Sunday, June 29, 2008
PS: Who Knew?
On a totally unrelated note, who knew feather pillows stunk so badly? Had to throw out the one I bought for The Boy a couple weeks ago. It smelled like something the dog had crapped on - repeatedly. Blech!
One Week Down, X to Go
Almost one week ago today, I started the Rebif injections. So far I've done three. I was right - this is not the most fun thing I've ever done. That being said...
I must be brutally honest here. While I would prefer not to be doing this at all, the manufacturers really have made this as "painless" as possible. There is nothing to mix; the syringes come pre-filled. The need is ultra-fine (29mm), much smaller than the needle used for flue shots, and I don't think that is particularly painful. Banish thoughts of jabbing yourself and pushing the plunger down. All you do is cock the auto-injector, drop in the syringe, yank off the needle cap (this part occasionally doesn't work so well, but you can get the cap off manually if necessary), swab some alcohol, position the injector, push the button. A tiny prick and 10 seconds later, you're done. And actually, you don't really need to wait 10 seconds; when a series of black lines shows up in the injector window, the syringe is empty. No fuss, no muss. Blot the dot of blood, take the syringe out of the injector, throw it in the sharps container, go to bed.
Three doses in, I haven't noticed any side effects. I had achy knee joints the first two nights, but I have no idea if that was because of the meds or because, well, my knees are twice as old as the rest of me and ache in damp weather. Regardless, two Tylenol killed the pain enough for me to sleep like a rock. The regimen builds up the dosage slowly (8 mcg for 2 weeks, 22 mcg for 2 weeks, then 44 mcg) to minimize effects, but so far, so good.
And the syringes came with a sharps container. Now I just need to find out the rules on how to get rid of it.
So all in all, I'm thinking if you absolutely have to do this, this would be the preferred method. Now if I could just get the friggin' cap remover to work, I'd be golden.
Oh, and the kids? Well, that concern evaporated. I told The Girl a few days before the meds showed up. I had to make some phone calls in front of her, and I didn't want her to freak out about me talking about needles and injections. She took it pretty well and said as long as I wasn't going to panic, she wouldn't. Smart kid.
Of course, the following Monday night when the nurse showed up to do the injection training, both kids crowded around the dining room table. "Whatcha doing, Mama? Can I watch? Can I see?" It was kind of like a freak show at the circus. For the sake of my concentration, I sent them back to Webkinz World. Sheesh. Who knew watching me give test injections to an orange could be so fascinating?
Oh yeah, and my bp after all this was 100/66 and resting pulse 74, so clearly I was neither stressed at the time, nor am I at risk of falling over dead from hypertension.
There was also a moment of morbid humor. The first couple times, the needle was bent when I removed the syringe. However, the syringe was empty and there was no liquid on my skin or the floor, so I concluded it had successfully been injected. In musing over this, I remarked that at least I hadn't wasted $4,000. At The Hubby's blank look, I explained each dose was about $2,000. After a moment, he said, "Jeez, babe, the wheelchair would be cheaper." I was not amused. My boss was not amused. My friend at work, who admittedly has a rather black sense of humor, thought it was hilarious. Perhaps I just needed to look at it in retrospect, he said. Been almost a week; still not that funny.
Now for the irritating part. As I mentioned in my last post, I have told very few people - only you my gentle readers, family, my best friend (sort of) and a few folks at work. The Hubby, however, appears to have taken out a full page ad in the Tribune-Review. A long-time friend of his who visited last weekend, another guy he met in the Army, the former Religious Education director at the kids' school (who has probably told his wife), and I think both of the neighbors. I only found out about this because I was poking around trying to find out how to dispose of a sharps container, and he said, "Why don't you ask Maria?" Come to find out he was talking about me to Maria's husband, the Religious Ed guy. This is a man who won't put my picture on his desk at work or talk about me to co-workers because his relationship with his wife is "private."
I'm rather miffed about it. I mean I know all these folks. They are nice people. But this is my health. I'm the one who ought to be telling people about it, in my own time and in my own way. I have no idea how discreet any of these folks really are, so now I have to assume that they, in turn, have told other people. And frankly, I don't feel like being a topic of conversation for other people, some of whom are potentially people who I don't really trust all that much. Wonderful.
So on the plus side, injections not that bad (so far). On the negative side, I feel like I've lost control of who knows what about my personal life. I guess batting .500 ain't so bad.
I must be brutally honest here. While I would prefer not to be doing this at all, the manufacturers really have made this as "painless" as possible. There is nothing to mix; the syringes come pre-filled. The need is ultra-fine (29mm), much smaller than the needle used for flue shots, and I don't think that is particularly painful. Banish thoughts of jabbing yourself and pushing the plunger down. All you do is cock the auto-injector, drop in the syringe, yank off the needle cap (this part occasionally doesn't work so well, but you can get the cap off manually if necessary), swab some alcohol, position the injector, push the button. A tiny prick and 10 seconds later, you're done. And actually, you don't really need to wait 10 seconds; when a series of black lines shows up in the injector window, the syringe is empty. No fuss, no muss. Blot the dot of blood, take the syringe out of the injector, throw it in the sharps container, go to bed.
Three doses in, I haven't noticed any side effects. I had achy knee joints the first two nights, but I have no idea if that was because of the meds or because, well, my knees are twice as old as the rest of me and ache in damp weather. Regardless, two Tylenol killed the pain enough for me to sleep like a rock. The regimen builds up the dosage slowly (8 mcg for 2 weeks, 22 mcg for 2 weeks, then 44 mcg) to minimize effects, but so far, so good.
And the syringes came with a sharps container. Now I just need to find out the rules on how to get rid of it.
So all in all, I'm thinking if you absolutely have to do this, this would be the preferred method. Now if I could just get the friggin' cap remover to work, I'd be golden.
Oh, and the kids? Well, that concern evaporated. I told The Girl a few days before the meds showed up. I had to make some phone calls in front of her, and I didn't want her to freak out about me talking about needles and injections. She took it pretty well and said as long as I wasn't going to panic, she wouldn't. Smart kid.
Of course, the following Monday night when the nurse showed up to do the injection training, both kids crowded around the dining room table. "Whatcha doing, Mama? Can I watch? Can I see?" It was kind of like a freak show at the circus. For the sake of my concentration, I sent them back to Webkinz World. Sheesh. Who knew watching me give test injections to an orange could be so fascinating?
Oh yeah, and my bp after all this was 100/66 and resting pulse 74, so clearly I was neither stressed at the time, nor am I at risk of falling over dead from hypertension.
There was also a moment of morbid humor. The first couple times, the needle was bent when I removed the syringe. However, the syringe was empty and there was no liquid on my skin or the floor, so I concluded it had successfully been injected. In musing over this, I remarked that at least I hadn't wasted $4,000. At The Hubby's blank look, I explained each dose was about $2,000. After a moment, he said, "Jeez, babe, the wheelchair would be cheaper." I was not amused. My boss was not amused. My friend at work, who admittedly has a rather black sense of humor, thought it was hilarious. Perhaps I just needed to look at it in retrospect, he said. Been almost a week; still not that funny.
Now for the irritating part. As I mentioned in my last post, I have told very few people - only you my gentle readers, family, my best friend (sort of) and a few folks at work. The Hubby, however, appears to have taken out a full page ad in the Tribune-Review. A long-time friend of his who visited last weekend, another guy he met in the Army, the former Religious Education director at the kids' school (who has probably told his wife), and I think both of the neighbors. I only found out about this because I was poking around trying to find out how to dispose of a sharps container, and he said, "Why don't you ask Maria?" Come to find out he was talking about me to Maria's husband, the Religious Ed guy. This is a man who won't put my picture on his desk at work or talk about me to co-workers because his relationship with his wife is "private."
I'm rather miffed about it. I mean I know all these folks. They are nice people. But this is my health. I'm the one who ought to be telling people about it, in my own time and in my own way. I have no idea how discreet any of these folks really are, so now I have to assume that they, in turn, have told other people. And frankly, I don't feel like being a topic of conversation for other people, some of whom are potentially people who I don't really trust all that much. Wonderful.
So on the plus side, injections not that bad (so far). On the negative side, I feel like I've lost control of who knows what about my personal life. I guess batting .500 ain't so bad.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Lemons and Lemonade
Isn't that how it goes - or something along those lines?
For those of you who are unfamiliar with my saga, let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.
Sorry.
The past nine months have been quite a roller coaster. Vertigo lead to a preliminary diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. After consultation with a specialist, that diagnosis was put on hold until after a second MRI in April. But now it's official.
I have MS.
It still feels a little weird to say. So weird, in fact, that I have not told very many people at all outside my family of course. My boss, one friend at work, and my HR rep, just to make sure I didn't have to do anything special with my insurance. But beyond that, I find myself strangely unwilling to make a formal announcement to any of the people who knew what I was going through in the fall.
Part of this is because, I'm sure, that the natural first reaction will be, "Oh god, I'm so sorry." Yet that's not really what I want and I think perhaps I can't deal with repeated expressions like this, no matter how heartfelt. See, as devastated as I was last fall, I'm not now. Really. Honest to god, I'm okay. When the doc told me, he had a med student shadowing him for the day. She kept looking at me as though she was expecting me to dissolve into hysterics. I think even he was a little surprised at how calm I was.
But see, I've already done the hysterical bit - last fall. I've had nine months to more or less accept this probability. I say probability because somewhere in my heart of hearts, I knew this was not going to turn out to be "nothing." By the time the doc actually got around to saying, "Yes, you have MS," my initial reaction was relief. No more wondering, no more guessing, no more test after test trying to figure it out. This is what your problem is. Here is the course of action we are going to take. The uncertainty of it all was far worse than the reality. I'm the kind of person who can deal with almost anything if I have facts and a plan of action.
Last fall, I had only the shock of the initial diagnosis - How can this be happening to me - I don't have any family history of this! - and then uncertainty. Maybe, maybe not. Wait and watch. It was unnerving. But now, I have the three things The Hubby says are essential to any journey: a map, a plan, and a list.
Don't get me wrong. This is going to suck - big time. It's going to suck because the only approved treatments for MS are self-injections. The medication I am going to take is called Rebif - a three-times-a-week subcutaneous injection. You get little pre-filled syringes via the mail, and there's a handy little auto-injector to administer the dose. Fun wow, right - NOT. Most people experience flu-like symptoms until their bodies adjust. Common (but rare - of course) side effects are depression, increase in liver enzymes, and increase in white blood cell count. Basically, if I feel like slitting my wrists, I turn yellow, or bleed like a stuck pig every time I nick myself, call my doctor. Wonderful.
Best part of all? There is currently no cure for MS. That means, of course, that I get to do this until a) they come up with an oral treatment, b) they find a cure, or c) I die. Whichever comes first. Yippy skippy doo.
Oddly, The Hubby had a harder time adjusting to the news that I did. He was so certain last fall that it would turn out to be nothing. Then I think he had convinced himself that even if it did turn out to be MS, I wouldn't actually need treatment. After all, he has a friend who has had MS for 15 years. He doesn't take anything and firmly believes none of the drugs actually work. I respect that, but I think I'll take a medical professional's advice. Especially since I enjoy walking, being independent, and seeing - all things that could be gone the moment damage occurs to the "right" nerve.
Fortunately, I have a good doctor and a good insurance plan. I got a call the following day from MS Lifelines, an organization that provides support, payment help, and training for MS patients. I received the auto-injector and a travel kit a few days later. By the end of the week, I had a letter saying that the prescription was approved by my insurance carrier. That last is important because believe you me, this shit is expensive. Costs run anywhere from $1,500-$2,000 per dose. Total costs can be as high as $18,000 per year. Me? I'll pay $40 every three months for a prescription co-pay (have I mentioned lately that my employer provides kick-ass health insurance?). That's one worry I don't have to deal with.
So now as I await the call from the nursing agency to arrange training, I'm only left to worry about a few things. For example, used needles are bio hazard waste. How the hell do I get rid of those? I mean, my municipal garbage service is pretty good, but I don't think they take used needles. Of course, as my aunt pointed out there are thousands of diabetics doing insulin injections every day. There has to be a procedure. Duh, why didn't I think of that?
Thinking about diabetics has also prevented me from feeling too sorry for myself. I only have to do this three times a week. Diabetics do this every day. Who's got it easier? In the words of Fox news, we report, you decide.
Then there's the bigger worry. How do I tell my kids and what do I tell them? It's not like they won't know what's going on. They're pretty smart, but still only 8 and 6. My aunt suggested talking to a support group for ideas, but if I'm reluctant to talk to friends, I'm sure not ready to talk to strangers. And how much do they really need to know? I don't want hide things and pretend it's all fine, but I don't think I really have to launch a dissertation on the workings of the central nervous system either. At least the doc was able to address one of my big concerns - MS doesn't appear to be hereditary (you think I would have figured that out on my own, seeing as nobody in my family has ever been diagnosed). He said the chances of one of them developing MS was "extremely low." Good to know.
So there you have it. Ultimately, this will be horribly unfun, and I'm sure some days will suck. But I'll make it - I have to, there just isn't a choice. I've got too much life left to live.
But it's a good thing I like lemonade.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with my saga, let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.
Sorry.
The past nine months have been quite a roller coaster. Vertigo lead to a preliminary diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. After consultation with a specialist, that diagnosis was put on hold until after a second MRI in April. But now it's official.
I have MS.
It still feels a little weird to say. So weird, in fact, that I have not told very many people at all outside my family of course. My boss, one friend at work, and my HR rep, just to make sure I didn't have to do anything special with my insurance. But beyond that, I find myself strangely unwilling to make a formal announcement to any of the people who knew what I was going through in the fall.
Part of this is because, I'm sure, that the natural first reaction will be, "Oh god, I'm so sorry." Yet that's not really what I want and I think perhaps I can't deal with repeated expressions like this, no matter how heartfelt. See, as devastated as I was last fall, I'm not now. Really. Honest to god, I'm okay. When the doc told me, he had a med student shadowing him for the day. She kept looking at me as though she was expecting me to dissolve into hysterics. I think even he was a little surprised at how calm I was.
But see, I've already done the hysterical bit - last fall. I've had nine months to more or less accept this probability. I say probability because somewhere in my heart of hearts, I knew this was not going to turn out to be "nothing." By the time the doc actually got around to saying, "Yes, you have MS," my initial reaction was relief. No more wondering, no more guessing, no more test after test trying to figure it out. This is what your problem is. Here is the course of action we are going to take. The uncertainty of it all was far worse than the reality. I'm the kind of person who can deal with almost anything if I have facts and a plan of action.
Last fall, I had only the shock of the initial diagnosis - How can this be happening to me - I don't have any family history of this! - and then uncertainty. Maybe, maybe not. Wait and watch. It was unnerving. But now, I have the three things The Hubby says are essential to any journey: a map, a plan, and a list.
Don't get me wrong. This is going to suck - big time. It's going to suck because the only approved treatments for MS are self-injections. The medication I am going to take is called Rebif - a three-times-a-week subcutaneous injection. You get little pre-filled syringes via the mail, and there's a handy little auto-injector to administer the dose. Fun wow, right - NOT. Most people experience flu-like symptoms until their bodies adjust. Common (but rare - of course) side effects are depression, increase in liver enzymes, and increase in white blood cell count. Basically, if I feel like slitting my wrists, I turn yellow, or bleed like a stuck pig every time I nick myself, call my doctor. Wonderful.
Best part of all? There is currently no cure for MS. That means, of course, that I get to do this until a) they come up with an oral treatment, b) they find a cure, or c) I die. Whichever comes first. Yippy skippy doo.
Oddly, The Hubby had a harder time adjusting to the news that I did. He was so certain last fall that it would turn out to be nothing. Then I think he had convinced himself that even if it did turn out to be MS, I wouldn't actually need treatment. After all, he has a friend who has had MS for 15 years. He doesn't take anything and firmly believes none of the drugs actually work. I respect that, but I think I'll take a medical professional's advice. Especially since I enjoy walking, being independent, and seeing - all things that could be gone the moment damage occurs to the "right" nerve.
Fortunately, I have a good doctor and a good insurance plan. I got a call the following day from MS Lifelines, an organization that provides support, payment help, and training for MS patients. I received the auto-injector and a travel kit a few days later. By the end of the week, I had a letter saying that the prescription was approved by my insurance carrier. That last is important because believe you me, this shit is expensive. Costs run anywhere from $1,500-$2,000 per dose. Total costs can be as high as $18,000 per year. Me? I'll pay $40 every three months for a prescription co-pay (have I mentioned lately that my employer provides kick-ass health insurance?). That's one worry I don't have to deal with.
So now as I await the call from the nursing agency to arrange training, I'm only left to worry about a few things. For example, used needles are bio hazard waste. How the hell do I get rid of those? I mean, my municipal garbage service is pretty good, but I don't think they take used needles. Of course, as my aunt pointed out there are thousands of diabetics doing insulin injections every day. There has to be a procedure. Duh, why didn't I think of that?
Thinking about diabetics has also prevented me from feeling too sorry for myself. I only have to do this three times a week. Diabetics do this every day. Who's got it easier? In the words of Fox news, we report, you decide.
Then there's the bigger worry. How do I tell my kids and what do I tell them? It's not like they won't know what's going on. They're pretty smart, but still only 8 and 6. My aunt suggested talking to a support group for ideas, but if I'm reluctant to talk to friends, I'm sure not ready to talk to strangers. And how much do they really need to know? I don't want hide things and pretend it's all fine, but I don't think I really have to launch a dissertation on the workings of the central nervous system either. At least the doc was able to address one of my big concerns - MS doesn't appear to be hereditary (you think I would have figured that out on my own, seeing as nobody in my family has ever been diagnosed). He said the chances of one of them developing MS was "extremely low." Good to know.
So there you have it. Ultimately, this will be horribly unfun, and I'm sure some days will suck. But I'll make it - I have to, there just isn't a choice. I've got too much life left to live.
But it's a good thing I like lemonade.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
I Love Summer
I sit here on a warm June night, on a cushy porch chair, dog lying beside me, typing away. Aside from the occasional passing car, I hear the call of night birds, some chirping from my rhododendron that is slowing losing its leaves (can birds nest in a rhododendron bush?), and the trickle of my neighbor's fountain. It is still and peaceful, not yet warm enough for fireflies.
God I love summer.
God I love summer.
Friday, May 30, 2008
I'm Such a Slacker
Yes, it's true. My last post was in November 2007. That's, um, 7 months ago. I can only plead Christmas, then New Year's, then, um, well..
Let's just call me a slacker.
So I'm on the phone with my best friend the other night and she says, "What happened to the writing?" I couldn't even think about what she was talking about. "The blog." Oh yeah, that.
I'm such a slacker.
I logged in for the first time in 7 months, read some of my past posts, and thought, "You know, I'm not half bad at this writing thing." So I'm back - for better or worse. And the topic today is Men.
Okay guys, start groaning. You ladies, you might be more sympathetic. As I read this, the hubby is stretched out, sound asleep, on the deck swing. All things considered, it's not a bad place to spend a sunny afternoon. But this sleeping man confuses me.
A friend of mine at work, a theater guy who describes himself as "having no boundaries," has been trying to help me understand. It's working - sort of. I mean, I still don't get a lot of things, but hey, at least I know they are common to the male gender and not just my bedroom. For example:
A couple months ago, the hubby got a bee in his bonnet about my wedding dress. It all started with me mentioning I've lost about 20 pounds in the past year (thank you, thank you). All of a sudden, "Where's your wedding dress? Wouldn't it be interesting to try it on and see if it still fits?" Uh, no? Not really interested. He badgered my brother about bringing it down from the old family homestead. My brother says, "What's with the wedding dress?" No idea. Well, that's not true. Truth is, I suspect the hubby of having fantasies - a fetish as the friend would describe them. Everybody I mentioned this to, including women, thought it was bizarre. Definitely a fetish - definitely about sex. I will never find out because once the dress arrived, I showed it to The Girl, and put it in the attic. I have pictures if I want to remember my wedding dress. I don't need to play dress-up.
Are men capable of touching their wives in a way that is not sexual? I mean honestly guys - there's a point at which touching becomes pawing. I really don't mind if you don't spend every minute with your hand on my, um, chest (trying to keep it G here, folks). Apparently men do not see a difference between holding hands and fondling. I do. 'Nuff said.
And here's the kicker. The Boy graduated from kindergarten today. So I made plans to take the whole day off and suggested the hubby might want to do the same. "What for?" he says. Well, to do something together, without kids - you know alone. Couple things. Like go out to breakfast, come home, have a little "fun" without having to lock the door to prevent unwelcome interruptions (so to speak). I would have expected some enthusiasm for that proposal. I got a shrug and "We'll see." Huh???
Even my friend doesn't understand that reaction.
Men complain about not understanding women. I've got news for you, guys. I'll be married 12 years this August. Been together for 14. I still don't understand this man of mine.
And I'm starting to think I never will.
Let's just call me a slacker.
So I'm on the phone with my best friend the other night and she says, "What happened to the writing?" I couldn't even think about what she was talking about. "The blog." Oh yeah, that.
I'm such a slacker.
I logged in for the first time in 7 months, read some of my past posts, and thought, "You know, I'm not half bad at this writing thing." So I'm back - for better or worse. And the topic today is Men.
Okay guys, start groaning. You ladies, you might be more sympathetic. As I read this, the hubby is stretched out, sound asleep, on the deck swing. All things considered, it's not a bad place to spend a sunny afternoon. But this sleeping man confuses me.
A friend of mine at work, a theater guy who describes himself as "having no boundaries," has been trying to help me understand. It's working - sort of. I mean, I still don't get a lot of things, but hey, at least I know they are common to the male gender and not just my bedroom. For example:
A couple months ago, the hubby got a bee in his bonnet about my wedding dress. It all started with me mentioning I've lost about 20 pounds in the past year (thank you, thank you). All of a sudden, "Where's your wedding dress? Wouldn't it be interesting to try it on and see if it still fits?" Uh, no? Not really interested. He badgered my brother about bringing it down from the old family homestead. My brother says, "What's with the wedding dress?" No idea. Well, that's not true. Truth is, I suspect the hubby of having fantasies - a fetish as the friend would describe them. Everybody I mentioned this to, including women, thought it was bizarre. Definitely a fetish - definitely about sex. I will never find out because once the dress arrived, I showed it to The Girl, and put it in the attic. I have pictures if I want to remember my wedding dress. I don't need to play dress-up.
Are men capable of touching their wives in a way that is not sexual? I mean honestly guys - there's a point at which touching becomes pawing. I really don't mind if you don't spend every minute with your hand on my, um, chest (trying to keep it G here, folks). Apparently men do not see a difference between holding hands and fondling. I do. 'Nuff said.
And here's the kicker. The Boy graduated from kindergarten today. So I made plans to take the whole day off and suggested the hubby might want to do the same. "What for?" he says. Well, to do something together, without kids - you know alone. Couple things. Like go out to breakfast, come home, have a little "fun" without having to lock the door to prevent unwelcome interruptions (so to speak). I would have expected some enthusiasm for that proposal. I got a shrug and "We'll see." Huh???
Even my friend doesn't understand that reaction.
Men complain about not understanding women. I've got news for you, guys. I'll be married 12 years this August. Been together for 14. I still don't understand this man of mine.
And I'm starting to think I never will.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Christmas Already?
Disclaimer: I love Christmas, really. It's my favorite holiday. Christmas is all about love, peace, hope, and good will. Who doesn't like those? It's much easier to explain to the kids than Easter. And, if you're lucky, your family comes in, and you get to eat good food, hang out, and have a good time. That said, I have two major issues.
1. Commercialism gone crazy
Why is it that it seems holiday shopping starts earlier and earlier? Two weeks before Halloween, the kids and I walked into a red-and-green extravaganza at Home Depot. The Boy just looked confused. "Mom, why is it all Christmasy?" The Girl was outraged. "For Pete's sake people, it's not even Halloween yet!" Precisely.
This year, the excuse is that with gas prices so high, retailers are afraid that the holiday shopping season will be flat. So they started the shopping season earlier. Great. Before you know it, shopping for Christmas will start on January 2. No wonder everybody is sick of the holiday before the holiday even gets here. People in my neighborhood started putting up Christmas lights weeks ago.
Me, I'm resisting. Our decorations won't go up until next weekend. I've thought about potential presents, but I haven't really bought anything yet. Once again, I'll probably do my shopping online. The hubby asked if I had plans for Black Friday. When I told him no, what did he think, he said, "Well, you might have been going shopping." Yeah, like you could pay me to get near a store today.
And judging by The Girl's reaction in Home Depot, I've got the next generation well in hand.
2. It's a holiday
I really hate to break it to people, but Christmas is a holiday - a Christian holy day, as a matter of fact. Christ's Mass, the celebration of the birth of Jesus. Granted, Christmas is easier to make accessible to people regardless of of religious background. As I said above, it's a holiday about peace, joy, love, and hope, and God knows the world could use more of that.
At it's core though, Christmas is about the birth of Christ. If you get rid of all the presents, the tree, and the decorations, I can still celebrate Christmas. If Christmas is all about the food, trimmings, and presents, you're going to have a harder time celebrating without them. And while it may seem petty, I'm pretty damn sick of people saying I just need to be less sensitive.
A friend recently sent me an email purported to be an editorial written by Ben Stein. If he wrote it, kudos to him because he understands. If he didn't write it, well, too bad because I'm going to pretend that he did. In it, he says that as a Jew he doesn't feel threatened by Christmas trees or creches. And don't call them something else, it's a Christmas tree. And he's right.
Pittsburgh's Light-up Night used to kick off a Christmas season. I forget what it was called, but the concept of "Christmas" was definitely there. Then people got upset and said that "Christmas" was too exclusionary, and it should be renamed Sparkle Season. There's a great name. Then somebody said the word "season" had too many religious overtones. "Season" is religious? So I guess Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter is now a religious concept and The Four Seasons is a temple. So they renamed it Downtown Pittsburgh Sparkles. Because that really has something to do with anything. And they don't light a Christmas tree, they light the Unity Tree. Because that's not offensive to non-Christians who, just like Ben Stein, realize that it's a Christmas tree.
So there it is - my rants about Christmas. But I have one consolation. Now that Thanksgiving is over, I can get out my Christmas music and enjoy myself.
1. Commercialism gone crazy
Why is it that it seems holiday shopping starts earlier and earlier? Two weeks before Halloween, the kids and I walked into a red-and-green extravaganza at Home Depot. The Boy just looked confused. "Mom, why is it all Christmasy?" The Girl was outraged. "For Pete's sake people, it's not even Halloween yet!" Precisely.
This year, the excuse is that with gas prices so high, retailers are afraid that the holiday shopping season will be flat. So they started the shopping season earlier. Great. Before you know it, shopping for Christmas will start on January 2. No wonder everybody is sick of the holiday before the holiday even gets here. People in my neighborhood started putting up Christmas lights weeks ago.
Me, I'm resisting. Our decorations won't go up until next weekend. I've thought about potential presents, but I haven't really bought anything yet. Once again, I'll probably do my shopping online. The hubby asked if I had plans for Black Friday. When I told him no, what did he think, he said, "Well, you might have been going shopping." Yeah, like you could pay me to get near a store today.
And judging by The Girl's reaction in Home Depot, I've got the next generation well in hand.
2. It's a holiday
I really hate to break it to people, but Christmas is a holiday - a Christian holy day, as a matter of fact. Christ's Mass, the celebration of the birth of Jesus. Granted, Christmas is easier to make accessible to people regardless of of religious background. As I said above, it's a holiday about peace, joy, love, and hope, and God knows the world could use more of that.
At it's core though, Christmas is about the birth of Christ. If you get rid of all the presents, the tree, and the decorations, I can still celebrate Christmas. If Christmas is all about the food, trimmings, and presents, you're going to have a harder time celebrating without them. And while it may seem petty, I'm pretty damn sick of people saying I just need to be less sensitive.
A friend recently sent me an email purported to be an editorial written by Ben Stein. If he wrote it, kudos to him because he understands. If he didn't write it, well, too bad because I'm going to pretend that he did. In it, he says that as a Jew he doesn't feel threatened by Christmas trees or creches. And don't call them something else, it's a Christmas tree. And he's right.
Pittsburgh's Light-up Night used to kick off a Christmas season. I forget what it was called, but the concept of "Christmas" was definitely there. Then people got upset and said that "Christmas" was too exclusionary, and it should be renamed Sparkle Season. There's a great name. Then somebody said the word "season" had too many religious overtones. "Season" is religious? So I guess Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter is now a religious concept and The Four Seasons is a temple. So they renamed it Downtown Pittsburgh Sparkles. Because that really has something to do with anything. And they don't light a Christmas tree, they light the Unity Tree. Because that's not offensive to non-Christians who, just like Ben Stein, realize that it's a Christmas tree.
So there it is - my rants about Christmas. But I have one consolation. Now that Thanksgiving is over, I can get out my Christmas music and enjoy myself.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Retreat to Advance
If you're anything like me, your daily routine might resemble the following: Get up and get dressed; get kids up and dressed; feed kids quick breakfast; drop kids off at school; go to work; spend 8 hours with people who rarely listen to you and then expect you to clean up the resulting mess; go home; cook dinner; help kids with homework; run to dance lessons; bathe kids; put them in bed; do some laundry; and eventually collapse into bed around 10:00 so you can get up the next morning and do it all again. Weekends offer a little variety (grocery shopping anyone?), but it's still a lot of running. It's enough to make any sane person wish she was a hermit in the desert.
However, one need not be a complete hermit to get a little peace and quiet. A couple weeks ago, a letter arrived from a woman in my parish inviting me to the annual women's retreat. I was still in a bit of a religious funk, so my first inclination was, "Why bother?" A nagging feeling and the encouragement of my friends changed my mind. Even if I didn't discover inner peace, at least I'd be free of kids and husband for most of a weekend. That doesn't happen all that often.
Turns out, it was the right decision. I spent a lovely hour in the meditation garden, sitting under a tree in the weak November sunlight listening to an album of Gregorian chant. It was very zen. I got to hang out with women who were like me. And Saturday night, during the evening meditation - silent except for periods of very soft music - I had the great "a ha!" moment of connection I'd been looking for in the past two months. By Sunday afternoon, I felt my inner battery was fully charged. Sure, the kids mobbed me when I got home and within 10 minutes it was as though I never left, but I sure felt better able to deal with it than I had on Friday night.
This concept of "retreat," or drawing apart for inner reflection, has strong roots in most of the world's major religions. Judaism had prophets and hermits who lived apart communing with Yahweh. Muhammad found Allah in the desert. Catholicism abounds with people who used this concept of retreat both to enhance their public service and their relationship with the Divine. One of my favorites, St. Francis of Assisi, insisted upon it. Francis spent a lot of time traveling between communities, ministering to the people in whatever way they needed, usually in return for food and lodging. When this all became too exhausting (especially considering Francis had poor health), he would find himself a mountain cave to retreat to, by himself, to pray and fast. Recharge the old inner battery. And when he came down, spiritually refreshed, he would say, "Come, let us begin again."
But wait, you say. I'm not religious. I'm not even sure I believe in God. I don't need this retreat nonsense. Bullhockey.
Face it, modern life is noisy. The TV, the radio, the computer, your MP3 player - they all compete for your attention. Hours and hours of crap programs play endlessly on the bazillion TV and radio channels now available on digital cable, satellite TV, satellite radio, and now HD radio. Buy this, do that, blah, blah, blah. Yeah, there are some gems out there, but it's mostly crap. Bruce Springsteen once said, "Fifty-seven channels and nothing on." The Boss could update that to 157 channels and he' still be right.
And in the midst of all this bedlam is you. Maybe you don't attend church or feel religious or particularly believe in God. But maybe you feel anxious, tired, stressed, overwhelmed; in other words, out of touch with the universe. The Desiderata said it: You are a child of the universe, no less that the trees and the stars. Being out of touch with the universe causes you to feel "not right." And when this happens, it's not the universe's fault. What I learned on my retreat is that God - or the universe - does not abandon you. You abandon Him (or it).
The answer? Retreat. Turn off the TV and the radio. Banish the video games. Turn off your cell phone, and turn the ringer down on the home phone. Send the kids outside or have your spouse take them. Close your eyes and wrap yourself in silence. If you must have background, find soft instrumentals that soothe and fade into the background, barely noticeable. Quiet your thoughts and listen for that soft, still voice that tells you "You are here, you are mine, you are at peace." God or the universe does not shout. There is a story in the Old Testament about the prophet Elijah (or Elisha - I get them mixed up) who knew God was coming. So he fled to a cave and a thunderous wind came by. But God wasn't in the wind. A roaring fire came by, but God wasn't in the fire. Finally, a soft breeze, barely noticeable, trickled by the cave. And there was God.
Religious or not, we need the silence. We need to retreat to a place where the cell phones don't ring, and the music doesn't blare, and the TV stops turning us into mindless zombies. The great "a-ha!" moments in life don't come when you're in front of the TV or rushing the kids from activity to activity. Like the breeze in the Old Testament, they come in the quiet darkness, where all you can hear is the beating of your own heart.
Retreat is not necessary every week, or even every month. I would recommend doing it at least once a year. If you are religious, check out your local faith community and ask what's out there. If you're not religious, make your own or see if there is a secular version near you.
Retreat to advance. Sometimes, two steps backward is a good thing.
However, one need not be a complete hermit to get a little peace and quiet. A couple weeks ago, a letter arrived from a woman in my parish inviting me to the annual women's retreat. I was still in a bit of a religious funk, so my first inclination was, "Why bother?" A nagging feeling and the encouragement of my friends changed my mind. Even if I didn't discover inner peace, at least I'd be free of kids and husband for most of a weekend. That doesn't happen all that often.
Turns out, it was the right decision. I spent a lovely hour in the meditation garden, sitting under a tree in the weak November sunlight listening to an album of Gregorian chant. It was very zen. I got to hang out with women who were like me. And Saturday night, during the evening meditation - silent except for periods of very soft music - I had the great "a ha!" moment of connection I'd been looking for in the past two months. By Sunday afternoon, I felt my inner battery was fully charged. Sure, the kids mobbed me when I got home and within 10 minutes it was as though I never left, but I sure felt better able to deal with it than I had on Friday night.
This concept of "retreat," or drawing apart for inner reflection, has strong roots in most of the world's major religions. Judaism had prophets and hermits who lived apart communing with Yahweh. Muhammad found Allah in the desert. Catholicism abounds with people who used this concept of retreat both to enhance their public service and their relationship with the Divine. One of my favorites, St. Francis of Assisi, insisted upon it. Francis spent a lot of time traveling between communities, ministering to the people in whatever way they needed, usually in return for food and lodging. When this all became too exhausting (especially considering Francis had poor health), he would find himself a mountain cave to retreat to, by himself, to pray and fast. Recharge the old inner battery. And when he came down, spiritually refreshed, he would say, "Come, let us begin again."
But wait, you say. I'm not religious. I'm not even sure I believe in God. I don't need this retreat nonsense. Bullhockey.
Face it, modern life is noisy. The TV, the radio, the computer, your MP3 player - they all compete for your attention. Hours and hours of crap programs play endlessly on the bazillion TV and radio channels now available on digital cable, satellite TV, satellite radio, and now HD radio. Buy this, do that, blah, blah, blah. Yeah, there are some gems out there, but it's mostly crap. Bruce Springsteen once said, "Fifty-seven channels and nothing on." The Boss could update that to 157 channels and he' still be right.
And in the midst of all this bedlam is you. Maybe you don't attend church or feel religious or particularly believe in God. But maybe you feel anxious, tired, stressed, overwhelmed; in other words, out of touch with the universe. The Desiderata said it: You are a child of the universe, no less that the trees and the stars. Being out of touch with the universe causes you to feel "not right." And when this happens, it's not the universe's fault. What I learned on my retreat is that God - or the universe - does not abandon you. You abandon Him (or it).
The answer? Retreat. Turn off the TV and the radio. Banish the video games. Turn off your cell phone, and turn the ringer down on the home phone. Send the kids outside or have your spouse take them. Close your eyes and wrap yourself in silence. If you must have background, find soft instrumentals that soothe and fade into the background, barely noticeable. Quiet your thoughts and listen for that soft, still voice that tells you "You are here, you are mine, you are at peace." God or the universe does not shout. There is a story in the Old Testament about the prophet Elijah (or Elisha - I get them mixed up) who knew God was coming. So he fled to a cave and a thunderous wind came by. But God wasn't in the wind. A roaring fire came by, but God wasn't in the fire. Finally, a soft breeze, barely noticeable, trickled by the cave. And there was God.
Religious or not, we need the silence. We need to retreat to a place where the cell phones don't ring, and the music doesn't blare, and the TV stops turning us into mindless zombies. The great "a-ha!" moments in life don't come when you're in front of the TV or rushing the kids from activity to activity. Like the breeze in the Old Testament, they come in the quiet darkness, where all you can hear is the beating of your own heart.
Retreat is not necessary every week, or even every month. I would recommend doing it at least once a year. If you are religious, check out your local faith community and ask what's out there. If you're not religious, make your own or see if there is a secular version near you.
Retreat to advance. Sometimes, two steps backward is a good thing.
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