Waiting

First of all, I must admit that having to wait, especially for medical tests, is not something I do well. I have a degree of patience with many things. This is not one of them.

Right now, I am waiting to be scheduled for a muscle biopsy. This biopsy will hopefully tell me whether or not I have indeed been misdiagnosed with MG all these years. It will also potentially tell me if what I do have is a form of mitochondrial disease. The big difference in the two is that mitochondrial disease is progressive. And my last EMG revealed serious deterioration of my muscles. 

Over the past year or so, I felt like I was getting weaker. I attributed it to the stress of caring for and then losing my Dad. My father-in-law was diagnosed with cancer before my Dad's estate was even settled. But, while stress can exacerbate any neuromuscular disease, this is far more than stress at work. 

I have adapted as best I can to the increased weakness and loss of stamina. But, I am a planner. I want to know just what I am dealing with. Bad or good.

So I wait. 

Andrew: 20 Years Later

While watching the news tonight, I learned that this was the 20th anniversary of Hurricane Andrew. Actually, Mississippi did not see the worst of the weather until August 26th.

I was at choir practice when I received a call from my husband saying a "tree limb" had fallen on the house and that I needed to come home. I was not prepared for the sight that greeted me. A large oak tree had been blown completely out of the ground and rammed through a corner of our house. 

The tree fell on the room I used for crafts and sewing and where my husband had his desk. Fortunately, neither of us was in the room at the time. My husband was sitting in the next room, where the ceiling cracked over his head. 

Needless to say, it was a mess. The sewing machine I received for Christmas when I was 13 was crushed. Bill's desk was history. And rebuilding was slow due to the fact that this house was built in 1955. Our neighbor, Ross Ables, had to scrounge for old materials and make things from scratch that could no longer be found commercially. A lovely gentleman, Stanley Mullins, hired by Ross helped me sift through the rubble and, to my delight, found a box of Christmas ornaments given to me by my mother (who had died a year and a half earlier) still intact. Nothing else in the room mattered to me as much as those ornaments did. 

Fortunately, we were able to live in the part of the house that was not damaged. Chaotic and difficult as it was during those long months, it could have been much, much worse. 

But, I admit, any indication of a potential hurricane still has me scrambling for supplies and looking anxiously at my trees. And, a bit selfishly, hoping it will pass me by this time. 

MG or not MG?

I had an appointment today with my new neuromuscular doctor. I was very nervous, since I had been with one doctor for the past 12 years.

As Dr. Veda put me through my "muscle strength" paces, he kept frowning.

And then I received a bit of a shock. While he was suprised at the level of weakness I exhibited and recognizes that something neuromuscular is going on, he is not sure it is myasthenia gravis. Or, it may be that I have MG and something else besides. Dr. Veda is not sure that the doctor who originally diagnosed me (the one before the 12 year doc) made the correct diagnosis.

From what I gather, this is not uncommon in the neuromuscular realm. My symptoms could be MG, but they could also fit a number of other neuromuscular diseases as well. All I know is what my body will and will not do.

So, for now, we start over. Nerve conduction test #7, more bloodwork, and maybe a new diagnosis. Maybe even new hope for some treatment that might help me function more normally.

Stay tuned.

Not Ready for Prime Time

OK, I admit it. Although I love my mainstream Olympic events, such as artistic gymnastics, diving, swimming, and track and field, I also love some of the sports that never make it to prime time coverage.

Lame, I know. But I am fascinated with the team event in synchronized swimming. I was 25 years old before Betty Jo Pfifer taught me to swim and I barely made it through the rinky dink swim test required to pass the class. Watching these people actually stay afloat while throwing each other up in the air and staying in sync fascinates me to no end.

I also love rhythmic qymnastics. These women not only manage to dance, leap, and tumble, but they do it with hoops, clubs, ribbons, and balls that must be completely under control while they are doing all this. And in the team event there are 5 of them all trying to keep these things in the air. As a person who has always had a tendency to trip over her own feet, I am fascinated by this level of coordination.

Track cycling is another sport that intrigues me. I don't see how these people play the cat and mouse games they do on those skinny wheels! I even get into the canoeing and trampoline.

And, of course, I can't wait till the 2014 Winter Olympics where, in addition to watching my favorite figure skating and snowboarding I can also watch...I can hear the groans already...

curling!

Denny P.

Today, it will be my privilege to celebrate the 80th birthday of my precious friend, Denny P. Allman. Or "Father Allman" as some know him.

I met Denny, and his charming wife, Norma, when I was Nimue in "Camelot" back in 1989, if I recall correctly. It was a behemoth of a play and the cast had plenty of time to bond between times when we were needed on stage. Heck, some people had time to get to Daquiri World and back between scenes where they were needed!

I was thin then.

Over the past 23 years, Denny has been one of the best friends I have ever had. He helped me pick up the pieces of my life when I lost my mother in 1990. Denny invited me to come and sing for his church and began the tradition of my singing the "Via Dolorosa" that continues to this day. He cuts mats for my art classes at Vicksburg Senior Center. And he is a world champion hugger!

As is the case with these 80th birthdays, I have a moment or two of tears for my Daddy who did not make this much anticipated milestone. But, again, celebrating with a beloved friend like Denny helps mitigate the sting a bit. 

So Happy Birthday to my beloved Denny P. May it be a day as special as you are!

Letter to Mr. Grant

In light of the passing of Larry Grant this morning, I thought I would post this letter I wrote to him on February 17, 2012. 

Dear Mr. Grant,

Please forgive the typed letter, but I would like for you to be able to read  the thing. This would not be possible if I wrote it myself!

I was so sorry to hear of your cancer diagnosis. Cancer sucks. There is no “nice” way to put it. It just does. 

Even after being out of high school for almost 35 years, I still remember being in your 8th grade band like it was yesterday. You scared my 4 foot 10 inch, 85 pound self, half to death the first time you got really mad. If I recall correctly, that was when you yelled at Jim Cooper and threw things because he used his trumpet as a Halloween noisemaker. Thank goodness I was a clarinet player. You tended to throw things towards the brass players more. ;)  

But, most of all, I remember that you really cared about us. I remember you fighting tears when you told us our classmate Beverly Bell had died. And I remember you taking up for me when I was accused of writing “Yo mama lives in a creek” on Sheila Dunn’s band folder. I would have been waaay too scared to do any such thing, and you knew it. When Sheila’s mom threatened to call my mom, you told her that “you knew Mrs. Nelson, and that you wouldn’t advise it!” I still get tickled every time I think about that. 

Anyway, know that you and “Miss Israel” (Now Mrs. Grant!) are firmly in my thoughts and prayers. 

Blooming

I must admit, I have always agreed with the saying "Bloom where you are planted." I used to get anoyed when people would move to my town from other states and larger cities (usually for employment reasons) and bemoan the fact that they were "stuck" here. 


I know it is not easy starting over in a new place. But I have seen many people bloom in their new places. They join a church or civic organization and do volunteer work. They create new opportunities for themselves. And, if ample opportunities cannot be found in town, they need only to branch out a little ways to find more things to do. Even if their roots can't leave the current situation or place, there is a good chance that their branches can. 


Over the past few years, I have found myself "rootbound" at times. I was not happy in some situations, but could not quite bring myself to take leaps of faith in order to find ways to blossom. I have no desire to leave the city I have called home for the past 44 years, but I needed some change. 


One change was to put past negative experiences behind me and pursue art, first as an experiment, and now as a serious hobby. I had to get out of my "rootbound" mentality and just go for it. Another place where I feel like I am blooming for the first time in several years is music. My "roots" are still with my church, but my branches are reaching out to churches who need music, both in my community and other nearby communities. I feel like a flower that has finally found the sun again.


I am once again beginning to bloom. 

Mary

Yesterday, Mary came over to "do art" with me using the mixed media techniques we used in the "Forest Floor" workshop I mentioned in a previous post.

As is sometimes the case, I can't remember just exactly when I met Mary. But somehow, she ended up in my Senior Center watercolor class almost 3 years ago. Since then, we have bonded like we have known each other for much longer than that.

We have been together through her cancer and fractured legs, to my health issues and the death of my father. We have celebrated the joys of her grandchildren's accomplishments and my own accomplishments as a developing artist. She even came to my "beginner" art class at the first of the year and helped me out. This entailed dealing with almost 20 people spread out to paint on every available surface. If that is not love, I don't know what is!

So, as she celebrates her birthday tomorrow, I celebrate the circumstances that brought her into my life. Happy Birthday, Mary Irene! And many more.

Cool!

When I read the weather forecast for next week, I nearly wept with joy. Temps in the high 80's with realistic chances for rain. Be still my beating heart!


This is quite a gift for July in Mississippi, and I am grateful.

Forest Floor

Last weekend, I took a class at our local Southern Cultural Heritage Center called "Painting the Forest Floor." We were e-mailed a list of materials to bring, but I really had no idea what to expect.

Throughout the week before, I dutifully had my dear husband out looking for interesting leaves, acorns, twigs, etc. My first thought was that we were going to glue these onto something. But, this was not the case at all. We used these things, pressed into modeling paste or something similar, to create texture on our support. Then, after it dried, we used paint to enhance the textures. I chose to use all organic materials in mine, even using twigs to paint the dark lines.

All I can say is "Thank you, Jean Blue!" These are materials I did not know how to use and some that I had never heard of! But they have opened up a whole new fountain of ideas and methods for me to use in my art. These are things I can do even when I can't see well, or when my hands are shaky and uncooperative. Acutally, that can lead to even nicer results.

I still love my watercolor. But I am looking forward to this new world of art that "Painting the Forest Floor" opened up for me.

Blue in the Face

I know most of us have used the expression "I talked until I was blue in the face." I really try not to do this often and only in cases where it is really important.

I have been in a situation for years now where I have tried to get someone to understand a situation. Off and on for about 10 years to be exact. Finally, I  have come to the conclusion that:
a. The person hears and simply does not care.
b. The person honestly can't grasp the situation.
c. The person thinks that if he/she does not acknowledge the situation, it will cease to exist.
d. The person has an extraordinary ability to ignore physical evidence.

Blue is not my color.

And I am tired.

Overload

I love Edvard Munch. His simple, expressive "Scream" painting say it all some days.

This week has been one of those weeks where it seems that I have just had too many things (words, problems, situations, ideas, etc.) thrown at me in rapid succession.

The problem? I just can't seem to take it all in as fast as I used to be able to. I don't know if it is just age, fatigue, or what. Due to many factors, I don't sleep as well as I would like to. I know lack of sleep tends make me feel "dull."

I am pondering as to whether or not I need to step down from some obligations (NOT my watercolor classes at the Senior Center!) and let younger, more energetic people handle them. Unfortunately, these same folks tend to lack the time to follow through and maintain things.

For the time being, I guess I will just scream silently and hope things settle down soon.

Father's Day 2012

Tomorrow will be my first Father's Day without my Daddy. And it is hard to believe he has been in Heaven for six months already. 


Tomorrow, the newly added handicapped restroom at Yokena Presbyterian Church will be dedicated in Daddy's memory. Now I know that some will see this as perhaps undignified, but I see it as perfect. 


Because of treatments for his prostate cancer, and following the removal of a sizable portion of his colon, Daddy always knew where every restroom was in every store, restaurant, and gas station. And, as he was an extremely practical soul, he would heartily approve of the memorials given to him be used for the purpose of a more accesible restroom. 


Daddy loved Yokena Presbyterian Church. When asked during Sunday School class one day what he thought would happen after he died, Daddy made the following quip.


"I'm not worried about it. I am going to be a little angel with wings floating around everwhere, checking on the Sunday School class." 


Tomorrow, I think he will be watching from Heaven. And beaming with pride. 

Singing

Lately, I have found myself singing around the house again. For the longest time, even though I love to sing, I didn't do this. There just did not seem to be any point. I wasn't going to be singing a solo anytime soon. Why keep in shape? 


But since I have been really using my voice on a regular basis (not just holding back and trying to blend) I find that I am getting back notes and a degree of breath control I thought I had lost. And what a joy this is! 


Next Sunday, I will sing at Yokena Presbyterian Church. In July, I will be singing at First United Methodist Church in Clinton. Then I am off to Hermanville, MS for two Sundays. And, of course, I hope to make a stop a Truly Ministries during this time as well. I am grateful to them forever for allowing me to spread my wings and get back what I thought might be gone forever. 


This is just part of "The Lord's Prayer" from last Sunday at Truly Ministries. Not perfect, but so much better than I thought it would ever be again. 

A Pocket Full of Nickels

This poem is by the late Bev Nason, who was also "blessed" with Myasthenia Gravis. She really hit the nail on the head. Substitute prednisone for Mestinon in my case. And my variety of MG does not go into remission.

A Pocket Full Of Nickels

By Beverly J. NASON  

On a good morning, we awake with a dollars worth of invisible nickels
in our pocket, or perhaps we find them after our
first dose of Mestinon.
We must decide how to spend this precious supply.

Shall we shower, dress, make the bed, have breakfast, go to a job,
and recklessly spend them all at once?
Perhaps, we should just use twenty-five cents,
and dress without the shower or shave, leave the bed for later,
and spend five to fifteen cents for breakfast.

We alone may judge from our recent experience.
Having decided, we act, and our precious deposits is made into an
invisible slot, filled with invisible batteries.
These batteries kick in slowly and we drain their reserve.
When it is close to gone, we force ourselves to rest.
As the day progresses, we decided to do a small chore.
The shave, shower, shampoo? Five more nickels perhaps?
The bed? One nickel perhaps. Cleaning house? Going to work?

How many nickels will we have to spend today?
For many of us, we can barely afford one nickel at a time, today.
If we have the luxury of time for a rest period or a nap,

We might awaken with a sudden new supply of nickels in our pocket.
Probably our next dose of Mestinon will provide us with a
fresh supply. For others, we may find we've chosen unwisely
and squandered our day's wealth,

Or borrowed from them tomorrow, to do what had to be done,
or simply what we wanted to do to improve our quality of life.
the debt must be repaid, and time in bed will be the price.
We can gamble them all away, or spend them gratefully.

When we awake, morning after morning, with pockets full of nickels,
Such an abundance that we no longer have to count them
We have achieved Myasthenia Gravis remission

May you all have "pocket full of nickels"

Carefully Taught

I just watched a PBS special on the late, great, Oscar Hammerstein. Most folks know him as the lyricist, who, with composer Richard Rogers, gave us timeless musicals like "The Sound of Music", "Oklahoma", and "South Pacific" to name a few. 


But I learned a lot more about Hammerstein, the man, tonight. He fearlessly dealt with racism in 1927's "Showboat." He cast "Carmen Jones", an all black musical, and quite daring for 1943 (20 years before the Civil Rights Movement." And Hammerstein pondered the issue again in the "South Pacific" in 1949 with "Carefully Taught."


The sad part is that we have not come that far in the past 60+ years. Everyday I see instances where young children are already being taught hate in places and by people who should be teaching them to love. 

You’ve got to be taught
To hate and fear,
You’ve got to be taught
From year to year,
It’s got to be drummed
In your dear little ear
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff’rent shade,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You’ve got to be carefully taught!

"Mrs. Kennedy and Me"

I am currently reading this book, written by Jacqueline Kennedy's former Secret Service agent, Clint Hill.

Clint Hill was one of the agents in charge of President Eisenhower's detail. When he was assigned to Mrs. Kennedy instead of JFK, he was intitially disappointed. But, he found that keeping up with this First Lady was going to be the challenge of a lifetime.


I am now at the chapter that will tell about that fateful day in Dallas back in November 1963. The Jackie Kennedy that Clint Hill describes in the first 3/4 of the book is about to have her life changed forever. I was barely 4 years old and I don't remember that day. But, even though I know what happens, I find myself reluctant to read this chapter. I am enjoying holding on to this portrait of one of the youngest and most vital first ladies in US history. I will read this chapter and finish the book.

Tomorrow.

Yellow Bike Books

 

Last January, needing a little time away after losing my Daddy in December, I arranged to spend a weekend in Grenada with my friend Teresa. Grenada is a good sort of "halfway" point for us to meet and I had found a lovely Comfort Inn that sported "in room" hot tubs. Being able to watch football playoffs, while sitting in a hot tub sipping Diet Coke is about as good as it gets for me. 

Teresa and I are both booklovers, so when we saw the sign for a small, independent bookstore, we immediately went in to explore. I met the personable owner, Debbie, and somehow we got on the subject of the possibility of adding art to her inventory. She was going to be moving to a new building soon, adding a coffee shop, and would have more space. We agreed to stay in touch and make this happen.

This past weekend, I went up to Grenada with some of my paintings and prints. Debbie arranged them quite nicely and I spent Saturday letting children come in and paint watercolors with me. I held a drawing and gave away a painting. And I encourged people to look at my art for gift ideas for future birthdays, graduations, holidays, etc. 

Painting with the children was the most fun. From 2-13, each one had his or her own uninhibited style and ideas. I have to admit my favorite was this 2 year old, who painted with the solemnity of a Master. 

I hope my art "takes off" in Grenada! But, even if it doesn't, I would not take anything for my experience at Yellow Bike Books last weekend. I look forward to a return trip soon!

Mama's Birthday

April 30 was my mother's birthday. She died at age 57. It is hard to believe she would be 79 had she lived. Try as I might, I can't picture my mother as an "old" lady. No matter what her chronological age would have been, I don't think she would ever have been old in outlook or behavior. 

There are so many things I wish she had lived to see. She would have delighted in her grandchildren. They would most certainly have been the smartest and most beautiful children on the planet. And Mama was the one who used to practically gag when her friends with grandchildren used to boast! I think Mama would have liked the internet. Being able to find the answer to almost anything at the click of a mouse would have appealed to her. And I think she would have enjoyed Facebook. Mama loved to keep up with people and be in on the latest goings on. 

I wish Mama could have seen the person I have become. It was not until after she died that I went into therapy and learned to stand up for myself. I think she would have been proud that I went back and got my Master's in Counseling. She would have appreciated that I finally got up the gumption to pursue art. Of course, had she been able to live longer, I would have still been caring for her with no time to pursue these goals. A mixed blessing, indeed. 

So, tomorrow, April 30th, I will raise a glass to Mama. And when I look in the mirror, I will see a big part of her...in me. 

Spring Show 2012

Last night, I was humbled and honored to win two honorable mentions for my artwork at the Vicksburg Art Association Spring Show.



Most of the art on display this year was truly amazing. Some years, there are a lot of pieces that I just don't "get." But that was not the case this year.

In these art shows, I am competing against people who are professional artists and art instructors. People who have been "doing art" for more years than I have been alive, in some cases. With my paltry 3 years of experience, mostly self-taught, I am always amazed when I am part of some pretty illustrious company.

But, as happy as I was with my recognition, I was even more thrilled for the winner of the second place ribbon in watercolor, my Senior Center student and longtime friend, Norma. She is living proof that it is never too late to pursue a passion and learn a new skill.