you will, but this is not a solution. To ask me to lie is wrong. In response, I decided to send a letter to notify my former employer that I was declining the continuation coverage and would like to be reimbursed for the December premium (which I had already paid). In the letter, I also communicated my disappointment in the turn of events. In response to the letter, one of the pastors called me into his office. The first thing out of his mouth was, "Well, Anna, I'm looking at your letter and I think everyone in the situation did good here."

I beg to differ.

Here's why: my former employer has no solution to offer me. They made at least an 18-month mistake, one that now puts me in a precarious situation. Let's see, I have 42 days before I will be penalized for my pre-existing condition. Had they been organized from the beginning and had I known that COBRA never existed, I would have purchased individual medical insurance 18 months ago - before I started getting antibiotic treatment. I never asked them for a favor and I don't need their "good." It worries me if they can't truly understand this.

But their lack of organization and empathy is not the largest problem. Rather, the largest problem is that my former employer terminated my insurance without notifying me first. Being that this was their mistake, they should have picked up the phone and said, "Anna, we are so sorry. We made a huge mistake that deeply affects your personal health. For legal reasons, we must terminate your medical coverage, but before we do, we thought you would like to be the first to know. Is there anything we can do to rectify this situation?"

I'm a pretty reasonable person. I understand there are rules; I agree they had to terminate me. I also understand that nobody is perfect; in fact, I wasn't surprised by my former employer's mistake. But I was shocked by their lack of humility and prompt communication with me. Eventually, I got a pretty disingenuous apology, but it was buried somewhere between "You shouldn't be shocked" and "It was __'s fault." If this were a secular organization, I would have expected this. Yet, except for the organization I was employed with when I first became ill (a story yet to be told), no other organization would have done what the church did here.

Being that this is a church - my church - this is unacceptable. It is unacceptable to ask me to lie, to be quick to shift blame onto a subordinate, to behave arrogantly, and to refuse to put themselves in my shoes. Like I have said before, I am going to get better with or without medical insurance, but insurance largely subsidizes my medicine. And medicine is like my food right now. Without medicine, I would die. Maybe not tomorrow, but eventually; if not in body, then in spirit.

Now, not only am I out medical insurance, but a church, as well. While I say "good riddance" to the insurance company (on average, I call them twice per claim to correct their mistakes), I have too many memories with the good folks at my church. In fact, in my letter to terminate my church membership, I couldn't help but end with these words:

This is a sad and difficult decision for me, as I have many, many wonderful relationships at the church. In the last four years, I have grown immensely here; my heart has been ministered to more than I realized I ever needed. Thank you for your sacrifice, love, and service to me. That is what I hope to remember more than the unfortunate events that have transpired recently.

In addition to the words above, I want to end on a few more: I love (or try to love) the people in my church, even those involved in the situation I described here. I will be the first to say that I am broken, biased, quick to judge, and I don't always reframe the situation like I should. Despite the hard times in my church lately, the church is my benchmark for the one I will be looking for in Seattle; I do not anticipate an easy search. Finally, my prayer is that we never stop being transformed beings who learn, grow, forgive, and love our way to a new future.

To something new,

A.

Unmastered

2009-12-12T22:26:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

I experience a little bit of trauma everyday. It happens at breakfast or lunch or dinner or sometimes in between. It happens in my dining room or in a restaurant. Sometimes it happens when I am all by myself, though I have a knack for finding an audience. It happens when I am eating a lot or nothing at all. It happens in cold weather and warm weather. And it happens when I least expect it.

What is it? I struggle to swallow pills.

You would think someone who has swallowed at least 55 pills everyday for the last 18 months would have mastered this technique by now. (And that's at an all-time low. At one point, I was swallowing 90 pills a day.) Swallowing a pill doesn't seem too difficult. When I do it right, I place one pill (or, at most, two of the same kind) in my left hand and a glass of water in my right hand. I take a sip of the water and then push the pills into my mouth. Then, as I tip my head down, my tongue swishes the pills to the back of my tongue. I take a pause, concentrate, make sure the pills are where they should be, and then quickly throw my head back, relax my throat, open it up, and swallow. Sometimes, I get stage fright when I first throw my head back, so I end up throwing my head back two or three times. When this happens, I almost always get a few mocking gestures from my friends and family, all of which are deserved.

The mocking, however, is a small problem compared to the gag reflexes, choking, and vomiting that occur when my swallowing technique breaks down. Sometimes the problem is purely physical: the pill didn't travel to the back of my tongue, I didn't relax my throat enough, or the pill became lodged in my esophagus. Or the problem is purely mental: I forgot to concentrate on all of the steps or I didn't visualize the pill smoothly taking a ride down my esophagus into my intestines. Other times the problem is social: I try so hard to be discreet that my bodily fluids end up on the floor. Whatever the reason, the consequence is just the same: a lot of air-sucking, bulging eyes, coughing, red cheeks, tears, and social awkwardness.

I wish I could say it would get better, that I will somehow master the technique of swallowing, but if I haven't done so already, I don't think I ever will. So until I stop taking as many pills, this little bit of trauma will be a part of the recovery experience. I think it's God's way of reminding me that I'm not invincible.

A.

Friday

2009-12-11T20:12:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

I went to jury duty today. I woke up an hour earlier than usual, wrongly accused my sister of stealing my toothbrush, had a heated phone conversation with what is now my former medical insurance company, stood in the cold next to a very attractive cop, and then, to my surprise, discovered a friend's husband had also been called to jury duty. All morning long, I chatted with him and a woman who was also sitting at our table, watched last night's episode of "The Office," read a school book, and listened to music. In between, I filled out a questionnaire, stood in line, and waited some more. At 1:15 p.m., the court asked me to come back on Monday morning for jury selection. The criminal trial will be approximately three weeks long, and I sincerely hope I get selected, partly for the experience and partly because I will get paid for my time.

******

I went grocery shopping afterward. I absolutely love New Seasons Market, the mecca of all things local, organic, fresh, and just plain good. I absolutely hate shopping of any kind (which is why I have yet to shop for the one and only Christmas present I must buy this year), but I love going to New Seasons. The food is top-of-the-line but not pretentious; the service is impeccable - a light spill of their filtered tap water would send five hot workers to mop it up; and the care they take for the community must produce a lot of copycats.

******

And then I hopped on the bus towards home. Two stops before I was due to get off the bus, a man and a woman walked on an already packed bus with three large, clear plastic bags full of clothing. Initially, I assumed they were taking the bags to a charity. I'm not sure why I assumed that. Maybe I just wanted to believe what was comfortable for me. One stop before my bus, more passengers got on. The driver asked the man and woman to move back to the bus. They stood next to my row. From the row on the other side of the aisle, I heard a man's voice.

"Stop touching me!" he said to the man with the bags.

"I am just standing here," the man replied.

"Back off! Take a shower!"

The man with the bags did not respond.

"Ugh! You're dirty."

The man with the bags did not respond.

"This isn't your own private shuttle," the woman with the bags said.

I briefly looked at the man with the bags. His eyes stared down at the floor. I immediately realized that all he had in the world were held in his hands.

My stop came up. I rang the bell and then asked my seatmate to stand up so I could get out. I gently excused myself past the man and woman with the bags. As I stepped off the bus into the biting cold, I thought about how annoyed I was that their bags took up so much room in the crowded bus.

I walked across one crosswalk. Then another. As I entered my neighborhood, I suddenly realized that I didn't say one thing besides "excuse me." I didn't defend or dispel or even say a kind blessing. I am ashamed.

******

Not one moment today have I felt tired or weak or even achy. I am mentally all there. I feel strong and optimistic and damn good. I feel normal; I am normal. I see my sin and my brokenness: how quickly I will cut off the insurance employee in mid-sentence, how fast I will accuse, and how easy it is to become like the scoffer on the other side of the aisle. This is me - most imperfect, selfish, arrogant. And so I repent and I move forward, asking for God's grace to be the change tomorrow.

A.

What I Know

2009-12-09T23:05:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Lately, I have been hesitant to write. Especially when it comes to writing about myself. For instance, I just started writing another story for this blog and all I wanted to do was to write about somebody else. Sure, that person's experience - an experience I witnessed - is legit. Yet, as the first journalistic rule I ever learned says, write what you know.

What do I know? When it gets down to it, I don't know much. I don't know how I will pay my rent in the near future. I don't know where I will live. I don't know if I will have medical insurance. I don't know what kind surprise is waiting for me tomorrow. And I don't know if I will be "cured" enough to do the things I have always hoped to do.

Ironically, the not-knowing illuminates what I do know. (This is God's grace.) I know that I am scared. I know that I am a bit stressed out by the job search. I know that I don't like conflict, that I am afraid to fail, and that I am afraid to be wrong. I know that I want to be an excellent writer. And I know that God has my back, even when it doesn't feel like it.

Though I cannot predict by how much, my relationships are going to change in the very near future. The anticipation of this change holds me back, as if I am bracing for some big fall-out. Maybe there will be, maybe not. Either way, the stress of keeping it all bottled inside is starting to eat away at me. So I pray that tomorrow - or if not then, very soon perhaps - I will give myself the freedom to breathe, to share, and to ultimately write what I truly know.

A.

Toast

2009-12-07T18:35:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

Right now, the outside temperature is 26 degrees, but, according to weather.com, it feels like it's just 14. The thermometer in my room tells me that it is a toasty 71 degrees in my room; happily, it feels like 71. Thanks to my glorious space heater, coupled with the heat that my sister turned on an hour ago, I feel like walking around topless.

Before I got Lyme, I liked the cold season. Maybe I was an overworked college student, but I loved living in Chicago precisely because it got bitter cold. Apart from the freak weather spells in Portland, our winters are piddly, or rather, "puddly." For example, I didn't own a real coat until my freshman year of college. Of course, it took some time to acclimate to the winters in Chicago. Clear, sunny days didn't mean it was actually warm; three feet of snow on the ground didn't keep us from having to attend classes; and falling snow means I better go buy a windshield snowbrush for my car (a shovel, too).

Since having Lyme Disease, my perspective has changed. Maybe it's because I take the bus, which requires me to walk or wait in the cold. Maybe it's because when I walk, my joints creak. Or maybe it's because I just don't feel as limber as I did in the summertime. All I know is that never before in my life have I thought about living in a warm climate as I do now. I am beginning to understand why our beloved elders journey south for the winter. Yet, living in a warm climate probably isn't a reality for a little while. So, my next best option is to take a vacation. To be specific, near the equator or thereabouts: Costa Rica, Bolivia, Belize, Hawaii. Really, I could care less where I go as long as I could walk around in a bikini without getting frostbite.

Unfortunately, I have the time, but not the money. (Because that's what happens when you don't work and all the money you have goes to medical expenses.) Consequently, my next-next best option is to continue to dream of the day when I will lie under the sun, to run, to sweat, to explore, and to do things normal bodies are supposed to do. Until then, my space heater will have to go the distance with me.

A.

You Shall See

2009-12-05T19:53:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

The air feels sharp, the blue sky has been ironed of its wrinkles, the flora lies in earth's coffin, and my future is somewhere out there, something yet to be grasped. In the last few weeks, my plans have come out from underneath me, which only leaves me in no man's land right now. I wish I could publicly share - and I will - but I need more time. I need more time to process, yes, but, mostly, I need more time to allow life to unfold as it's supposed to be.

And so I wait: in stillness, in expectation, in confidence.

Where is He?

I am right here, He says. I am not going anywhere.

Where am I going?

You shall see.

This is what I get for keeping my hands open. But as long as He knows how to get me wherever I am going, and as long as He is beside me, then I am right where I should be.

A.

Fifty-Six Days

2009-12-01T21:01:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

A fire has been lit underneath me. Due to other people's actions, as of a week ago I no longer have medical insurance. The circumstances surrounding the termination of my coverage was quite a shock; I am beginning to feel the reverberations. One of those consequences is that I must find a new insurance plan within 63 days from the date of termination. I have 56 days left.

If I allow my insurance to lapse, any new insurance plan will not cover a pre-existing condition for at least the first 12 months. To remedy this situation, I could just go buy a new insurance plan, but I face a few quandaries: Do I buy an individual plan or wait until I get a job with benefits? What if I don't get a job within 56 days? If I buy a plan, should I wait until I have a Washington address?

Of course, then I have to decide which plan is best for me. Every piece of literature will suggest that if you have a chronic illness, then you should buy a plan with a low deductible. However, I do not use my insurance as much as you would think. The coverage really only comes in handy for a few prescriptions, my bi-monthly doctor visit, and alternative care (if I use it and if the plan covers it). Other than that, everything else is out of pocket. Financially, not including alternative care (which I am not using right now), I estimate that the cost of the premium is equal to or slightly higher than the amount I save with the coverage. Thus, finding the plan (that is, if I should have a plan) with a deductible that maximizes my coverage for the least amount of money - not to mention with other benefits most appropriate to my health - feels rather stressful to me right now.

But nothing compares to the security I get from knowing that I have insurance coverage. If I were to be walking across the street and get hit by a car (let's face it: I have a greater chance of being outside a car than in one), I would like to know that I am not going to have a $10,000 bill when I get out of the hospital. Besides the desire of personal security, I also wonder if I run into a moral issue by not owning medical insurance. Does anybody have any thoughts about this?

So, now that I am on the search for an insurance plan, I want to hear your suggestions about individual insurance plans you think might fit with my health situation. In addition, I especially want to hear from Lyme sufferers: Do you have insurance? Why or why not? How has having insurance (or not) affected your treatment? Please comment about any of these questions below.

Thanks much. I really covet your prayers that the Lord brings along a remedy quick, perhaps in the form of a winning lottery ticket; a rich, new husband...or maybe just a job with benefits.

A.

The Body Whisperer

2009-11-29T08:26:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

In the late summer and fall of 2008, I decided to try yoga. I bought a purple mat, signed up for a three-month membership at my local community center, and began to attend one or two yoga classes per week. At first, it was really fun. It was an excuse to get out of my house - particularly in the evening - and I enjoyed loosening up my very tight, achy, and painful muscles.

The yoga experience not only became a physically challenging experience, but a spiritual one, too. Gentle music would waft through the room as the teacher would calmly command breathing techniques and poses with funny names. This space - both physical and spiritual - allowed me the chance to listen to the conflict, self-doubt, and turmoil that lay beneath in my mind, in my heart, and in my spirit.

Before each class, the yoga instructors would ask if anyone in the room had any sore areas of the body. I always raised my hand.

"Where are you sore?" they would ask.

"All over."

The instructors would then begin the class. Along with maybe 15 others, we would settle into poses like the Down Dog and Half Moon. Historically, I would get pretty competitive in an environment like this. I would perfect each pose and follow the instructor's instructions to a "T." But at this point in my life, I was happy just to show up. My body was in so much constant pain: my joints creaked, my muscles screamed, and my fatigue overwhelmed. Thus, my favorite part of the class was the last 10-15 minutes when we would do some restorative stretches, which basically equals lying on the floor, closing the eyes, meditating, and nearly falling asleep. It was near bliss.

The problem with these yoga classes happened when a few times during the class, perhaps when we were doing the Warrior pose, which calls for one arm to be stretched forward, fingers towards the sky. That was fine, but my creaky fingers groaned when I tried to outstretch them. My solution was to curl them towards me; it relieved the pain and, being the recovering perfectionist I am, I felt happy. Just then, the instructor would walk towards me, from behind, place one hand on my bicep and then use his or her other hand to adjust my fingers the "right" way.

All was quiet in the room, but I was screaming on the inside.

I was happy with my best until someone decided it wasn't good enough. Did these instructors know me? Did they know how painful it would feel to me? Did they ask me what I wanted? After a few instructors decided to adjust me without my permission, I decided to stop going.

******

My new friend Andrea Cerretani might just change my perception of yoga - not only for me, but for all my Lyme friends in the Portland area. A certified yoga instructor, Andrea does one-on-one appointments in the homes of clients. She provides everything: mats, pillows, blankets, blocks, etc.

Andrea has an intimate knowledge of chronic pain, as she had severe, chronic back pain for a long time until she discovered yoga several years ago. Since then, her health has significantly improved and now feels called to help others discover the same level of health. She tells me that she personalizes each session to her clients' needs. She is willing to teach as many or as few poses as the client wants, even teaching them a sequence to do all on their own. One thing in particualar that she stresses to her clients is to listen to their bodies.

"There are times when you need to strengthen, to stretch, or just wait," she said.

The best part is that Andrea charges $35 for 90 minutes. I told her that was a drop in the bucket. She said she thought that was expensive. I informed her that I have spent nearly $14,000 on medical expenses this year alone. I win.

Hallelujah, we need more people like Andrea.

A.

To schedule an appointment or for more information, please contact Andrea Cerretani at 503-333-3434 or go to her website, tapahyoga.com. (In case you're wondering, I'm not making money off of this. Though I rarely plug products or services, this is just too good to pass up.)

Nope

2009-11-28T14:11:00.000-08:00

Dear friends,

We stepped out of the rain and cold into the well-known, downtown Portland restaurant like it was the only place on earth that served food. Judging from our growling stomachs and the number of times we circled the downtown blocks to find just one open eatery, it really felt like this was really the last place on earth.

Joel and I checked our coats, sat down, and studied the menu. This is when we learned that the restaurant would be serving a special five-course meal only. Yet, somehow, though serving just one meal, the menu neglected to include a price.

The waitress arrived. I think she saw our grimaces.

"If you don't want the full meal, you could always order food a la carte," she said.

"That's good," Joel said. "We're not that hungry."

"Would you like to see a wine menu?" she asked.

Joel and I caught each other's glance. We smiled.

"No, thanks," we both replied. After the waitress left, we discussed the effect of alcohol mixed with Lyme Disease. I have heard a few stories about Lyme sufferers getting drunk after drinking a half-glass of alcohol and/or having strong and lengthy hangovers the following day. To avoid any negative reactions - not to mention any embarrassing moments - both of us have chosen not to drink.

Because one drunk Lyme sufferer is enough. Two would require us to start charging for the show.

A.

The Finger and the Voice

2009-11-27T20:54:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

Last week, The New York Times published a story about the doctor and patient response to the federal advisory panel that recently issued new guidelines recommending that most women first begin breast screening at age 50 instead of at the age of 40. The change in guidelines is to reflect the findings that relatively few women screened between the ages of 40-50 are actually found to have breast cancer. The panel argues that the cost of tests, subsequent treatments based on false-positives, and the accompanied anxiety induced by these screenings is higher than the benefit of finding the relatively few people who end up having cancer.

While the panel patted themselves on the back, The Times quoted a doctor saying that he would be "cautious about changing a practice that seems to work" and other doctors saying that their patients are already anxious over the idea of not receiving the exam. The idea of saving money on unnecessary exams "doesn't mean anything until you're the one," one doctor said. These doctors and patients are not only concerned, but fighting back, too.

What happens when a panel issues guidelines about a devastating disease, guidelines that may in fact lead to a lot of missed diagnoses? If that disease is breast cancer, doctors and patients give the panel the proverbial finger: Doctors go to one of the most highly regarded publications to publicly dismiss these guidelines as just that - guidelines. The doctors argue they will not stop screening women between the ages of 40 and 50, not only because the test works, but because their patients want it. Thus, the patients who are most affected by the new guidelines are standing up for themselves.

Yet, what happens if the guidelines in question are ones concerning the diagnosis and treatment of Lyme Disease? What happens when a panel issues Lyme guidelines that do in fact lead to a lot of missed diagnoses? Like the breast cancer debacle, Lyme-literate doctors have both a test that works (e.g., IGeneX, not the inaccurate and misleading test that 99 percent of doctors order) and an entire horde of patients who want the proper test. And even though the topic at hand in The Times article was breast cancer, I could easily imagine hearing the same words coming out of the mouths of Lyme-literate doctors and patients.

The problem is, however, few of us in the Lyme community are saying anything. Unlike the breast cancer community, few Lyme-literate doctors and patients are giving the panel the finger, and even fewer are doing that publicly. If doctors were to shirk the Lyme guidelines in order to successfully treat a patient with Lyme, they are putting themselves and their practices at risk of investigation, review, and legal charges. If patients speak out, they risk losing their insurance coverage - for most people, the only reassuring subsidy to some very expensive health care.

But the problem is that these guidelines are just that - guidelines. They are not law. So at what point will we get our voice? Like the breast cancer community, we will find our voice when we know who we are, when we become familiar with each other, when we unite. In fact, I firmly believe that the first and foremost thing the Lyme community must seek - before legislation, before better insurance coverage, and before appropriate diagnostic guidelines - is unity. We cannot be split. We cannot give people any doubt about who we are and what we value. We cannot mismanage finances. We cannot threaten or yell - not even if the yelling is done on the Internet. We cannot wish upon our "enemies" that they get Lyme; we must believe people are good. Most of all, we cannot expect someone else to fight for us.

No one else but those with Lyme, their caretakers, and loved ones can persuade, love, pray, and fight like we can. Because we know. We know what it's like to be healthy one day and then be fighting to walk the next day. We know what it's like to get tired from walking up a flight of stairs, and we know what it's like to get a full night's sleep and never feel rested. We know what it's like when no one believes us, and we know what it's like when someone finally does.

And if we know, and if we believe people are good, and if we love, then it is our responsibility. It is our responsibility to do good, to fight with integrity, and to never give up.

Who's with me?

A.