Who TF are you...?

Eight months ago my mother had an MRI of her brain that demonstrated the beginning changes associated with Alzheimer's disease. At that time, my husband and I began discussions about the possibility of relocating in a few years to be closer to her as the disease progressed to a point that she could no longer live independently.

Have you ever heard God laugh out loud and say, "Oh, my child. You're so cute. You actually think you have some control"? 

Three weeks ago, my mother landed in the ER, resulting in a traumatic series of events that escalated the symptoms of her dementia. As she slowly came back around to what was her previous level of cognitive ability, she and my husband discussed us moving in with her within the next several months. Gives a new appreciation to the phrase, "that escalated quickly". In the passing of a few weeks, our 3-5yr timeframe became 4-5mos.

Anyone who read my previous entry has an idea of the why. In short, my mother asked us to move in with her, and it makes more sense for several reasons for us to move in with her than for her to move in with us. And committing her to a nursing house for the rest of her life sounds like a death sentence. We can make the move, so we are making the move. What fascinates me is people's reactions when they hear the news.

Most people - good hearted, caring, empathetic people - generally respond with "I'm so sorry to hear your family is going through all of this. What can we do to help?" Right now, the best help is a strong hug and a safe space to cry. Maybe meet me for a glass of wine and let me just talk. We are trying to condense and combine 2 households, so boxes would be great. 

Other people - people whose priorities I can only question - respond with "So you're just gonna quit your jobs and move?!" "What's her prognosis? Like, how long is she gonna live after this event anyway?" "What other options have you considered?"

I beg your fucking pardon. My MOTHER has come to the conclusion that she should no longer live alone and has flat out asked us to move in with her, and I'm supposed to consider "other options"? And what concern is it of yours if we DID decide to just quit our jobs and move? And her prognosis is NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS!!! Who the fuck are you to question our decision? It's MY mother, and OUR FAMILY will collectively decide the best course of action, thank you very much.

As if this entire life upheaving event weren't difficult enough, people we thought gave a shit now question our decision making abilities. We are breaking under the weight of what looms before us and people think of my mother like a pet that should be euthanized. Who the fuck are you? When someone decides to put their dog down, no one asks what other options they have considered. Most people would reassure them that they're doing the right thing by alleviating their beloved pet's suffering. So why is the decision to move in with my mother to improve her quality of life open for discussion? Who the fuck are you?

A perusal of the New Testament will show that Christians are charged with caring for widows and orphans. My mother is a widow who needs taken care of. Who the fuck are you to question? When Mom finally does go home to the Lord and I am left an orphan, will compassion be withheld until the appropriate level needed can be ascertained, after all of the options are weighed, and it is determined to not be a hindrance to you in any way? Who the fuck are you to put qualifiers on a plain and simple command from Christ?

We have not asked anything of anyone in regard to this decision, except to be understanding that a life changing diagnosis generally precludes a major life change, and maybe be a shoulder to cry on and a  listening ear. We certainly did not ask for anyone else's input before or after making the decision. 

An Empty Nest?

Most married couples dream about their lives as empty nesters. Days of the freedom of not being tied to a dependent's needs and coming home to the clean house I left this morning sound glorious. I once told my husband that I was worried for the empty nest because we had never been married without children. What would we talk about? He said we would find something. Now I worry that we will never have an empty nest, and not because our son decided to be a basement dweller.

Earlier this year, imaging demonstrated the signs of early stage Alzeimer's in my mother's brain. A more recent visit to a neurologist officially diagnosed her with mild dementia. The next day (literally), Mom ended up in the ER due to crippling pain in her back and leg. She was unable to stand up straight and could barely walk to the car. Several days of heavy pain meds escalated the symptoms of Mom's dementia, resulting in hallucinations and delusions. Surgical anesthesia 2 days in a row escalated the symptoms to another heightened level. More heavy pain meds tipped the scales to her becoming combative, making wild accusations because of her delusions, and landing her on the psych floor on very different medication. 

It was an eventful 2 weeks.

As Mom came out of sedation on the psych floor, she was back to the level of crazy she had been on those first pain meds, with periods of lucidity mixed in. Some eye opening conversations were had during those lucid moments. She learned that my sister and BIL had NOT robbed her blind, emptied her house, or snatched her dog right our of her arms. (Considering she knows that I'M the one taking care of the dog, one would think she would have accused ME of that one.) She learned that there had not been a break-in at the hospital, that the cops had not been running through the halls, and that she had not been arrested by Nazis or spent the night in the county lockup. She also came to the conclusion that she should no longer live independently. Then she asked my husband if he and I would move in with her.

The few people I've talked to about this have known be for many years and never thought I'd ever leave. So it's understandable that they would ask if there was a possibility of moving Mom here. There are several reasons why that makes less sense than us moving in with her. First, there is still an adult child living in our house. There are no real bedroom options for her. Second, we live in a bi-level house with lots of stairs. Mom has had 3 lumbar fusion procedures in 6mos. Probably shouldn't be doing stairs. Third, people with dementia function much better in familiar surroundings and adhering to a regular routine. For HER sake, we will be relocating to Cincinnati.

Am I happy about this? No. Am I being incredibly selfish to feel the way I do? Yes. She took care of me and my family for YEARS. Now it's my turn to take care of her. I knew earlier this year that this would be a possibility as the disease progressed, but I was expecting years from then, not months. 

When are my husband and I going to have that coveted empty nest now? Likely when we're too old and decrepit to truly enjoy it. 

Parents Raising Parents

 I was 6 weeks shy of my 19th birthday when I gave birth to my oldest son. I was a child raising a child, and I often say that he and I grew up together. Those early years were a challenge, to say the least. Aside from us being very young parents trying to raise a child at the poverty level, I suffered from suicidal depression and almost hurt my baby twice. 

There are some advantages to having children earlier in life, though. Our youngest graduated high school when I was 43, an age at which some of our friends were wrangling the demands and schedules of multiple school aged children. I now have freedom of time and finances that wasn't possible while raising children, as well as the relative good health to enjoy it. Being a young parent increases the likelihood of being a young grandparent, with energy and stamina to truly enjoy those young years - though I am perfectly content to wait for those precious grandbabies while spoiling my precious grandfurries. And I am honestly incredibly thankful that neither of our boys followed in our footsteps of unintended early parenthood.

So, here am I, now, at a crossroads.

Have y'all seen the meme asking the question, "Is anyone else having a hard time raising their mother? That lady don't listen."? Well, my mother listens - but she doesn't always remember.

For a little over a year now, Mom has been demonstrating signs of age related forgetfulness. She IS 70, after all. But even age appropriate signs of mental decline are red flags when there is a rampant family history of dementia, so I made mental notes when Mom asked me a question more than once or had forgotten we had already discussed a matter. A few weeks ago, however, that table was turned when she brought up a situation she believed she had already told me about but that I am 100% CERTAIN she did not.

At some point in the late summer or early fall last year, Mom had 2 separate episodes of misinterpreting what she was hearing. The first occurred when her youngest grandson was visiting. He was sitting on a step facing away from but talking to his grandmother when she suddenly couldn't understand what he was saying. She heard his voice, but the words no longer sounded like English. She said it sounded like he was speaking Russian. Well, I am here to tell you with absolute certainty that my 11yo nephew does NOT speak Russian. The second incident occurred not long afterward while she was conversing with a friend, and, once again, it sounded they were speaking Russian.

Why was I JUST hearing about this 4-5mos after the fact?! Because she honestly thought she had already told me.

Thankfully, being a retired nurse, my mother had the wits to recognize that these episodes were a matter of concern and scheduled a consult with a neurologist. The day she'd had her consult she called to "update" me on the situation that I had no idea was happening. It took a minute for me to wrap my brain around not only what was going on episodically, but also that she TRULY BELIEVED she had already told me. Oh, and she didn't want to me tell my siblings until more was known about what had caused the episodes. Considering the fact that I am not in the habit of regularly communicating with either of my sibs, that wasn't going to be an issue. However....

My sister lives 6 houses away from our mother. Mom's house is on the corner, my sis's house is in the cul-de-sac. There's not even a street that needs to be crossed for one to get to the other. I, on the other hand, live 2hrs away and require highway travel to be of any physical use. The initial concern was that Mom could be having focal seizures, but let's not tell the kid she lives closest to and would be the quickest to respond in the case of a true emergency.

Fast forward a few weeks. Mom has had an EEG and MRI of her brain. I have no point of reference for an EEG beyond understanding the usefulness of the test. The report of the results may as well be written in Russian since I wouldn't be able to understand it anyway. But the MRI, that is more my territory. Per the radiology report, Mom has damage to the speech center of her brain consistent with micro-strokes or focal seizures. At the time of this writing, the jury is still trying to sus out which is the more likely. Also, per the rad report, Mom's brain shows changes consistent with the early stages of Alzheimer's disease. Oh, and don't mention it to my siblings, yet, because Mom hasn't figured out how she's going to tell them.

The crazy train has officially left the station with my mother on board.

On one hand, my mom IS 70. She is almost a decade older than her mother was when she began displaying signs of dementia. (Her sister/my aunt is not a good comparison since her crazy has been chemically enhanced by way of rec drug use for longer than I've been alive.) She always strove to live as clean a life as she was able, never smoked or used recreational drugs, and enjoys alcohol only occasionally. She retired from nursing with a Master's degree in anesthesia and has remained physically and mentally active in her retirement. All of these life habits play in her favor and, along side modern medications, can significantly slow the progress of the disease.

On the other hand, Alzheimer's is a cruel and merciless mental decay that wreaks more havoc on the hearts of their loved ones than on the patient themself. Over the next however many years, I will watch the person my mother is now deteriorate and die, most likely before the vessel in which that person resides. And if there were a third hand to throw into the fray, heredity dictates that I, too, will likely rot mentally while causing heartache for those who love me.

Ironic sidenote: Last week I was invited to participate in a research study that intends to decode the DNA genome to determine risk factors for specific health maladies, mostly cancer markers and familial links to high cholesterol and heart disease. The consent for participation does state that ancestry will be determined, and that the results could reveal information that is unwanted or hard to hear. I wonder if Alzheimer's and my stupid connective tissue disorder will show up.

When Mom's husband passed away years ago, she decided to move closer to one of us kids. The 3 of us live in different areas of the state, and she did look at options near each of us, ultimately settling on being close to our sister. I don't know what criteria Mom used to make the decision, but I would guess some of it had to do with the fact that my sister has the youngest of the grandchildren and the most able-bodied spouse, all of which could help Mom with general upkeep of house and home. But my sister has proven that she is either blissfully ignorant to or refuses to acknowledge the level of care our mother will be needing over time. 

Less than a year ago, when Mom had shoulder surgery my sister was creeped out at simply helping her get dressed with her arm in the sling. In the weeks before the surgery, I contacted my sister to ask what care, if any, she had planned on helping with. She had thought of making extra portions for dinners to share with Mom and helping her with personal hygiene, but never considered care of the animals - feeding, walking, one is on insulin - or assisting with the everyday activities of living life. So I took a week+ of FMLA to take care of Mom post op. Either my sister needs to get her head wrapped around and be willing to do what is needed for Mom as this disease progresses, or else either my mother or myself will need to be relocated.

Kids raising kids. Care for the caregiver. These are concepts society is both familiar and concerned with. But parenting parents isn't as visible. Yes, it falls under the overall umbrella of "care for the caregiver", but "parenting parents" feels so much more specific. I am fortunate in the timing of events in my life. I am no longer responsible for children in my home, nor do I yet have grandchildren, so I am able to focus on mothering my mother if that is what is needed in this moment.

Side Quests

The journey to wholeness continues. But seldom, if ever, is a journey a straight and easy path. What fun would that journey be anyway? And how would one become stronger if never under stress? The saga of any conqueror is full of side quests. At least, that's what Monty Python leads one to believe in The Quest for the Holy Grail.

My journey began at a doctor's appointment with the intent to find wellness. We discussed my cold sensitivity, my surmising about bipolar disorder, and the fact that my age dictates that I am past due for several unpleasant health screenings. A referral to a psychiatrist to more adequately assess bipolar disorder and a battery of lab work to investigate the cold sensitivity were granted without issue.

The result of the psychiatric assessment was treatment for hypomanic bipolar disorder. The gradual increase in the medication messed with me with every step up. The introductory dose caused a mid-day energy crash for several days. The moderate dose gave me wicked brain for almost 2 weeks. I was still dealing with the brain fog when it was time to step up to the current maintenance dose. The maintenance dose has plagued me with sleep interruptions and nightmares - because I need more help experiencing terrifying dreams during the far too little sleep I get on a good day. To make a crummy situation crappy, I don't feel any improvement in my mood with the medication.

As for the test results, all were within normal ranges. As were a second round, testing for less obvious reasons for cold sensitivity. Most likely, the cold sensitivity has more to due with my connective tissue disorder as there is a correlation between the disorder and nerve damage within the skin. So unstable joints and a heart murmur aren't enough for this fabulous condition. Now I get to be cold for the rest of my life. 

Now, Side Quest #1.

My mom has been experiencing pitting edema (swelling that leaves an imprint if pushed on with a finger) in one leg and foot for several months. She can't remember the last time she could actually see the bony part of her ankle and there's an area at the base of her toes that looks almost bruised, but she's had no known injury. After a lack of results from working with a podiatrist, she was referred to a neurosurgeon with the idea that her symptoms were stemming from damage within her spine. Her recent MRI did determine degenerative disc disease throughout the lumbar region of her spine. She has yet to attend her follow up appointment with the neuro, but the prognosis looks initially like surgery.

As was evident when Mom had shoulder surgery, my sister, who lives on the same street as our mother, has NO CLUE was to expect nor any idea how to care for Mom post-op.  I, who lives 2hrs away, was the one who took a week of FMLA to take care of Mom after her surgery. We are still waiting for the next step of this side quest to be revealed.

Side Quest #2

Our son in Texas has had a piece of shit week. In a 7 day stretch, the poor kid has called us multiple times in a panic and on the brink of a meltdown. Twice he was actually in the midst of a meltdown. To a point where I couldn't understand the words he was trying to say. We had to talk him back from the ledge each time. The short story is his car broke down several times in a single week and one of the repair guys did him dirty by installing a faulty radiator. $1400 and an awful lot of calming and reassuring later, he was then fired from his job for missing work due to his car. Truth be told, I know this kid and his personality - because it is exactly like mine - so I have no doubt that played a role. But the nitty gritty is that because he was melting down as a result of just not being able to deal with the stress of everything falling apart all at once, he no-call-no-showed and was let go. He did have an interview already scheduled for the next day, so there is hope. If you're a praying person, please add him to your list as he desperately needs something to go well for a change. We are still waiting for the next step of this side quest to be revealed.

Side Quest #3

I have had tingling in one arm intermittently, yet daily, for 5 months (as of the time of this writing.) I have experienced thoracic outlet syndrome twice before, and chiropractic care combined with deep tissue massage were able to resolve the issue within a few months. This tingling doesn't feel the same as TOS, and the chiropractic care and deep tissue work aren't making a dent. So I finally asked for a referral to my neurosurgeon, expecting imaging, an exam, and a recommendation for steroid shots.

Yeeeeeaaaaah. I'm never that lucky.

As anticipated, there was imaging, and more of a consult than an exam. The imaging was shocking, horrifying, and downright depressing. The abbreviated version is that I have degenerative disc disease throughout my entire spine, most significantly in my neck at 3 levels, as well as signs of arthritis in the same area, and the severe loss of disc height has lead to bony malformation (essentially bone spurs) of the vertebrae. The only real treatment? Cervical spinal fusion.

Yes, major surgery is the only option to truly correct the damage done. Unfortunately, because insurance companies dictate the flow of care instead of doctors and patients working together to determine the most reasonable path to wellness, I get to endure 6 weeks of physical therapy that in no way is able to improve nerve impingement due to spinal degeneration, as well as an EMG and NCT (I'll let you look those up.) Then, should PT prove unhelpful and the testing prove nerve issues, the insurance co MIGHT cover an MRI in order to determine that the tingling is, in fact, a result of destruction of spinal integrity and that conservative therapies were a 6 week waste of time.

And the best part? This is most likely due to my connective tissue disorder.

My fucking, life altering, enjoyment killing, freezing cold, never ending injury inducing, heart damaging, spine destructing connective disorder. How did I get so lucky?

Another fun aspect to this latest blow is that I know how this surgery is performed. I've done intra-op imaging for these cases - ironically, with the neurosurgeon I see. The only comfort is knowing how he functions in his OR - he is generally unrattled, even when the case goes less than smoothly, and he always does right by his patients. Those are reasons why I chose him. But in a gruesome nutshell, they slit your throat, move the trachea and esophagus over to one side, put spacers between the vertebrae where the discs used to be, then put a metal plate linking the damaged vertebrae together on the front of the bones. What's not to gleefully anticipate? 

However, we are still waiting for the next steps of this side quest to be revealed.

The Journey Continues

 Hypomanic Bipolar Disorder.  I've known for a long time that I am a special brand of crazy, and I was 100% ready to hear that what I have been experiencing was natural for a middle aged woman on the cusp of The Change. But a half-ass mental disorder?  Ordinarily, I'm a go-big-or-go-home type of person. So a less than full blown mental disorder is almost insulting.  ALMOST. 

In the medical world, the prefix hypo refers to underactivity.  Think hypothyroidism, when a person's thyroid is not producing enough hormone, which results in a specific set of symptoms.  Hypomania is similar concept. The mania I experience is significant enough to warrant an attempt at treatment, yet it falls short of what the world thinks of when someone says they are bipolar. In a nutshell, my mania last for only a few days at a time, where classic mania can last from a few weeks to a couple of years in extreme cases.

It interests me that the distinguishing verbiage between type 1 and type 2 bipolar disorder only addresses the mania aspect of the condition.  There doesn't seem to be a defining factor that separates the depressive stage between the types.  Maybe it's assumed that the depression is less intense given that the mania is less intense.  But we don't have different wording when it comes to diabetes.  There is only type 1 and type 2, not hypopancreatic or hypersugar diabetic disorder. And there are SEVEN different types of Elher Danlos Syndrome, tho type 1 and type 2, as each are actually called, are full body conditions whereas the next five are specifically named for the area of the body that is effected.

I don't know how classic bipolar disorder is medicated, but I know what I am taking.  When I investigated how the medication functions physiologically, I learned that it blocks areas of the brain that seem to be overactive (maybe it will help the ADHD?) and is used to treat epilepsy. With this in mind, I'm very unclear as to what section of my brain is overactive.

The med I am on is the kind that needs to be graduated over time until the maintenance dose is reached. When I started the introduction dose I experience a midday crash where all I wanted was a nap.  Not exactly conducive to working in an area where invasive procedures are performs.  After starting the step up dose, I experienced wicked brain fog.  Again, a hinderance to my job.  I am now on the maintenance dose and thus far I have not experience a midday crash or brain fog.  But I have lost my appetite to some degree.  This side effect can continue as far as I concerned. I have a very hard time believing that the part of my brain that effects my energy lever is "overactive", but I DO believe that the area that craves food is.

By the time I follow up with the psychiatrist I will have been on the maintenance dose for 3 weeks. I wish I knew what to expect from this dose over the next week or so.  I only hope I don't get fired. 

A Different Kind of Second Fiddle

 Anyone who follows my FB page is familiar with my lamentations about always playing second fiddle.  Like being the overlooked middle child - playing second not only to the Golden Child first born son of an Italian father, but also to the baby of the family.  Or how I have enough vocal talent to make the choir but never enough for a lead.  I have exactly enough of just about everything to land somewhere beyond above average but short of extraordinary.  I've been borderline anemic and on the cusp of low calcium and potassium, as well as having JUST enough thyroid stimulating hormone to avoid a "Hypothyroid" diagnosis, but never low enough to warrant treatment of any kind. I have a knack for taking "unremarkable" to a level that gets me noticed only occasionally.

A few years ago, I finally gained a level of self-awareness to understand that some of my behaviors are out of line, but I seemed to lack either conscious control of my actions or any level of give a shit.  When my oldest was diagnosed with ADHD, OCD, and ODD (oppositional defiance disorder, it's an impulse control issue) 20 years ago, the counselor suggested that he came by all of those traits honestly and that I may want to consider pursuing diagnosis for myself.  As an adult in my mid 20s at the time, I didn't see a reason to seek a diagnosis. I saw the traits in myself and accepted that. So I chalked up my attitude and lack of impulse control to a mash up of those conditions.

As my son grew older and matured some, he seemed to outgrow the need for meds, and by high school he stopped taking them all together.  By that point, I had actually questioned if he had been misdiagnosed and was truly on the Autism spectrum.  I didn't understand Autism enough to recognize the differences between high functioning and his combo of labels when we were seeking help for him. But as I came to know other children with Autism and to understand the way their minds worked, I wondered if we had taken the correct path for our son.  By then, though, he had developed successful coping mechanisms and was doing well in life so I didn't pursue it.

That decision came back to bite me years later when my son came to me about believing that he may have high functioning Autism. He has not yet pursued an adult diagnosis, and I live with the regret that I didn't follow my instinct and have him assessed when I first suspected the possibility.

Wondering about my son's diagnosis then lead to me considering my own quirks. Do I truly have ADHD? I'm still on board with that.  Am I truly OCD?  Most definitely.  Do I truly have ODD? I think it's safe to say that I do. But are these stand alone diagnosis, or are they parts of a greater whole? 

As I have aged, I have noticed that some of the traits of these conditions have become more intense. I become much more agitated now when things aren't just so - the way I want my kitchen or bathroom to be cleaned, for example.  I've never let my husband fold my laundry because his way leaves things wrinkled, but I have become much more picky about how even I fold my clothes. In recent years I cannot stand the feel of my husband's fan blowing over any part of my body while I try to sleep, though it never used to bother me. Traffic has always been a rage inducer, but the vehicle I've had for just over a year has seen triple digits more than all of my other vehicles combined, and I do not care. I have always been a talker (you're shocked, right?), but now I seem to suffer from diarrhea of the mouth.  I know I'm doing it.  I know I'm probably oversharing and putting people off. But I cannot control it. 

I would love to blame all these changes on being a middle-aged female who is likely dealing with the hormonal flux of perimenopause, but I am not convinced. I have no doubt that hormones are a factor in the equation, but not the answer. With a history of intense depression and periods of equally intense energy, I began to wonder if I am bipolar.

Then one slow night at work, I decided to look into the possibility.  I googled "signs of bipolar disorder" and scrolled through the results. Now, before anyone accuses me of confirmation bias in order to self diagnose, I was simply curious to know if I was looking in a worthwhile direction. It was then that I discovered that bipolar disorder now has 2 types.

Bipolar disorder type 1 is the classic manic/depressive characterized by wide mood swings and lengthy periods of time spent in both the manic and depressive phases.  While manic, some people engage in dangerous behaviors that could result in physical and/or psychological damage.  Others may display less dangerous though no less detrimental behaviors. I know of a person who spent 10 months in a manic phase that nearly resulted in bankruptcy in both their personal and professional lives.  And the depressive crash is every bit as fierce.  Thoughts of suicide to atone for actions taken during the manic phase are not out of the ordinary.

Bipolar disorder type 2 is differentiated by way of lesser intensity.  People with type 2 usually experience less severe mood swings, display fewer dangerous tendencies, crash into a less extreme depression, and the time spent in each phase is not as prolonged.

On that slow night at work, I took a screenshot of the general characteristics of traditional bipolar disorder, sent it to my husband, and asked him, "Without telling me which ones, how many of these traits do you see in me?" The number he returned was just under half of the list. Next, I sent him a screenshot of the list for type 2, which is also known as hypomanic, and asked the same question.  His answer was all but 2 traits on the list. His follow up message asked what this was all about. I told him that I thought I might be bipolar and he had just confirmed it.

That was over 5 years ago. And the thought has been lingering in the back of my mind since. It was a situation where I felt like I demonstrated enough traits to give the idea consideration, but not enough to convince me.  Yet, as I have aged and come to experience some characteristics more intensely, the idea was brought to a frontal space. I finally decided to ask my doc about the possibility of pursuing a diagnosis.

When I spoke to my doc, I was fully prepared to hear that I was barking up the wrong tree.  By the same token, I was also prepared to ask for suggestions as to which tree looked most promising.  All I knew for certain was that I didn't like how I felt, I felt like I had no control over my impulses, and I was making people uncomfortable at times. And I didn't want to continue to feel this way. After analyzing me by way of a litany of questions, they felt that I demonstrated enough red flags to have me fully assessed by a psychiatrist.  That assessment took place a week ago - and I am now being treated for hypomanic (type 2) bipolar disorder.

A friend of mine has a child who lives with hypomanic bipolar disorder, and I discussed my thoughts about the possibility with them.  I told them that my phases manifest in physical energy.  My manic phase presents as a tidal wave of uncontrollable, highly intense energy - which plays in my favor if I need to clean my house or do yardwork - often resulting vomiting conversation that does not need to happen and an absolute lack of control in the matter. Consciously, I understand what is happening, but my reptilian brain kicks in and the situation is 100% outside of conscious control. And since every action has an equal but opposite reaction, the energy crash can be debilitating, with me spending many hours in a recliner trying desperately to will myself to take care of at least one of the myriad tasks staring me in the face. No dangerous activity (unless I sass the wrong person at work and end up on disciplinary action) or extremely dark mindset, only heightened passionate energy and a wicked crash. This friend said that is how their child experience hypomania.

To bring this rambling story full circle, I cannot even have the full-blown original version of bipolar disorder - I have the second type. Once again, I am playing second fiddle - displaying just enough promise to continue to live in the less than. The only difference here is that I am actually being treated. And if the treatment is ineffective, I am prepared to accept that I have, in fact, been barking up the wrong tree. If that is the case, I'll grab my hand-me-down fiddle and move on to the next lackluster tree in the park of mediocrity.

Dance of the Firefly

 I worked a double shift today.  Only few hours into that double, my husband informed me that both he and our younger son were diagnosed with bronchitis.  This on the heels of our older son’s sinusitis diagnosis.

With 3/4 of the people in the house on antibiotics and in bed, here I sit on my back deck, in the black of night, alone, with every passing moment drawing me nearer the witching hour, praying that the nagging ache in my back, hip, and leg quiets enough that I may sleep sometime tonight, and I catch, out of the corner of my eye, the momentary flash of a lightning bug.  I can’t help but smile.  

Do you remember, when you were young, spending an evening catching lightning bugs with the neighborhood kids?  Did you put them into a jar with holes poked into the lid so the bugs didn’t suffocate?  Did you release them in the morning?  I do, and I did.  I would even put blades of grass and small twigs into the jar so the lightning bugs had something to do besides sit on the floor of their prison - tho, I didn’t realize as a child how cruel it must have been for the bugs. 

I spent my earliest years growing up in one of the fastest declining urban areas in the country, but you don’t understand such things when you are wrapped in the protective blanket of innocence in youth. Our small intercity lot had a plum tree in the far corner of the back yard, a pear tree so close to the house that my brother would reach out his bedroom window to snag a fruity snack, and a raspberry bush behind the garage that we raced to in the mornings during their season to get to the berries before the birds did.  We were blessed with great neighbors on both sides, and just past the house to one side of us was a wooded area with a tiny walking trail and vines we had no business swinging on but did anyway. Across the street was another small cluster of trees flanked on one side by a vacant lot and the other by a small field that no one claimed and, thus, was never mowed.  Doesn’t sound quite urban, does it?

Most summer nights that small, unkempt field, the little wooded area, and the empty lot magically manifested into a stage, a theater in which one could witness a dance as old as time - the dance of the firefly. Our front porch was a prime location to watch the one of nature’s finest masterpieces. I would sit on that porch mesmerized, watching the myriad of tiny lights pulsing in and out, floating as if tossed by gentle waves. Few moments in my life seemed as peaceful as sitting in the dark watching my own private lights display. 

I live suburban now, in a condo community with lots so tiny that if I stood between two houses and reached my arms out I could touch each simultaneously, and lightning bugs are a rare sight indeed. And yet, every now and then, I catch a fleeting glimpse of yellow in the darkness that surrounds me, reminding me that there is still something good, something bright, and something simple that can bring only joy into the night of my world - the dance of the firefly.