It’s a Pain in the Feet!

It started ten years ago with numbness, mostly in my left foot, and my right foot feeling as though I had a marble in my shoe when I jogged. But, because I stubbornly believed and still believe that moving is good for the body, I continued jogging for seventeen years. No, I’m not a glutton for pain, I just learned to push through it. I’m tenacious that way.

A few years ago, however, my feet, mostly my left foot, have advanced from numbness to swelling, redness, stinging and burning like they’re in a fire pit.

My doctor started me out on 1000 mg. of Vitamin B12. Doesn’t help my foot pain but helps prevent anemia so I have to keep taking it.

Then came the trial and error of anti-seizure medications, one of which was Lyrica. Well, if I needed more meat on my bones, which I don’t, gaining twenty pounds in four weeks would have been a great side effect. And since depression has been a demented tag-a-long most of my life, Lyrica, along with all the other costly so-called-pain relievers with their hateful side-effects no longer line my medicine cabinet.

So what do I do for my poor, pitiful feet? I freeze them to death in cold water, sleep with my feet sticking out from the covers, and walk barefoot around the house. In the winter, I walk outside on the deck barefoot and stand there till they quit burning.

The weird thing with neuropathy is that my feet don’t burn and sting twenty-four-seven, which is a blessing. During the day, like right now, they feel like normal feet; you know, feet that aren’t screaming their toes off. But let evening come when I want to lay down and cuddle with my dogs and watch Forensic Files on Netflix (I hate stupid commercials), my feet begin screaming like two spoiled brats demanding my full attention.

And they won’t shut up till I drag myself out of bed, fill a basin with cold water and sit and soak my feet till they’re numb. Then they’re good to go . . . till they thaw out.

So this is my three to four times daily routine when I’m at home. When I’m out shopping all day, my feet throbbing and burning, even in my high-dollar shoes, that’s another song and dance. What keeps me from going insane are visions of icebergs floating in my little white basin and plunging my naked feet into the freezing water when I get home.

Sometimes the pain is so unbearable that I feel like cutting off my feet. Then I’d probably suffer phantom pain the rest of my life with no relief at all since I’d have no more feet to soak. It’s a lose-lose battle.

And I have to tell you, neuropathy is no respecter of persons either. It doesn’t just pounce on diabetics; I’m living proof of that. Hubby’s diabetic but doesn’t have neuropathy and I’m glad he doesn’t; I just wish I didn’t!

So that’s my sob story for today. I guess my last words would be that I’d rather suffer pain I can tolerate and control than getting hooked on painkillers with worse side-effects than the pain itself.

Maybe one day there will be a cure for neuropathy, until then, I’ll just keep soaking my feet in ice-cold water in my little white basin till I can’t feel them anymore.

My Little Wild Man All Grown Up

Sitting in my rocking chair in my tiny apartment, my sweet baby boy on my lap, I said to myself: well, girl, you’re on your own. You can’t depend on anyone but yourself to raise this little one. He’s your responsibility, his life is completely in your hands.

At the ripe old age of nineteen, I got married. A year later I had a baby. A whole fourteen months later, I became a single mom. Even if I’d had a crystal ball revealing the abusive marriage and interfering mother-in-law that practiced witchcraft and was as evil as the devil himself, I would have done it anyway. For God, in His infinite wisdom, took the mess I made and turned it into a wonderful blessing, although it would take many years, heartaches and tears before I saw it.

I was living on my own, in and out of the hospital, working laborious, dead-end jobs and being so broke I couldn’t afford an ice cream comb. Then there was the cooking and cleaning and washing dirty diapers on the scrubboard and draping them across the radiators to dry. And if that weren’t enough to grind Superman to a pulp, Robbie was like raising six kids instead of one. Every night he cried; no he screamed himself to sleep. And from the crack of dawn until bedtime, he was wide-open-non-stop. By the time he was a year old, no crib or playpen could contain him. Like a little Houdini, he always found a way out.

When he was four, I’d take him to a little country house made into a church that he thought was his playground. No door was safe. Like a monkey, he’d hang on to the doorknobs and swing back and forth, or do a jig in the middle of the floor while I was playing the piano knowing I couldn’t get up and bust his butt. Other times he’d be outside throwing rocks and hitting older kids in the head, or kicking people in the shins with his pointy-toed cowboy boots or catching rainwater in his hat and pouring it over his head till he looked like a drowned rat. At another church we attended for a brief time, the preacher actually laid hands on his bouncing head praying a demon out of him.

One day, Robbie and I and another couple were going to meet with some friends and follow them to the church we were visiting that evening. I pulled into the couple’s driveway and as I was getting out of the car to see if they were ready, I told Robbie to stay there that I’d be right back. He pitched such a conniption fit I wanted to put him in a straight jacket. Like a wild bronco, he kicked and screamed and rolled all over the couple in the back seat. I turned around to smack his butt but got him in the nose instead. Blood gushed like a fountain all over his face his white shirt and bow tie and jacket and pants . . . everywhere. It was beginning to look like a crime scene. I ran to the couple’s house to get a washcloth when here he comes barging through the door, blood pouring from his nose crying and screaming, “Look what my mommy did! Look what my mommy did!”

But in spite of his devilish capers, he was kind and compassionate. At the age of five, Robbie had to have a tonsilectomy requiring blood work the day before surgery. He was so brave as the nurse stuck the needle in his arm; didn’t even whimper. But across the room sat a thirteen-year-old crying; scared to death of needles. Suddenly, like a little soldier, Robbie slid out of his chair, marched over to her and gently patting her on the shoulder he said, “Don’t cry, little girl. It don’t hurt.”

Those were the moments that erased all the tears and frustration of being a single mom. The moments where nothing else mattered but this little, rambunctious human being God entrusted me to raise. I didn’t know the plans He had for his life, I just knew I was going to continue raising him the best I knew how in spite of the many roadblocks ahead.

Yet, I was lonely and too young to spend the rest of my life being single. But I was also afraid to try again. I just didn’t believe anyone out there would even want to take on a ready-made family and love my son as his own.

But there was one man left at least, and God sent him to us. Robbie was five when we got married and a few years later, my husband adopted him.

It wasn’t a fairytale beginning; we all had a lot to learn. There were times when I thought I made the biggest mistake marrying again. There was no doubt Robbie needed a firm hand, but my heart wasn’t ready for it and neither was Robbie’s tender butt. I admit I was like a barracuda when it came to Robbie’s tears. So we argued a lot during the first two years of marriage before I finally laid down my sword, but it was never out of sight.

There’s always been something special about my son; his love and compassion for people; especially hurting people. And after getting through his rambunctious years alive he never gave us a moment’s trouble. When he began driving, we never walked the floors wringing our hands wondering where he was or if he’d come home drunk or high on drugs or if he’d come home at all. Whatever I asked him to do he did it without a fuss except when I made a mess in the yard trimming bushes and cutting tree limbs. But he cleaned it up for me in spite of wanting to trade me in for a much nicer mom.

Today, Robbie is fifty-one with four kids, five grandkids, and one on the way. He works out every day, runs several times a week and travels every two months to Cambodia where he teaches self-defence and law enforcement and physically rescues children from sex traffickers. He speaks at High Schools, making students aware of sex traffickers and how they cunningly lure girls and boys into their web of lies and deceit. He is a loving, caring man, faithful and committed in everything he does. He never complains, not because he doesn’t have a reason to, he just doesn’t waste his time and energy.

So all you moms out there on the brink of a nervous breakdown, don’t give up! You may not see it now or even ten years from now, but God has a plan for your children’s lives. And He has a plan for your life as well, to be the best mom you know how to be, praying for wisdom and guidance throughout every single day. It’s tougher now more than ever before raising children and keeping them focused and headed in the right direction. but with God’s help, you can do it. Keep loving your kids, praising your kids, getting involved in their interests and helping them make the right choices. And when they become young adults, let them go, trust them to make the right choices you taught them and just be there when they need you.

And grandparents and great-grandparents out there, we should help, not interfere with our young moms and their children. We have wisdom and knowledge that only come from a lifetime of experience. A lifetime of knowing what works and what doesn’t and can even see the humour in some of the things kids do. I sit back and laugh at things my great-grandkids do that were about as funny as tripping over a log when Robbie did them.

If there is nothing else we can carry out in life, we can be the best parents, grandparents and great-grandparents we can be. With God’s help, all things are possible!

Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it. Proverbs 22:6 

https://www.joy.org/

 

 

 

Living With Another Man

It’s been a great forty-five-year marriage. We’ve seen each other through sickness and health, sorrow and grief, good times and bad. We’ve argued, we’ve cried, done a lot of forgiving, kissing and making up. But we’ve never ever been unfaithful to each other. Never wanted anyone else to share our lives with but each other.

That’s why it’s so difficult living with this other man. This other man with a short fuse who gets loud and boisterous, moody and depressed. This other man who sits with his head in his hands, crying and hating himself for what he’s become. This other man with a shattered soul praying the pain will just go away. This other man, this unwelcome intruder named PTSD.

My husband served four years in the Navy aboard the USS Forrestal CVA-59 from 1966 to 1970. On July 29, 1967, fire on the flight deck raged for thirty-six hours and claimed 134 lives. Lives that were burned beyond recognition as my husband placed them in body bags, sobbing for them and their families and friends. Young lives that barely got their feet wet in the sea of life. Innocent, charred remains that are forever etched in my husband’s mind.

Fresh out of the Navy, we met, fell in love and got married. He stayed busy with our son, working, playing ball and working in his workshop. We spent time with family and friends, playing music, taking vacations; always staying busy, leaving the blazing horrors of war far behind . . . or so we thought.

After thirty-five, faithful years at Drexel Heritage, hubby retired. But the grandkids were still small and the youngest spent a lot of time with us during the summer, keeping us hopping. Then he grew up. Suddenly, we were going through the empty-nest syndrome all over again and found ourselves feeling more and more alone.

That’s when Mr PTSD began rearing his ugly head. That’s when war broke loose in our peaceful marriage. That’s when the sword of fear and doubt and hopelessness was thrust into our hearts.

We sit and cry listening to the tapes he records during his twice-weekly therapy sessions, not because we want to but because it’s part of the healing process. The part where I want to throw up my hands and tell him to quit because I can’t stand what it’s doing to him. But I know from personal experience that it’s the only way for healing to take place. As hellish as it is, he must revisit the horror till it no longer has power over him.

That’s why we don’t give up. That’s why I encourage him in spite of feeling totally depleted of all hope that he’ll ever defeat this invisible monster.

PTSD is so frustrating. It jumps on you when you least expect it; like sitting and enjoying a movie when suddenly an explosion blares through the speakers and fire rages on the scene. I glance at my husband and see tears streaming down his ashen face; the same face that only a moment before was peaceful and relaxed.

Along with sleep come the blood-curdling nightmares where he’s trapped on the ship with nowhere to run. He sees the flames, hears the explosions, and smells the burning flesh. When he finally wakes up, he’s exhausted and confused and afraid to go back to sleep.

And the least little thing sets him off, like when I clutter his work area in the kitchen when he’s cooking. What I haven’t mentioned thus far is that I have PTSD as well. So when I clutter his work area, he grows horns and a long tail and a great big bossy attitude. Well, that ignites the wildcat in me and in the blink of an eye, our PTSD worlds collide. It’s as if we step outside our bodies and watch these two out-of-control knuckleheads completely take over.

And it happens over and over again. It’s like we’re on a never-ending merry-go-round of defeat and hopelessness and we can’t get off. Many well-intentioned Christians would probably tell us to pray more, read the Bible more, start going back to church and on and on. And I’d have to tell those well-intentioned Christians that some things in life, regardless of how much you read the Bible and pray and attend church, you’re going to suffer. In John 16:33, Jesus tells His disciples, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

But I’m proud of my husband, he doesn’t give up. In spite of how he feels, he still loves to cook and I still love that he does it. He’s looking forward to working in his shop again and I look forward to him making furniture for the house. We have a growing, loving family of four grandkids, five great-grandkids and one on the way. We have awesome friends and two loving dogs. We have God in our lives that more than anyone in this crazy world knows and understands exactly what we’re going through. Rather than judge and condemn us He wraps us in His blanket of love and forgiveness and promises to never leave our side.

That’s why we’re gritting our teeth and seeing this thing through to the bitter end.

uss forrestal aircraft carrier fire trial by fire movie 1967 42704 – YouTube

 

One Week Down

My Four-Legged Babies

It’s 2:10 pm and hubby and both dogs are still sound asleep. I thought of waking them, but it’s so peaceful and quiet that I changed my mind.

Bella and Pepper have been driving me nuts! For three years, Bella was the only child; potty trained, and over her chewing the furniture and pillows stage. But, after rescuing Pepper a year ago, our house hasn’t been the same. Oh, the couple loves each other, that’s for sure. But, even as sweet and gentle and dainty and loving as Pepper is, she brings out the worst in Bella; our hyperactive-tough-as-pig iron problem child. She’s more hyper, more mouthy, and has reverted back to peeing and pooping on the floor as if to say, “Pepper does it, so I can too!” Oh, and Bella’s a digger. She’s dug holes she can stick her big head into all over the backyard! And she thinks she’s a lap dog, now. A lap dog that takes up three and a half laps to sprawl on. I feel like I’m raising two kids instead of two dogs.

Well, Pepper and Bella are separated for now. Pepper was spayed Tuesday and hubby brought her home yesterday saying she has to be kept quiet for two weeks. That means two weeks of no jumping up and down like a kangaroo, and wrestling Bella to the floor and taking off with her chew toy. Two weeks of no racing Bella to their food bowl, and dancing around like a ballerina. She’s either in her crate or Bella’s in hers.

And I have to say, It’s the calmest and least frustrated I have felt in months. Hubby has a ton of tolerance, I have NONE! So yeah. I’m letting them all sleep as long as they want to today . . . and maybe tomorrow and the next day as well!