Of Kings and Epitaphs

There is so much on my mind lately. I hardly know what to think about, because there are so many things fighting to be thought about. All the unrest in the world news, the persecution and suffering of people who have done nothing to incite the violence being brought against them, riots and looting in "civilized" Middle America... all of it is front and centre in the media and in everyone's mind.

Closer to home, our own family's effort to seek God's will for our lives has brought us to the point of believing we are to move fifteen hours north to a part of the country that has nine months of winter, which means my husband will be leaving the steady job he has done for twenty-five years, leaving his three children behind, I will be leaving two of my children behind, I will be taking four of my children away from their father (I have sole custody, for some very good reasons, but I still feel mean taking them away from him) and neither one of us has confirmation of a job to date.

My health is improving overall, but it is a very slow process, and I am still so tired and sore. There are lots of setbacks, lots of going back to the starting point, lots of rerouting treatment plans. This disease affects each person uniquely, which means each person requires a unique treatment approach, so there is a lot of trial and error, lots of guesswork, and very litte certainty that any of it will actually work in the end.

Have we lost our minds??! As far as the world is concerned, yes. It would certainly appear that way.

This morning I was reading an article about the beheading of journalist James Foley by Islamic militants, and I watched a stilted statement made by him just prior to his murder. It got me thinking: what would I want to say to the world in those moments before being killed? Would I beg and plead for my life? Would I tell my family how much I love and treasure them? Would I condemn my captors and spew my fear and anger?

Begging for a stay of execution doesn't affect terrorists whose mission and goal is the annhilation and destruction of everything that is not Islam. It would gain me nothing, and would upset my loved ones greatly to think that I died terrified and frantic.

I hope that I have lived my life in such a way that my family would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I loved and treasured them to the very end, and that that knowledge would comfort them in my absence.

I have never cared to waste time condemning anyone. It only breeds hatred, and there is enough hatred in this world already. I never want my children to harbour hatred, and I feel strongly that it would be wrong for me to set that example. (Please do not confuse this for tolerance... there are many things in this world that should not be tolerated, glossed over or accepted. But letting hatred take root and control our actions is detrimental and soul-strangling.)

And then I remembered the words of a poem written by Elisabeth Elliot, the wife of martyred missionary Jim Elliot, who gave his life trying to reach the Auca tribe in Peru, and I knew that the sentiments she expressed are the cry of my heart, and that I would want them to be my testimony, my message to my loved ones, and the words engraved on my tombstone for all to see:

"Lord, give to me a quiet heart that does not ask to understand, but confident steps forward in the darkness guided by Your hand."

There is so much darkness in this world. So much pain, fear, hatred, anger. So much Satan. So little Jesus. And yet... He is still here, and longs to be seen by all who will open their eyes of faith and look for Him.

There is absolutely no doubt that Satan is the Prince of this world and the ruler of this age. But I have crowned another King over my life, and I refuse to recognize Satan's rule. Still, He is wrapped in beautiful things, desirable things, power, wealth, fame, luxury, comfort, and it is a daily battle to keep my eyes on my humble King, who makes no such promises in this life. Instead, He promises heartache, hardship, loneliness and struggle for those who choose to follow Him. He promises that the world will not accept us, that we will be hated, sometimes even by the family that we dearly love, and that we will be seen as weak and foolish by people whose eyes are on another ruler.

We do not make a choice to keep our eyes on Jesus because He promises comfort in this life. We choose to keep moving toward Him because we know that this life is just make-believe, practice for the life that is coming. We know this because when we first took that tentative step of faith and chose to believe He has provided a way for us to be acceptable to God, His spirit entered us and constantly prods us to keep looking to Him. By keeping our eyes on the King we have chosen to rule our lives, we will be able to more clearly see the path we should take. The ruler we choose to keep our eyes turned to is the one that will direct our path. Choose wisely. Contrary to what the world says, it is the destination that counts much more than the journey.

When we take a long journey and arrive at our final destination, what a joy it is to see our loved ones there, after a time of being apart from them! It is the same way when our destination is heaven. Our greatest joy will be in seeing our loved ones there. For this reason, and knowing that my final words would be replayed in the minds of my husband and children for years to come, I would want the last thing I said to be reassurance that I was confident in my salvation, and that I would be waiting to meet them at the gates of heaven when they arrived.

If you were the one kneeling in front of a video camera with an executioner standing ready to remove your head, what would you want your last words to be?

"For the word of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God." --- 1 Corinthians 1:18

The New Normal

This is a rough day, and by rough, I mean I was overheard by my daughters muttering "I would honestly rather die than live through another year of this disease.". My body has had it. Every one of my cells is in some sort of pain. I have a growing mental list of things that need done around the house, and a shrinking reservoir of energy with which to accomplish them.

I can't decide what the worst part of Late Stage Lyme is... is it my metabolic system's special talent of gaining five pounds for every pound of food consumed (how is this scientifically even possible??!)? Is it the weakness that suddenly settles over me at random, weakness so intense that it feels like my bones are going to implode under the crushing weight of the atmosphere? The aching pain in my fingers and toes that feels like they are being perpetually pulled out to the side? The neverending sensation of invisible bugs crawling around on my skin, or water trickling down my legs and arms? Is it the exhaustion that never lets up, even after a full night's sleep on a high quality mattress? Is it the blistering rashes on my legs and chest when my skin comes into contact with water, like, say, every time I have a shower? The contact allergies that come and go, like the sudden intolerance to toothpaste that results in peeling and blistering on my gums and the inside of my mouth when I brush my teeth? Is it the sudden electric shocks that race along my spine, legs and arms if I move a certain way? Or the isolation that occurs because I'm too tired to get out and do things, and when I do drag myself out, I'm too tired to interact with anyone? Is it the constant ebb and flow, back and forth, up and down of feeling like I'm improving, and then going back to the starting line and having to change my meds for the millionth time? Or the fact that my own medical system doesn't recognize this as a legitimate disease and would rather diagnose me with something fatal (ALS) and shovel painkillers into me while I wait to die, instead of trying the long term antibiotic and antiviral therapes that have been proven to help, so I have to pay for all my treatments, medications and supplies myself, instead of having my healthcre covered by the medical insurance that is supposed to be there for me when I need it? Or maybe the irritation of having my ex husband tell our children that I'm not really sick, and that Lyme Disease isn't real?

Today I think it's the way my brain is compromised. I can't remember what I thought about five minutes ago. Just writing this post has taken hours and countless re-reads. I'm learning to compensate. Sort of. I'm learning that I can't trust my brain, which means that I have to trust my husband's and kids' brains and memories more. The kids got away with some pretty insane stuff until I figured out what they were up to and learned how to say "Look, I may have said you could eat chocolate cake for dinner, but now I'm saying you can't. So eat your dinner, or no cake.".

Have you ever seen the movie "A Beautiful Mind", with Russell Crowe? It's about a man with paranoid schizophrenia and a delusional disorder who learns not to trust his mind when it tells him irrational things. I feel like that guy. A lot. I'll have days where all I do is cry, and I'm convinced that there is absolutely no hope, I'm never going to get better, I'm never going to be able to get a job, and we're all going to be homeless and living on the street because we won't be able to pay the bills or afford food and housing. Honestly, looking at my bank account, some days it's hard NOT to believe that. But I'm learning to remind myself that my emotions will change soon, that I have a literal, physical, actual bacterial infection in my brain, and I will be able to process and deal with things differently as soon as this attack passes.

If I try and wrap my head around the looming probability of another several years of taking thirty medicines a day, putting in my own i.v. every day, weekly hour-long round trips trips to the doctor's office with the price of gas in Vancouver being the highest in Canada, trying to come up with the money to finance all the treatments and and this perpetual roller coaster of energy, emotions, pain, weakness and mobility, it's all too much and I just want to give up and die. Some days I seriously consider just stopping all my meds and just trying to stay comfortable until my heart eventually can't beat one more time and just quits.

This is the kind of day when I need to remind myself... repeatedly... not to think about the future. Just think about what I'm going to do today. I'm going to go upstairs (if I can get there) and take my meds, I'm going to try and start my i.v. (my veins are so fragile now that I couldn't get it to work the last two days, and now I am starting to feel very ill because the bacteria are taking over again), I'm going to see the kids off to their dad's for his birthday dinner, and I'm going to pop a handful of painkillers so I can enjoy Date Night with my husband. I can't plan my life like a normal person. I can't set goals for the future. It's too overwhelming to have to keep adjusting my view of life down the road. So I live in the here and now, and it keeps me from calling Dr. Kavorkian. This is my new normal.

Do me a favor... educate yourself about this disease, know how to recognize signs and symptoms, know how to cut down on your risk of exposure, and learn how to treat it and where to find treatment. Unfortunately, the vast majority of us believe that our doctors know everything about this disease and how to treat it, when in reality, until our medical systems and the CDC decide they can no longer put the almighty dollar ahead of people's lives and legitimize Chronic Lyme Disease, doctors will continue to deny its existence, put their faith in a blood test that is incredibly inaccurate and rife with false negatives, and continue to diagnose people incorrectly with such things as Fibromyalgia, Rheumatoid Arthritis, CFS, lupus, ALS, Parkinsons, Alzheimers, dementia, psychological disorders, and attention-seeking. Lyme is known to imitate all sorts of illnesses, and almost every person with Late Stage Lyme can tell a story of going from one doctor after another and receiving one wrong diagnosis after another before finally being diagnosed with Lyme, by which time there has been irreversible organ and body system damage.

I had a doctor tell me she thought I had "sero-negative inflammatory arthritis" because none of my test results for arthritis came back positive. Another doctor looked me dead in the eye and said "If we didn't know that Chronic Lyme Disease isn't a real thing, I'd swear that's what you have.". Yet another doctor argued with me that I couldn't possibly have Lyme Disease because "we don't have ticks in Canada". Uhm... the CDC in the U.S. just amended their figures from 3,000 new cases of Lyme per year to more than 300,000 new cases per year, but Canadian doctors believe those ticks just stop at the border?! The Lower Mainland of British Columbia, where I live, was recently classified a "tick endemic area", meaning we are literally overrun with ticks. We have brush, we have ticks, we're in a temperate rainforest... ask any veterinarian in Canada about Lyme Disease, and they'll tell you they see it in house pets all the time. The same ticks that bite Fido and Fluffy will be just as happy to bite you, believe me.

And that brings up another point... think for a minute about there being more than 300,000 people coming down with Lyme Disease every single year. So a million new cases every three years. Think about the fact that until this year, they were only diagnosing and reporting about 3,000 new cases. That's over 297,000 people with Lyme Disease every year for the last who-knows-how-many years, not being treated. Does a bacterial infection that's left untreated just disappear without treatment? Or does it slowly become worse and worse until the person is either an invalid or dies? How many people have been wrongly diagnosed, when a month of antibiotics at the beginning could have eradicated the infection? How many pregnant mothers have passed this infection on to their unborn babies, or to their infants via breastfeeding? How many men and women have passed this infection on to their partners through bodily fluids? Yes, it has now been officially classed an STD.

Chances are very good that you know someone, or more than likely several someones, who have or will have Lyme Disease at some point. In my next post, I will detail how to recognize, prevent and treat this disease. But right now I'm just too exhusted and sore...

Lazy Day Apple Cake

When you have tons of kids, you don't have the luxury of taking time off just because of a little debilitating chronic illness. Since I can't seem to get everybody to buy into the idea of "family fasting", I am always on the lookout for what I call "hooker recipes"... fast, cheap and easy.

This recipe for apple cake takes minutes to throw together, and having an awesome dessert on hand makes everyone feel a little less deprived, even if all they got was scrambled eggs and toast for dinner because Mom was on her deathbed again.

Lazy Day Apple Cake

Core and slice (peel if you want... I don't bother) however many apples you have on hand. Or pears. Or peaches. Or strawberries and rhubarb. Or whatever.

Sprinkle a yellow or white cake mix over the top. Sprinkle with 2 Tbsp. sugar (white or brown... whatever) and 1 Tbsp. cinnamon. Dot with a stick or more of margarine (or butter... or coconut oil...).

Bake at 350F for about half an hour until the fruit is all bubbly and gooey.

Serve with ice cream, or coconut cream, or milk, or almond milk, or Cool Whip, or whipped cream, or whatever.

Going to Pot

I was (and still am) a pastor's daughter. It was drilled into me from an early age that I was to set an example of obedient purity, that people were always watching me, and that there was a higher standard of morality on me than on most. I understood the importance of never doing anything that could make my parents look bad, or worse, make Christianity undesirable. I made sure to be on my best behaviour at all times, to dress modestly, to avoid alcohol, smoking, sex, movies, and dancing, and to never, ever, EVER have anything to do with drugs of any kind.

So why, you ask, were my tender teenage daughters and I reeking to high heaven of marijuana yesterday afternoon? Well, it's an interesting story involving my being licensed to buy medical marijuana now and us going to what my oldest daughter described as a "crackhouse" to make a (100% legal!) purchase.

My doctor is Lyme Literate, meaning he has studied Lyme Disease treatment extensively and has a special certification to treat people with Chronic Lyme Disease. There is new research that one of the derivitives of the marijuana plant, cannabidiol, or CBD oil, is phenomenally good at eradicating the Lyme bacteria. This is not to be confused with THC, the compound in marijuana that gives you that "high" feeling. CBD is a completely non-psychoactive substance that heals the body without making you feel or act goofy. So he would like me to start taking CBD oil to combat the infection that is currently wreaking havoc on my body and waging war on my joints, muscles, brain, blood vessels and organs.

The thing is, you can only get CBD oil from someone who has extracted it from the marijuana they grew for getting high, so you have to have a legal diagnosis from a medical doctor, as well as be registered at each separate MMJ (medical marijuana) dispensary that you wish to frequent, so that if the cops stop you for possession you can show them your letter and your little laminated card with a picture of a ganja leaf on it. See? One day and I'm already using abbreviations. I'm on a slippery slope here, folks.

Of course, the minute I mentioned that I was going to the pot store, both teenage daughters became intrigued. Caitlin offered to drive ("...because I need the practice."). Hannah, seeing no need to offer up a reason, simply said "I'm coming.".

We pulled up outside a little old house in an off-the-beaten-track neighbourhood. There was a hooker leaning into a car chatting with a man, both of whom looked up at us, correctly ascertained that we weren't going to present any sort of a challenge, and went back to conducting business. I made some comment to the girls about him probably just needing directions, and they shot me a simultaneous "you think we're idiots" kind of look. Well, it was worth a shot. I was still clear headed enough to have their innocent minds at the top of my priority list. Well, close to the top, anyway. I had let them come along, after all. Mostly just so they could drive away and dial 9-1-1 if things went south while I was inside the pot store.

I got out of the van, and the girls promptly flanked me, Caitlin muttering something about "not leaving us here to be raped and pillaged" and Hannah simply saying "I'm coming.". She says that a lot. I wondered aloud where the entrance was, and Caitlin said "I assume through the crackhouse.". That seemed reasonable.

We walked up to the side door, which opened just as we got to it. A man who was probably close to my age but who could pass for sixty two came out, bringing a cloud of skunk-scented smoke with him. I smiled and said hello (good breeding kicking in), and he grinned. He still had several of his original teeth, so I felt moderately guilty for my initial assumption that he was a down-and-outer.

We walked inside, and were met by a woman who had clearly had a very hard life, but who was very kind and informative. You could cut the marijuana smoke with a knife, but it was *medical* marijuana, totally legal, so it was alright. The woman (Kim? I think) took my picture, had me sign some forms and then went into another room to laminate my card. My girls have inherited my special talent of conveying dialogue without actually speaking, so we had a silent conversation that involved such things as "I'm getting high just standing here", "Are you absolutely positive we're not going to be drugged and shipped off to Edmonton to be sex slaves?" and "Who ARE you , Mom??!!".

Not appreciating the attitude, I turned my attention to reading the informational signs plastering the walls. My favourite was "10 Reasons Why You Should Get High at Work". Reason #4 was "Your boss will seem less irritating". Well, you can't argue with that, right?

Kim came back and asked me if I had had a chance to look at their daily menu, and what I would like to buy. I said I only wanted to buy the CBD oil, thank you. She said they were out but expecting more very soon, and would give me a call. In the meantime they did have some THC oil, very pure, that would take care of my pain for several hours. I did my best to explain that I do not want to get high, not even a little bit. She looked confused. I could almost hear her thinking "So why are you here??!". She walked into an adjoining room, and, being the curious sort, I followed her. The girls seemed to be too relaxed to care where I was going, so they stayed put. A young man was sitting behind a desk weighing and measuring out what looked to be clumps of oregano.

Kim said "She wants something for pain, but doesn't want to get high."

"She doesn't want to get high?! Why not?!"

I interjected with "I'm just looking for CBD oil. Nothing with THC." It didn't seem to be computing, so I added "Nothing psychotropic."

They both stared at me for several awkward seconds. I added weakly "I've never done this before.". The looks on their faces very clearly said "No crap." I was getting attitude from everybody today. Strangely, I just didn't care. I bought about half a teaspoon of some thick, black oil that they said is high in CBD and very low in THC, and if I take no more than half a grain of rice size, I won't feel anything except relaxed, so it's good to take it at bedtime. Fine, whatever, there are days the pain could drop a horse in its tracks, so I'll just keep it on hand for an emergency.

I politely declined the offer of a brownie or a Skor (score?) cookie, although I must admit I was curious about the Space Cake that was on sale.

Five minutes later the girls and I were safely back in the van and on our way home. Nobody spoke until we were about two blocks down the road. Caitlin said "I feel like a snack." at the same time Hannah said "I've got the munchies, legit.". I didn't care about eating. To be honest, I didn't care about much of anything. I just wanted to sleep. We pulled into the Tim Hortons drive thru and the girls each got something to hold them over until we got home.

I texted the experience to John, and got a whole lot of laughter emoticons back from him, as well as some new nicknames like "My wife the druggie". See, more attitude? All day long, attitude from everybody.

We walked in the house and I lined my meds up on the counter, including my new bottle of Methylcobalamin (B12). Caitlin pointed to it and said "First pot, and now meth. I knew it.".

I wasn't brave enough to try my new "product" (that's what we in the biz call it... "product"), so it's in a safe place where kids and pets can't access it. In the meantime, I'm going to eat hemp seeds like they're going out of style and wait for them to call me when the CBD oil comes in.

I swear I don't even know who I am any more...

Life with Lyme

I'm tired today. Not regular tired, where you were up late last night and had a busy day today, and now all you want to do is sit down with a nice cool drink, watch a couple of favourite shows, and then head to bed early.

I'm "Lyme tired". As in, I did practically nothing today but I can barely move, my eyes are so bleary they're watering nonstop and people keep asking me why I'm crying, and I look like I aged ten years in a single day. No amount of makeup can hide "Lyme tired", and I have no idea if it's going to last for a week or be gone by tomorrow morning.

This disease is so frustrating. I want to plan weekend barbecues, late night movie dates with my husband, take my Littles to the park for a picnic, get a full time job, walk with the dogs around the lake every evening, take meals to encourage people when they're sick or have a new baby, take up a hobby or two... but no. I'm still too sick. I don't want to be sick. I pretend I'm not sick all the time.

Today I sat on the couch with a plate of breakfast and a cold drink, dogs at my feet, watching a movie with my oldest daughter, and I thought "wow, this is really nice". It felt so "normal", except for the fact that I was tied to an i.v. tube for an hour. 

That's my "normal" now. Get up, take eight medicines, take the kids to school, come home, have breakfast, start my i.v., take a nap. Get up, take seven medicines, plan dinner and/or start the crockpot, have a nap. Pick kids up from school, run an errand (which generally means I nap in the van while my older girls go into the store or wherever), drive home, make supper, rest for a bit. Make lunches for the next day, head upstairs, take six medicines, fall into bed exhausted. Every. Single. Day.

One of the most frustrating things about this disease is the fact that it is a neurological illness, meaning that it affects the brain. The whole brain. It doesn't pick and choose which parts of the brain to mess with. Not only are there destructive bacteria in my brain at any given moment, as the antibiotics do their job and they die off in every other part of my body, they release toxins which accumulate in the brain, causing pain, confusion, and major emotional storms. I've pretty much conquered the fits of rage (and yes, there were many of those over the years, for which I will forever feel guilty), but the fatigue and pain just get to be too much to handle some days and they leak down my face in the form of tears at the most inconventient times. I have no idea how to conquer the tears. To be honest, I'm too tired to try.

I am learning to be grateful for the things the healthy Susan might have taken for granted: my husband coming in the door after work and walking straight across the room to kiss me hello before he even cleaned out his lunch bag; the lack of rain today so the kids can play outside and not strew their toys, blankets and dirty dishes around the house; the warm(ish) temperature that allows me to have the windows open for a fresh breeze; my 18 year old daughter's culinary expertise and willingness to pick up making the dinner I had planned and run out of steam while doing. 

Lyme Disease gives you a choice: you can either choose to let the discouragement, pain and frustration take over and strangle your spirit, or you can choose to find beauty in the little things and let them be a healing balm.

Tonight my healing balm is Jambalaya with chicken, sausage, shrimp, peppers, onions and peas, made by my thoughtful daughter-blessing. To her future husband: you're welcome. This girl is an amazing cook, instinctive and creative. She embodies beauty, and you will be blessed many times over by her cooking. Trust me. This Jambalaya is delicious.

And now the love of my life is taking me for a drive that may or may not include ice cream. He knows when I have exhausted my store of endurance, and knows that alone time with him recharges my drained batteries. More beauty, and another healing balm.

Thank you, Father, for the blessings you have hidden in the pain, like diamonds waiting to be unearthed. For these I am deeply grateful.

Blessings,

me. <3

Crockpot Mango Coconut Chicken Curry

The last couple of days, I have felt better than I have in years. Literally, YEARS. Other than the invisible bugs crawling inside my skin, but whatever.

I vacuumed the entire downstairs this morning (that might not sound like a lot, but trust me...) and then started the crockpot for dinner.

A church friend posted a recipe that looked amazing a few days ago, and I decided to give it a try. However, me being me, and having a deep seated aversion to following rules, I changed the recipe a bit. It smells mind-blowingly good. There's your word for the day: mind-blowingly.

So without further adieu, if anyone wants some culinary inspiration, here is what's cooking at Stagg-Wilson Manor today:

Crockpot Mango Coconut Chicken Curry

8 chicken breasts, boneless & skinless
1 can coconut milk
1 can coconut cream (plus half a can I had in the fridge)
2 Tbsp. tomato paste
1 clove of garlic, minced
1 Tbsp. onion powder
2 Tbsp. honey (I would omit the honey next time bc I don't like sweet main dishes, and it's not Paleo)
1tsp. fresh minced ginger
3 tsp. curry power
2 jars of Patak's Coconut Peanut Curry Sauce (just because it was there)
Salt to taste
1 cup mango, diced (I used frozen)

Garnish:
1 cup roasted cashews
Fresh cilantro for garnish

I stirred al the spices and liquids together and poured it over the frozen chicken and mango in the crockpot and turned it to Low to cook for about 6 hours. We'll have it over rice, topped with the cashews and cilantro.

The original recipe called for a can of pineapple chunks, but I felt like it was already on the sweet side as it was. It also called for a sliced bulb of fennel but I passed on that because, well, gross.

Tonight is Caiti's grad commencement, and I have a full day of job hunting, chiropractor, naturopath, picking kids up from school, picking big kid up from work, and lounging about in my anti-gravity recliner in my beautiful back yard that my awesome husband has been working on every evening for weeks. You know you're jealous. 

Thanking God for a day with a lot less pain and a lot more mobility. We just don't know what a gift good health is until we don't have it any more. So my heart is truly grateful. 

Remember When the Indonesians Fought the Jamaicans in the Asian Wars? Yeah, Me Neither.

When I'm old and in the nursing home, and I'm sitting in my wheelchair laughing to myself all day long, it won't be because I've finally lost my mind, it will be because I'm remembering conversations like the one we had on the way to school this morning.

Sara (7): "Oh my GOSH, this sock is longer than the other one! Aaaaahhhhh!!!"

Zach (10): (calmly) "Be quiet, Sara. That is not a crisis. The Asian War was a crisis."

Caitlin(18): (disdainfully) "The Asian War. Which Asian War? Iwo Jima? Vietnam? Korean?"

Zach: (with the air of deep confidence for which he is famous) "Indonesian."

Everyone looks at me to see if that's even a thing. I keep my face carefully blank.

Caitlin: "Indonesian, huh? Who did they fight?"

Zach: (still calm, almost bored) "The Jamaicans."

All eyes on me, except Zach's. He is calmly looking out the window, trying to maintain his air of authority.

Me: "I think it's clear your brother is never going to be a world renowned historian."

Zach: "I'm hurt."

Let me introduce myself...

I'm Susan. Or Mom. Sometimes Babe. But most often Mom.

My husband John and I have nine kids. Five boys, aged 22, 20, 17, 12 and 10. Four girls, aged 18, 15, 11 and 7. Two dogs, one cat, two lovebirds and about half a million ants that seek shelter in my kitchen and laundry room every time it rains, which is quite a lot, since Vancouver is a temperate rainforest.

I grew up the daughter of a Baptist pastor and a stay-at-home mother, went to college and majored in nursing and music, toured with a singing group, got a degree in medical lab technology, got married to my teenage sweetheart, started a family, got a degree in lactation consulting, had a few more kids, survived an accident that took away my speech, mobility and memory for a few years (long story for another post), lost my husband (longer story for yet another post), and suddenly realized I was alone with six grieving children and didn't have a clue who I was or how to survive.

This was not my plan, and I was lost and bewildered.

Then I met John. He allowed me to grieve and heal in my own time, with no pressure to move on or "get over it". We had the same faith, the same likes and dislikes, the same sense of humour, the same intolerance for self-centered, narcissistic people, the same practicality and common sense. Six months after we first met, we ordered our wedding cupcakes. A month after that we got engaged. Yeah, we do things a little bit backwards sometimes, just to mix it up a little.

I had been a stay-at-home, homeschooling mom for the last nineteen years, but I enrolled the kids in a little private school, and then I went back to college to study Rehabilitation Therapy, a field that held great significance for me in light of my own accident recovery a few years prior. The kids and I moved to a bigger house across town, and when I became increasingly exhausted, weepy and weak, I chalked it up to all the changes and new demands in my life.

But the fatigue became worse and worse, to the point where I couldn't stay awake for more than a couple of hours at a time. I slept through most of my classes. I slept in the van before I could find the strength to drive home from school. I slept in the van while my daughters did the grocery shopping. I slept leaning up against the shower wall. I slept in the driveway of my house, too tired to walk inside. As the fatigue increased, new strange symptoms emerged: excruciating pain in every muscle and every joint; random joints would dislocate; my eyes couldn't handle light, everything was in greyscale, like I was looking through smoke; my hearing was muted, like I was hearing underwater, but the volume seemed to be turned up to a painful level; I had constant muscle spasms, tremors, electric shock sensations, numbness around my face and in my toes.

I saw so many doctors I lost count: GPs, neurologists, internists, dermatologists, rheumatologists. They suggested inflammatory arthritis, Lupus, Multiple Sclerosis, ALS, "just stress", and a need for attention. None of them could explain why, if I was just inventing symptoms, my bloodwork showed ridiculously high levels of C-Reactive Protein (an inflammatory marker), very low Total Protein levels, and a complete lack of immunoglobulins.

Long story that I will detail later, but eventually I was diagnosed with Late Stage Neurological Lyme Disease, a bacterial infection caused by a tiny little spirochete called Borrelia burgdorferi. I also tested positive for Bartonella, Babesiosis, a mycoplasma infection, adrenal insufficiency, and several viral and parasitic infections.

I have absolutely no idea how I managed to finish my program, but I graduated with honours and completed all the required practicum hours. I know for a fact I didn't do it under my own strength, and I give full glory to God, because without Him, I would have joined the other seven people that dropped out of the program because they couldn't cut it.

John and I were married, and I became an instant stepmom to his three children, who I love like my own. I love being this man's wife. I may have been "created to be his helpmeet", but he is an amazing blessing, help and source of wisdom and encouragement to me.

So, that's a little bit about me. My goal through this blog is to provide encouragement to people living with chronic pain and illness, give hope to struggling moms as they parent, share ideas for healthy eating and easy meals, write about what makes my life easier and less painful, and hopefully to illustrate God's love, goodness and grace as, slowly but surely, I learn to yield my plan to His plan, and discover the new and improved Susan.

Blessings,

me. <3