The Chemo Journey

1 Sam. 1:15 “And Hannah answered and said, No, my lord, I am a woman of a sorrowful spirit: I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but have poured out my soul before the LORD.”

The Chemo Journey

Preparing for the inevitable chemo Herceptin was an anxiety driven road riddled with potholes. First with the, “We need to see if your heart can handle this drug,” to “Come in the day before treatment to have your blood drawn.” All while having to say my goodbyes to the wonderful young lady who brought me this far in my Physical Therapy recovery and her team that I had grown to know and love over seven months.

A rollercoaster of emotions that I’m still not sure I’m doing the right thing but I was powering through like a champ. The heart test was tedious; take my blood, wait thirty minutes, put my blood back with some kind of drug that would identify if my heart was pumping. Into a tube after putting those lovely sticky nodule things on my chest and into the tube for twenty minutes of picture taking. I wouldn’t find out the results until chemo-day.

Even the day of drawing my blood was filled with anxiety as the lady who drew my blood was not the regular lady and it kind of hurt this time with the wiggling of the chair's arm. My arm was at an awkward position, thus the needle hurt going in and when she was done, she pressed on some cotton that didn’t feel too good but again, I was pushing through the day. Test results wouldn’t be available until the next day, chemo day. 

Chemo day arrived and my anxiety had hit an all-time high. There was no form of meditation or prayer calming me that’s for sure but again, trudge through, rain and all. I did want to go to the Mall and the Pretzel Palace where they make fresh soft pretzels. The day before we went there and met up with my son and he said he'd like to do that again on chemo day if I didn’t mind. Mind? Hubby, son and a soft pretzel equal heaven to me! And an FYI, NO, I'm not supposed to be eating it but at least I passed on the melted cheddar cheese that you could get with the pretzel. It was definitely comforting food for me in a hard time.

This was also the day the flood waters began to show signs of keeping us from getting out of the house. Hubby had been having troubles with his truck and hadn’t driven it much this winter and there was no way our already previously flooded out driveway would allow our car through. The water was rising, the substation across the road was covered, surrounded by water as I’d never seen. I was ready to cancel.

Hubby, determined to get me the doctor on Chemo Day, tried his truck, it started right up. He revved and revved, turned it off and on a couple of times and he was good to go! I wasn’t ready but he and the truck were.

As we swerved around the bend to slosh our way to the entry of our driveway, we saw what we were in for. The water around the substation was now crossing the road. The truck stalled, rev it up, stall. “Let’s go back,” I said anxiously. But instead, the next rev of the engine had us swerving on our way, up the muddy dirt road, where the ditches were almost level with the road beside them. On we went.

I had texted my son that we were on our way and would meet him at the mall at the Pretzel Palace. A relaxing visit that eased my anxiety and found me not in tears heading off to the Chemo that I was still against but trudged on anyway.

Arriving at the set time, slumped over and sad, I could feel my smile was a frown. I was not happy to be there and the thoughts of being a small child being led into a gas chamber weighed heavy on my mind. The weigh-in was grim. The hellos were stilted and the waiting for someone to come in and tell me what was next was like waiting for a dentist to yank out a wisdom tooth! I was so glad to have my husband by my side, but I could see that he too was tormented with confusion and uncertainty.

After a forty minute wait, the twenty-minute idle chit chat of the PA sent me off to ‘pick out a chair’ and they’ll set you right up. The room with the chairs was like looking at coffins to pick out. All looked like nice comfy recliners with chairs beside them for guests, but the recliners themselves looked like a deathbed. I feared that room from my very first day of diagnosis and now here I was, a victim to be sat in ‘the chair’.

As I, with a head of thinning hair sat and looked around, there was elderly bald folk hooked up by a port to get their poison. A thin young bald guy awaited his blood to be drawn and another lady waited for a shot in the stomach. Oh, the torture. I was about to cry when my doctor appeared saying he had a cold so he wouldn’t be shaking my hand today and asked if I was okay and had any questions. I had hundreds but shook my head no, tears now brimming my eyes. More idle chit chat that I didn’t hear and the nurse appeared with a needle. “You don’t have a port?” She asked quite shockingly like why are you here?
I told her no and she proceeded to stick a needle in my ‘bony arm’ and the juice flowed. For ninety minutes, with my back already in pain, I would sit as the poison flowed into my veins. I was now a victim of chemo. Outside the window, the sun briefly shone. Days on end of clouds and rain and here I was on my deathbed and the sky opened up and let the sun out to dance for a while.

After the ninety minutes were up, the nurse came back to flush something in my arm and I’d be there another ten minutes. This was almost a three-hour visit! I was hooked up to a blood pressure machine also, as this form of chemo affected the heart and they wanted to monitor me. I watched my blood pressure go from 115 to well over 140 by the time I left.

I rose to leave. Weakened, I almost dropped. My back in utter pain. Walker in hand, I made a beeline for the door, with my husband in hot pursuit. Walking past the front desk smiley receptionist says, “Is that all for today?” I wanted to tell her to go… nevermind… “I’m fine, thanks.” And walked out the door to be met by dark clouds, a chilled swift breeze and a mist starting to fall from the sky. The sun had run away too!

The chills, the pain, the anxiety, the sadness, the fear, the glazed watery eyes, the mud-puddles pretending to be roads all made their presence known. I will wallow in self-pity and figure out what I do now. Where does one go from here? 

TO BE CONTINUED…

There will be the REST of this story.
Please, no harsh criticism.

Pss. 18:4-5 The sorrows of death compassed me, and the floods of ungodly men made me afraid. The sorrows of hell compassed me about: the snares of death prevented me.

Good and Bad Days: We All Have Them

Matt. 13:48 (KJV) “Which, when it was full, they drew to shore, and sat down, and gathered the good into vessels, but cast the bad away.”

Good days and bad days: we all have them

I’m sure we all have our good days and bad days; we know they’re bad when things go wrong and we see them as good when everything falls into place like a row of dominoes. While yes, I admittedly suffer from PTSD, I myself see more good days than bad and to me, they are all positive steps toward my healing. 

Jer. 29:11 (NIV) “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

As home slowly becomes more familiar to me, I feel the healing in the core of my being. The first few weeks though, of being home, felt like an unending carousel ride. That very first Monday I was Mrs. Popular in that everyone wanted a piece of me. I had calls from the home health nurse, the physical therapist, my oncologist office and the Cancer Center’s radiation office. Emails were sounding in from my mother in law wanting to come see me, sister in law auntie and uncle, everyone wanted a piece of this broken woman and how do I tell them all to just SHUT UP in a polite manner? 

My first Monday morning was an assertion day, I was going to take hold of my surroundings, my activities, and my appointments. I was not going to be TOLD to come here, or do this or do that, I would tell THEM what I was willing to do! I was going to take back what I lost!

First up, the home health nurse, Mandy, the woman I had only met on that day I was exiting in an ambulance, yes, she could come. Physical therapist, yes she was allowed. The oncologist? I’ll see you sometime next week. The radiation nurse, I asked if it could be put off for a week as I regained my bearings now that I was home. They were fine with that, setting me up the following week for my two (week) five-day sessions. Ten treatments in all to the healing left femur.

The emails were more targeted to my husband than me because it hurt to type on my laptop. I didn’t have a bend and stretch out mobility, I had a stiff-as-a-board-lay-there-and-be- good, semblance. Computer stuff would have to wait for a spell. I’d send out a 'hey' to friends and let them know I was still alive and as I knew they would be, they were more than understanding and just happy to know I was home. 

Monday was going along smoothly except for me missing my husband who had to go to work with worry on his mind trying to remember if I was set up well enough to be alone. Since we fibbed a little to get me home, I assured him I would be fine, and I was. As scary as the surroundings were, I was HOME and that was good enough for me! 

Now keep in mind, I had not bathed in twenty days. A wipe-down at the hospital but not a thing at the nursing home! Not a wipe, not a rag, nothing! I even used my own kleenex when I had to do my business. So when my mother-in-law wanted to bring his uncle to the house because he’d be ‘in town’, I had to say no way! I was not up to ‘visitors’, I needed to HEAL. I needed time! It all felt so rushed and the kaleidoscope began with its pretty colors and I was getting dizzy.

She said she understood but could her friend from church bring out food? I think she mentioned cookies or something. I told hubby to gently say, NEXT WEEK! Dang. I loved that everyone was so concerned, but I felt like the people who just lost a family member and friends would clamor to come over and bring food at the most inopportune time. Not to be rude but please send love, condolences and give them some space and time. Not a month, just breathing room. Please, don't turn this into how you lost someone and loved those people doing that for you. I appreciated EVERY bit of stirring also. I was suffocating and I needed to BREATHE! 

All appointments set, I slept. I slept and slept some more. Now it was time to move onto healing. The home health nurse brought me a hair-washing cap. You place it on your head, rub your fingers intensely and voila, your hair is water-free washed. It worked marvelously! She supplied an ample amount of body-wipes, and hubby he produced a bucket of water and a rag where I felt refreshing water on my face for the first time in twenty some days! Moving right along. 

I did have the nurse in tears, not bawling because they need to maintain distance and composure in their job, but her eyes were brimming at the sad painful story I’d tell. I had to get it off my chest so each person, professional or family, my story spilled into their ears and leaked from their eyes. They were shocked, then amazed at the strength I carried. I made it perfectly clear it surely was not me, it was God that they saw IN me! 

My healing was nothing short of astonishing to all who were witness to me. The radiation nurses saw me go from gurney to wheelchair within a week. From assisting me onto the slab to minimal help to no help needed at all. This was happening in a ten day period of time! 

My oncologist even showed signs of wonderment at my speedy recovery time. Not only my Oral Chemo and blood cell count healing time but my physical mobility healing time. All were displaying awe and wonder and were quite vocal in letting me know that this was nothing short of amazing. Doctor’s will not touch the ‘miracle’ label, but here I was, in their face, a living breathing healing miracle!

So as I have good days and bad days, it is all a part of the intricate veins of healing. People sometimes think healing happens in the blink of an eye but they need to know and understand how to appreciate the time and effort that goes into producing a work of wonder. Noah’s Ark wasn’t built in a day, the great Pyramids didn’t appear out of thin air and Jesus Himself took nine months to make a physical show. One step at a time is truly meant to be one breath at a time, and it is never our time, it is always His time. 

All praise and Glory to God! AMEN! 

Ecc. 3:11 (NIV) “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

Rehab Story Continues: Mistakes Happen

Pss. 112:4 “Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness: he is gracious, and full of compassion, and righteous.”

Rehab Story Continues: Accidents Happen

As I said in the last post, my chemo meds never arrived after my hubby waited all day for them. After visiting me on Friday, he went home and placed a call to the online pharmacy where we get the chemo meds from. Turns out, the order was NEVER PLACED by my doctor’s office. So he went ahead and placed the order, they would now not arrive until the following Wednesday. Go ahead, you’re allowed to let your jaw drop. If me taking this Oral Chemo is so important, what on earth happened with the ordering? I don’t even think my doctor's office gave us an explanation. Hey, accidents happen, right?

Anyway, here we are on Saturday. My son would come before three if he had a 3-11pm. shift,  six o'clock after Steven left if he had an 11-7am. shift. Now with my son in his new apartment, he was closer to the hospital by about twenty minutes. His place was safely tucked right up the road from the Home, and a good thing because when hubby locked his keys in the car, my son still had a spare key from when he drove my car, to be able to just run the key up to the Home.

I thought Saturday would be a rest day in the Home, but no, the Phys. Therapist arrived about eight o'clock (before breakfast) to assist me in my fifteen minutes of physical therapy. Yes, you read that right, fifteen minutes of PT. I took it upon myself both at the Hospital and the Home to do PT throughout my day on my own. I was determined to make it to that commode without assistance! Back home, when my brother injured his hip his PT therapy sessions were well over an hour, he told my mother. Not for me, I get fifteen minutes. 

My son came and went for a visit by three, and hubby arrived for his visit after he got off of work. He works right up the road too, so no sense in going home, out of the way, when we had such short visiting time. I told him how my meds were never on time and asked if he could bring me some from home. Pain is pain as everyone knows and we NEED something to relieve the gnawing grip. If the Home wouldn’t supply, then my meds from my home would!

This would be my first weekend here and already I’ve seen differences. Well, the obvious is that the Administration nurses were off for the weekend and the young aides were left to fend for themselves. This home had a North and South wing, around thirty residents to each wing, two aides to each wing. It was under construction so the rooms were doubled up with patients, meaning four to use one bathroom, if they were able. They still needed a nurse to assist no matter what.

The cries in the hallway were deafening, the lady across from us kept yelling, “Can someone help me to the bathroom?” What seemed like forever the woman kept being told, “In a minute.” Then there were the televisions blaring, the visitors who thought it would be a good idea to bring their six-year-old to a nursing home, not knowing if it would traumatize them for life! Then the elderly men playing some kind of video games where beeps and whirs echoed.

Ray was in her wheelchair when she called for the nurse to get her into bed. It was about seven o'clock. The aide came in and told her, “Ray I’ll be with you in a minute, we have a situation out here. We’ll get to you as soon as we can.”  I saw no use in telling them that I needed to pee because I know I’d get the same thing. We’d sit and wait. We talked. I tried keeping the conversation light but Ray unleashed some bitter traumatic stuff from her past. I listened. Then she grew angry as her pain was heightening from being in the chair for too long. She pushed the button again, eight o’clock and ticking, the aide popped in with the same words but added, “Please be patient, there is only TWO of us on duty for North AND South, and lights are lit all over the place. Bert fell out of his chair and we have urine all running down the hall, it’s a mess out here, literally.” You could hear the pill cart being wheeled down the hall amid all of the commotion going on. She closed the door and left.

Nine o’clock came and here we were both still needing a tending to, Ray still in her wheelchair, in pain and I in my bed helpless against helping. Ray was now crying, and I too was silently allowing tears to stream down my cheeks. “Ray,” I cried out, “I am not going to sleep until they take care of you.” She sniffled and said, “You don’t haft ta do that. You’re tired too.”

“It’s okay Ray. I’m okay. I want you to be okay!” It was the best I could offer seeing I’m as bedridden as her, except she was left in her chair.

“I’m thore,” she cried. Her lisp could sound so endearing at times. It broke my heart. “We’re frendth aren’t we?” 

“Yes, Ray, we’re friends.”

A smell started permeating the room and I said nothing but knew, Ray had gone to the bathroom in her diaper. I could hear her mumbling under her breath how she had *expletive* herself and wanted to be transferred to another facility and how she paid to be in this place and they are PAID to take care of her.

She hit the call button again, it now being nine-thirty. “We’re almost there Ray,” a head popped in to say, “just a couple more minutes.” and the door closed. Ray was now sobbing loud and I tried so hard to comfort her but I myself needed comfort at this time.

This was hell. This is what the hellfires felt like surrounding you and you clawing to get out into some fresh air but you’re smothering, suffocating from lack of oxygen. You could feel your limbs going numb, sweat now pouring from your forehead. The screams now constant whispers as the echoes were in your head, tapping you on the shoulder mocking you and laughing saying, ‘I’m still here.’ 

The door swung open and a loud sigh came from Laura, the oxygen was leaking in, slowly, it was now ten-fifteen. “We’re so sorry,” I allowed her words of explanation to drift off as they finally tended to Ray. She needed two nurses too since she had to be placed in bed with a lift. She had sat in her feces almost two hours and she was extremely sore by this time.

One nurse came to the other side of the curtain to tend to me and I sat with my gait belt in place ready to be lifted. Only one nurse was tending to me, I said nothing when she appeared with no gloves or gown and she proceeded to lift me. I twinged in pain, “Easy please, my hip, it’s still sore from my recent surgery.” With some assistance from me, she lifted me to standing, I tightly grabbed my walker, as she let go of the belt. I said, “Oh no, please, you have to hold the belt until I’m seated, this is how my femur was broken in the first place.”  

I whispered as tears were now rimming my eyes, “Please, please be gentle with me.” She took hold of the belt and as I was almost seated, she let go. I almost plopped onto the seat but my strength and my prayer placed me gently on the commode. She just stood there, waiting for me to pee. A watched clock never runs, but my floodgates opened from holding it in for hours!  

I had my own Kleenex because they offered me nothing. I was ready to be placed back in bed. Again, amazon woman lifted frail 88-pounder me by the gait-belt, I pivoted and sat on the edge of the bed, I told her I could make it from here, I was good, go finish up with Ray.

Ray kept telling them that I ‘Thtayed awake for her’  and that I wath her real fren. I smiled my tears away and lifted my legs onto the bed. The nurses bid us a good night and wouldn’t you know it, the meds from the charge nurse finally arrived. With meds down the hatch, we both let out a sigh of relief.

“We made it, Ray.”

“We did, didn’t we! You thtayed awake for me. Thank you!”

“Not a problem Ray, we’re friends.”

"That’th right, we are. Okay, goodnight.” She was out like a light before I even got settled into bed.

I had been texting my husband the entire time we waited for the nurses/aides/whatever. He was calling left and right to the front office, he as helpless as I was. “Goodnight, Ray,” I whispered as I shut off my little nightlight.

Matt. 14:14 “And Jesus went forth, and saw a great multitude, and was moved with compassion toward them, and he healed their sick.”

The Christmas Story?

Jer. 2:11 “Hath a nation changed their gods, which are yet no gods? but my people have changed their glory for that which doth not profit.”

The Christmas Story?

I never really gave the technicalities much thought to the Christmas Story, I trusted what I was taught and went with it on the same journey as you. Some see and understand it differently and now so do I. 

Well you already know I’m ‘different’ and believe things ‘differently’ and I’m okay with that but this one had toyed with me over the years and now it hit home solidly by the Word of God. What am I going on and on about? The story of three Wise men and how they came to Jesus. 

As the story that we’ve been programmed with over the years is that of the story of the Little Drummer Boy. You know the one, where the three wise men came from afar, following a star, and presented the newborn babe with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. As I was writing a poem this morning, I sought the truth because I don’t like writing something and then being told that ‘hey, that isn’t right.’ I like to try my best to get an accurate conveyance of truth.

Matt. 2:8-11 "And he [Herod] sent them [the wise men] to Bethlehem, and said, Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also.When they had heard the king, they departed; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh."

They went into a house and saw a young child. They didn’t find a manger and a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes. That was the Shepherds who saw the babe in a manger.

Luke 2:16 “And they [the shepherds] came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.”

The Magi, taken from the link – 
“They were definitely men of learning. They were certainly men of great learning. The word Magi comes from the Greek word 'magos' (where the English word 'magic' comes from). Magos itself comes from the old Persian word 'Magupati'. This was the title given to priests in a sect of the ancient Persian religions such as Zoroastrianism. Today we'd called them astrologers. Back then astronomy and astrology were part of the same overall studies (and 'science') and went hand in hand with each other. The magi would have followed the patterns of the stars religiously. They would have also probably been very rich and held high esteem in their own society and by people who weren't from their country or religion.”

I always knew there was some twisting of [HIS]story because when one man sees a house burning in a blazing fire, another man might see a small oven fire consuming a kitchen, while yet another person might see a legal burning of a persons trash. Stories get constructed and misconstrued numerous times over the years. Some see the history in the bible as literal and me, being a poet, have always seen many portions as metaphorically divined. I don’t think God ever intended for us to pluck someone’s eye out. You don't need to chest thump and correct me here, this is me sorting this out. 

The Little Drummer Boy is a story we were sold throughout our lives that we somewhat believed. The story is kind of like the tale I was told of what was needed to fight this disease I’m fighting. I was programmed over and over to believe something only to find out that it isn’t all true and there are other ways to think about the killer disease. See there? I said killer disease without hesitation only because that was my belief for forty years. That’s about how long ago my grandmother was taken by the disease of a lifetime.

We are programmed to believe that this is a ‘killer’ disease only because we’ve heard the story over and over and we believe what we’re told because we’re a trusting species never giving rise to doubt in what we’re being fed. Literally, what we’re being fed are lies! When you read a label that says ‘All Natural’ you believe what it says never looking any closer to see what portion is all natural (usually 1% of a whole), you just buy what you’re being sold.

Chemotherapy is another story being sold to unsuspecting people. I hear over and over how it ‘cured’ so and so but, there it is, there is always a ‘but’! After destroying the immune system the ‘cured’ get sicker and sicker and some even have to deal with a recurrence and guess what you're sold, more chemo, radiation and drugs. Is it because you can’t change your lifestyle to save your life? Are you seriously not worth it? 

There’s a change that came over the world in the form of a baby who thought you WERE (and still are) worth a change from the evil that Eve brought on mankind. No, not everyone can be as strong as Jesus, but inside you, you have hidden strength that will come ALIVE when you see yourself WORTH the change! There IS change in the story, there is HISstory to be made, all you have to do is see yourself worthy. God thinks you are, do you think you are?

Job 30:18 “By the great force of my disease is my garment changed: it bindeth me about as the collar of my coat.”

Prov. 24:21 “My son, fear thou the LORD and the king: and meddle not with them that are given to change:”

Standing Strong

Prov. 24:10 "If thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is small."

Standing Strong 

Without even being aware of what tension would rise I thought a writing course would be a good soothing exercise. I thought wrong. I love writing for my blog as much as I can and it feels therapeutic. I’ve been moving along at a nice pace as healing is taking place. Feeling good about myself I wanted a distraction via a fiction-writing course from all the illness talk. I realized I don’t know how to separate my fact from fiction.

The writing course claims that you should have a completed fictional SHORT STORY by the end of six lessons. I’ve taken this course many times over the years so I knew what to expect, expect the unexpected I thought heading into the course. What I didn’t expect was a classroom of five to seven people working on their novels in progress. Writers are awesome people, as diverse as a bag of Skittles even more diverse when they’re mixed with a bag of M&M’s! 

I decided to center my SHORT STORY on Faith and Hope, characters of a fictional tale but too close to my nonfiction story for my taste. I realized I didn’t like writing fiction at all. I do have an entire novel sitting in my files untouched for years, still nestled in the first draft stages. I also have a couple of short stories in my files that I won’t take the time to send them through the rigors of being picked apart by critique. I did learn a lot this round of taking this course. Everything I taught at one time being a mentor was dismantled, I watched my work being shredded not guided in any way. I wound up rewriting my short story for a final revision and it lost all the poetic substance of the entire tale. To me, my story became do-do on a shoe.

Tension, that only I knew was taking place, began about the third week. I wanted to drop the course but I also really wanted to complete the beloved class where I originally met so many of my current dear friends thirteen years ago. I continued on being the trooper that I am until I finally completed the sixth lesson of my short story.

I wondered why I set myself up for this adversity but it’s not much unlike when I post something on facebook to get a reaction when it’s the reaction I don’t like, I tend to tense up completely. Why do I bother? That is exactly what I felt like by lesson six, why did I bother? Let me give you a bit of advice, when taking a trip down memory lane don’t expect the same sensation you felt originally. The memory is in the past for a reason, it is over and done with and cannot be recreated in any way, shape or form. Lesson learned.

I was taught that if you’re going to say something negative about someone’s work, reinforce it with something positive. I didn’t feel much of anything positive coming through my screen. The feeling may have just been my tension build-up and I, not wanting to continue, reflected the negativity I saw. In other words, it was more than likely just my irritated mind arousing the tension.

What did I learn from this session of the writing course? Anything goes. You can work on your novel in progress and you’ll receive pats on the back for defying what the true intention of the SHORT STORY course is about. You’ll be rewarded for going against the grain. You’ll be held accountable for not understanding proper punctuation and you might even feel shamed into taking a punctuation course so your writing can get better. Your words will be pulled apart like shredded cheese and tossed on the floor for you to pick up the pieces and put back together.

So basically my writing sucks. THIS is why I’m sticking to my blog writing! Fiction is not for me at this juncture in my life. Nonfiction writing whether misspelled or punctuated wrong on my blog is MY journal style writing that releases my tension and saves me days and weeks of unnecessary pressure. I thought I was ready for open criticism but I think I still have a way to go.

"Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds." 

~ Albert Einstein

Yesterday to release a ton of tension I went shopping. As anyone who knows me knows that I’m not a person who splurges on things. These past ten months my main purchases were vitamins, organic vegetables, three pairs of pants from the Goodwill and that’s about it. I’ve never acquired a taste for spending money. I wouldn’t say I’m a miser, I just like to purchase necessities over extravagances.

My mother sent me a Christmas gift back in October and she told me to buy myself something nice. You also know that my mother has no idea I’m fighting this illness. My first thought was to use the money in my fight of this disease but yesterday I woke, putting on my twenty-five-year-old winter shoes, I realized I never splurge and buy myself anything. With hubby off of work, I asked him if he wanted to go shopping and off we went. I bought two pairs of winter shoes/boots and eight nonfiction books all for sixty bucks! I’m a frugal shopper. Yay, me!

Shopping, reading nonfiction, and coloring in my adult-aged coloring books I received last Christmas released much of my tension. I am now once again on a recovering path. I think I’ll just stick to my journal style writing for a while. Just so you know, I’ve had diaries all of my life and not once did I concern myself with restructuring, grammar etiquette or revisions. I wrote to release tension and that is what I’m going to continue on my blog. Thanks for any and all understanding.

Prov. 19: 25 "Smite a scorner, and the simple will beware: and reprove one that hath understanding, and he will understand knowledge."

A True Christmas Tale - poem by Joni!

 Job 10:12 “Thou hast granted me life and favour, and thy visitation hate preserved my spirit.”

A True Christmas Tale

 A tale was told one Christmas eve,

Tis' better to give than to receive.

But I have no gift, my pockets bare,

I am but a poet, my poem I'll share.

I rose from my bed on Christmas day,

The sun was peeking down where I lay.

I crept down the stairs so I could see,

Had Santa left gifts under my tree?

I wasn't surprised, left unamazed,

I stood at my empty tree and gazed.

No gifts to give, my heart did ache,

But I would go on for Christmas' sake.

I threw on my clothes, rushed out the door,

Just what is all this excitement for?

I have no gifts to give to thee,

No presents were left beneath my tree.

So how can Christmas be happy and gay?

What is the secret that makes this day?

I swung open the door, to my surprise,

My family was sitting before my eyes.

Greetings exchanged, hugs of embrace,

Smiles that lit the entire place.

"We're glad you're here, accept this gift.

Maybe then your spirits will lift."

I saw in their eyes a special glow,

That sunk my heart, and let me know,

That they were giving with deepest love,

For God had signaled from above.

The spirit of Christmas is a radiant gleam,

That shines through the soul, in a warming beam.

I have felt that warmth throughout the year,

By spreading laughter, joy, and cheer.

But a chosen day was set aside,

For all of our arms to open wide.

So the gift I give has no ribbons or bows,

I'll give you peace that warms and glows.

I'll tell you I love you, I'll make you smile,

I'll see that your visit was worth the while.

I returned to my house, I plugged in my tree,

There sat a star gazing down at me.

I looked at the star with wondrous sight,

For God had appeared that Christmas night.

I was given the secret of Christmas eve,

Tis' better to give, than to receive.

Author’s note: I wrote this when I was 18

But it is still one of my most favorite Christmas

Poems that I wrote! May it go down in His-tor-y!

Merry Christmas to all

And to all a good night! 

Journey's End

Is. 40: 31 But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

***

 Well I did it. I took the six-week free writing course. Yes it was the one I had sworn never to step foot in again but there was a reason I went back. I had to prove to myself that I was as stable as I was last year when all the attacks took place and put me on the outside, looking in.

The assignments were the same: Characterization via your character, conflict, dialogue, senses, POV, and the finale of a short story. Whew, what a seven weeks it was. The first week was getting to know people and the new site, and that was interesting to say the least.

I was locked out of all the classrooms, except one, so the fun and excitement of the course was wiped right off the slate from the get go. I met some new folk and caught up with some old who actually accepted my friend request after last years fiasco. I was feeling welcome until I realized everyone else had the privilege of running the halls and basking in the classrooms, getting to comment on others work while I was like a prisoner, a castoff set aside in the Ripley’s Believe It or Not, to be visited and gawked at.

This was a test of my stability of mind. I could have flown off the handle, damned them all to the pits of hell, but lo-and-behold, I kept my head. I kept my head and acted like a grown woman, and respectfully continued with the lessons. My classroom was active at first with 22 students eager to learn and I could not help but wear the mentoring cap that I had donned for seven or so years prior. I was in the student’s chair and had to remember that. Even as the mentor only appeared once a week, to give tips and answer questions, the intern had his/her own college studies to attend to; the classroom dwindled, while others were as active as week one.

As one week turned into five, I found myself published in the not so famous ezine, which is really a pick of the best lessons put on display. This is where I saw others work yet I yearned to see the other classrooms, my old friends, to be a part of a community, but there I sat, idle in my classroom, twiddling my thumbs, that had three people left (so many to choose from for the ezine, eh?)  By my fifth week I was feeling hurt that no one but newcomers (and one old friend) came and read my lesson, expecting me to do the same to them, but I bit my lip and told maybe two people, I was a caged bird.

I felt on the inside that all the mentors were well aware of my status, seeing that many did not want to return because of all the DRAMA that *I* supposedly caused? One mentor, a MAIN asset, bailed on this session and has told me he may never return, or at least not for a while. Even he was sickened by the treatment I’d received.

The funny part of all this is, I was not the dramatic one last session. If my memory serves me correct, I was attacked, they spit horrible words at me and all wrote the administrator to tell him I had lost it. So he believing them, set me free from the course, but allowed me to return this session as a student, but in a locked cage, protecting himself, the mentors and myself, from BIG BAD ME! Funny isn’t it?

 
Lesson six, the short story I had in my mind from the get go, Rapunzel, was woven and spun. While my lessons were about another short story I’m writing, Rapunzel was being saved for lesson six. I’d like to post it tomorrow, grammatical errors and all. I just wanted my readers to know, this bird may be caged, but on an eagles wings, I soar!

Building a Novel ~ One block at a time

So you want to write a novel, eh?

I’d like to throw out some tips to you to get you started:

1)     Characters - You absolutely have to have characters planned out for your novel. Either in your head waiting to be birthed, or ones you’ve written for but never really gave them a home.

2)     Define these characters - give them hair color, skin color, clothes that suit them and facial features that define them. Give them personality and a voice that can carry a novel.

3)     Environment - Okay, so now you have characters, now you’re going to need a setting in which they’ll live or a world to wander through (You never know, you might be writing a sci-fi novel and you really need to discover the worlds in which they live)

4)     Premise - This is where you’ll define what your novel will be about. The beginning, middle and how you see it ending. You don’t have to adhere to the premise entirely but this will get you started in the direction you wish to go.

5)     Outline – You can, if you want, outline each chapter; again as you wish to see the story develops. You needn’t stick to this outline like crazy glue to your fingers, you just need a basic outline of all you see happening with each chapter.

6)     Timeline – As you work on the outline, this might be where you put forth a timeline. Have you missed years’ perhaps dates? Are they consistent/inconsistent with the rest of what you wrote?

7)     Editing – Not by paragraph, not by chapter, not even by the time you reach the middle. Save all edits for after you’ve written THE END can you go back and edit.

8)     Seek feedback – This is where a writing group comes in handy if you have one. I myself don’t have one these days, so my editing is done in my spare time. I read and fix things I think I miss, I read it out loud to myself because this is how the reader is going to hear it in their minds when they read it. Fixing things means my consistency and imagery and such.

9)     Edit some more- I go through each chapter doing the above. Making sure I have my handy dandy timeline ready for viewing, then I check for any grammar mistakes I may have made and tweak them to my liking.

10)  Edit some more - After the two edits to your liking, you’re going to want to give it another trip down the reading lane.

There you have it. Your novel should be a complete novel instead of a work in progress.  I know many writers do many more edits before being satisfied with a completed work, so be sure you’ve done enough to satisfy you. Then get searching for publishers! 

Book Bites: 

 Outlining Your Novel by K.M. Weiland

 The Essential Guide to Writing a Novel by James Thayer

Writing a Story

“The biggest disease this day and age is that of people feeling unloved.” ~Princess Diana

***

I’m working on a new story. The idea stemmed from a prompt on a writing site, a few years back, that went something like this: Take a familiar fairytale and rewrite it. I had already rewritten the Cinderella story. Not with the familiar waif falls for prince, slipper type story. No, it was definitely a new age tale, and poor Cindy was a victim of child abuse by her wicked stepmother! Maybe I’ll share it with you sometime. If I can find it among the mess I keep of my stories.

This new tale of mine will be – Rapunzel. I love that name so I’ll keep it. And just as I was looking up the origin of that beautiful name, a slap of inspiration hit me. I’d like to redo another fairytale if not this one, in poetry form. Since poetry seems to have lost its zest in these past years, there needs to be a revival.

Rapunzel is a German fairytale first published by the Brothers Grimm in 1812, as a collection of Children’s and Household tales. The Grimms' adaptation was from Persinette, written in 1698 by Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de La Force. Wow, that’s a mouthful for a name. Most recently, Disney took its hand at the spinning of the tale with Tangled. I’ve not seen the movie, but I’m sure my story will be wrought with the angst of a woman relinquished to a prison tower.

The idea stemmed from recent current events, but then again, much of my life IS like a fairytale, I just haven’t had the chance to taste the ‘Happily ever After’ that fairytales keep repeating. But wait, that’s not true. I have repeatedly tasted the happily ever after in many ways, shapes and forms, and as a writer, I wish to give you some of the most delicious tasting lemonade that has ever touched your lips!

I need to be mindful of taking some precautionary steps as I write this story, and my advice is that all writer’s might take these steps too as they begin a story.

1. Don’t edit until the story is complete and down on paper (or screen) This is a writer’s enemy!

2. Use your thesaurus so as not to overuse or repeat words with the same meaning. A thesaurus is a writer’s friend!

3. Write smooth imagery and senses. Let the story flow like a babbling brook.

4. Show, don’t TELL the story. Readers, whether children or adults, seek imagery and you need to use it as fluently as #3- imagery; senses

5. Have dialogue that is believable to the story. Readers will pick up on ragged dialogue. Scarcely use the he said, she said tags. (know how and when to use them)

There you have it. Now I need to go work on my story, alone in my tower. Thank you and I hope you return for the unveiling!

The Making of a Story

Matt: 25:15 And unto one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one; to every man according to his several ability; and straightway took his journey.
***

Here’s the Long and Short of it:

You may want an outline if this is a novel, this will be the foundation of your story, a framework on which you are going to build a solid, cohesive tale. Without it, your story could crumble down around you midway through your first draft. Outlining first may make the difference between a powerful story with depth or a mediocre tale. Which will boil down to an accepted submission or a rejection.

An outline will force us to think through our story piece by piece. It shows us quickly and precisely: (1) the depth of our principal character's problem; (2) if our story sufficiently resolves that problem; and (3) whether our plot logically takes the character from his problem to the eventual resolution.

So start by jotting down the kind of conflict that concerns your main character. With this information in front of you, you're ready to begin your outline.

Using an outline to discover the character's innermost conflict can lead you to a very rich story. A shallow story about a loser who throws away his gifted life after one mishap may leave the reader with an empty experience.

Let's look at the outline:

Plot example:
a) josie finds God (spiritual guidance)
b) josie needs attention (inner struggle)
c) josie uses drugs and alcohol (the dark force)

Theme: Man against himself (or woman) in other words, the conflict
Problem: The affects of drug use
Resolution: Leaning on God to help
Conclusion: healing through diverse measures

Outlines don’t need be lengthy epistles, nor should they take long to complete. If you can't seem to finish your outline, this may be a sign that all is not well with your story idea. If you're stuck, ask yourself: does your character have a compelling enough problems around which to build a story? Does your resolution solve your character's problem? Do your plot developments logically take the character from his problem to his resolution? If not, can you come up with a series of events that do?

I hope I’m not confusing you with the term OUTLINE. The outline is like a short story (500-1500 words) basically giving us all kinds of tidbits into one crammed piece of work. This is your story in a nutshell.

You may choose to write a short story instead, using all of the elements identified here:

1. An opening conflict
2. Complication 1
3. Complication 2
4. Complication 3 (optional)
5. Complication 4 (optional)
6. Crisis
7. Falling action (optional) -this is where the crisis tries and resolves itself.
8. Resolution - this is where the crisis DOES get resolved.

Think outside the box and start being the creator of a masterpiece. Build your story like a pair of marble steps, then let the rain wash over your words and slide down and conclude your completed story!

Most of all, Write Right!

Rom. 1:10 Making request, if by any means now at length I might have a prosperous journey by the will of God to come unto you.

Building a Story

Proverb 24: 3 Through wisdom is an house builded; and by understanding it is established:

Brick by brick

Everybody has a story…

Are you one of the people who think that you have no story to tell? I’ve heard so many times in my life from many different people in many walks of life, “Have I got a story to tell you!” Me, being a writer has the urge to say, “Do tell!” But more often than not I just listen.

Listening to people tell me of their day, their past, their hopes for the future all spurn in me ideas to write. Normally I think to myself, ‘What if this were to happen or what if that were to happen?’ and then I go to my keyboard and write.

Writing for me has become my right arm, without it I’d be a hopeless mess. I take all the whispered tales I hear and turn them into my own. Not necessarily using the persons entire tale but I gather a moral from the story, write about it putting in my own characters and from there the idea has spawned in me the ability to build a story.

Every story should have a beginning, a middle and an end. It is a little like building a house out of brick instead of straw. If we construct the story from a sound foundation and build it layer by layer (the structure, the outer walls, the inner walls) we can finally conclude that we have sealed our story with a firm design and are ready to show it to the world. That would be after we furnish the house (story) with lots of imagery using our senses!

We have five senses to display in our story (some use six.) We have sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and the sixth being the unknown! In the construction phase you want to SEE the house being built, what sounds do you hear while it is being shaped? Do you smell sawdust in the air? Apple pies being baked at the neighbors, wafting by tickling your nose? Can you almost taste the newly lain sod? Will you explain how the new carpet feels under your bare toes?

Now dapple in the unknown elements, mix it all together and you’ve built a house (story) out of brick! Leaving all of these integral elements out of your story, you will see a house made out of straw and slowly thread by thread it will fall apart and never be seen by anyone.

Are you game at trying your hand at writing?

Writer...heal thyself

John 10: 9 I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.

***

Our writing is a healing tool and just as recently as today, I realized it even more from a comment on this here blog and another one, The Drums in the Deep

I know I’ve written about it before, I may have even hammered it into your brain that writing is a form of healing. To those of you writer’s who swear that they only write for the sheer joy of it, I’m wondering if you’re kidding yourselves?

I mean, maybe you had the perfect childhood, the best education handed to you, a loving mother and a father but in the inkwells of your mind, you might be writing because of the angst that it took to get you where you are today. I don’t know for certain, but I still believe writing, whether fiction or non-fiction is a release of inner energy that was subdued all these years.

If you didn’t get the words, whether imaginary or truth, out onto the page, you would feel like a caged bird waiting for the flight of a lifetime. Writing is carrying you on the wings and a prayer. Release it. It will do your heart and soul good.

I want to tell my story, all its pains and ugliness, but sometimes I think, “Will my family like what I write?” Of course not, who wants to read that a brother was allowed to molest his sisters and that, the father, being an alcoholic knew nothing and when he did find out, lived in denial. A mother and father who clung to one another, overlooked the welfare of their six kids, all in the name of love.

How about having six kids who all turned out to be alcoholics and all found healing in their own way, whether through A.A. through the healing of the Lord, or sadly through denial. Imagine kids going through life with no parental support at a baseball or football game. Imagine a brother becoming a kung- fu master and never having his mother there at the winning tournament. Imagine a writer being born but never set free.

In the story, do I lay blame? No. I give hope to those out there that might suffer also. I listen daily to my mother as she says, “I was a good mother. You kids always had food and your father worked every day of his life.”  This is true, but ask any one of us, if we ever really knew my father. He lived in the house, but he was a stranger until we grew up and his health issues made him see what he missed with us. Mother and dad will be married, I think it is 56 years now.

Mother always said this, “Your husband will be with you for life, your kids will grow up and leave home.” Yes mother, that is exactly what we did. Now as she sits in a retirement community with my father, she wonders, “Where have my kids gone? Why aren’t they visiting and calling me?”

Change my past? Never. I am who I am because these instances shaped and molded me to the woman I am today. I am a God praising, Jesus rejoicing woman who lives day by day grasping the truth of all that has gone on before.

In essence, my gift, my talent, was given to me to heal as I grow. I’m not perfectly healed, maybe never will be. But through the grace of God, I am SAVED.

Why not use the tool that you were blessed with and find your healing today. Maybe your family won’t like it, but your soul will. Which is more important? Is your family going into eternity with you? Think about it.

The Theme of Things

Theme ~~ what is it and why do writer’s need the haunting lure of it to reign in the reader?
***

It is good practice to carry a theme throughout your story. The theme of your story is usually implied through other elements, such as point of view, setting, imagery and the tone set throughout your piece of work. The theme becomes illuminated through these elements of style.

The theme is the underlying consciousness of your work. It is a central idea running like a stream throughout your work making it come together like cogs on a machine. Your theme will be the bonding of you and the reader, where he/she has a lightbulb moment, grasping what you have conveyed. If you have no theme, more than likely, you have no story that will glue the reader to your words and pages.

Sometimes the theme is not planned and often it changes in mid-writing. You had planned on your theme to be about the acceptance of death on humanity, but something happened along the typing path that had you (unconsciously) shifting to the beauty of mortality.

An idea is of the broader spectrum of the rainbow, where as the theme becomes subjective without limitations to you or your reader; over the rainbow so-to-speak. It is like feeding to your reader what he was thinking to be a lighthearted comedy, instead he received a thought-provoking piece of art that touched him profoundly.

If you’ve written 2500 words and haven’t a clue as to what your theme is, maybe go back and re-read, seeing if you missed something. It is possible that even you, the writer, missed the boat.

The theme is the underlying canvas to which you place the paint. You pick up a paintbrush (that looks an awful lot like a pen) and in a whimsical spin you begin creating art with words. As you feel the artistic flow being created subconsciously you will be spilling part of your sight and wisdom onto the canvas creating …a theme.

1.Don’t force a theme ~ It can’t be done and will come off as preachy or forced.

2.Write what you know ~ Writing what you have experienced in life and the hardships is perfect for the theme setting to begin. In fiction embellish your heart out.

3.Use a psychological approach ~ Think depth when you write. Is there a deeper meaning than what you had anticipated?

4.Try subtlety ~ Being subtle makes the reader do the thinking on many levels.

5.Do NOT struggle ~ Struggling to find a theme or to make your theme work will also assist you in losing the personality of your characters. Writing should come naturally, the theme will surface without your realization. Accept the theme you have and don’t try to change it. Natural flow is best.

Write Right friends!

Are You a Writer?

Acts 14:15 And saying, Sirs, why do ye these things? We also are men of like passions with you, and preach unto you that ye should turn from these vanities unto the living God, which made heaven, and earth, and the sea, and all things that are therein:
***

Are you a writer or a teller of stories? There is a difference you know.

A teller of stories is one that can evoke visual images just by verbally communicating words or writing them down before the thought gets away. But that’s just it, its a story written down.

Now a writer, that’s a whole other ball game. Anyone basically can tell a story, but a writer? Now he/she needs to tell a story, revise it twenty times, edit it, grammarize it, (as opposed to glamorize), and then the writer needs to sell it or put it in storage. A writer publishes whether it is in blog form or not, on the net or magazines, works for pennies, writes for months, possibly years and has not one dollar bill hanging on the wall declaring, “My first dollar made writing!”

If this is you, then you are a writer!

I notice a lot of new young writers think that writing is all about telling a story. Not SHOWING you a story visually. A writer evokes feelings in the reader that sometimes he never knew was there to begin with. The young writer also thinks that grammar and punctuation are for the editor’s desk and that they don’t really have to worry about things like that, they’re writers after all.

Allow me to tell you this, writing is not separate from grammar. It all fuses together to form a complete work and sending out a sloppy, grammatically challenged piece of work is like sending you to the electric chair, and the outcome isn’t going to be pretty. Ever see The Green Mile? Nope, not pretty at all.

A writer does his/her homework! Okay, I can understand my visually hindered blog friends, a screen reader can not tell you that their is not there. You are an exception to the rule. There is no excuse for the people who can see the error but don’t fix it or doesn’t educate themselves to see if they have it right to begin with.

Writers need to be educated before you post your work! If you are in the English speaking country, then by all means, learn the English language. If you are in a foreign country, learn your language, the correct grammar and how to submit a worthwhile piece of art. Don’t let a comma or misspelled word get you tossed in the trash. Do your homework and then click POST, or SUBMIT. It will truly make the difference between the word PUBLISHED and REJECTED.

Using the Flashback

Flashback Friday...

Flash back to a point in time. Last night? No, thanks anyway. The day is done we go on and we flashback to a place in time where we’re going to add to the story, enhance what you’ve written and give the reader more insight into your character.

We use flashbacks to reveal something in our characters, the antagonist or protagonist, that the reader doesn’t know about. I remember reading The Haunting of Hill House and being led down multiple parts of Eleanor’s personality through her flashbacks and insight to what she was experiencing in the here and now. (That’s an excellent book by the way.)

Some writer’s use the flashback tool without the reader even aware that they are using it. The flow is effortless, the flashback keeps the pace with the rest of the story, and it is never over-used to where you’re reading nothing but flashbacks.

Have you noticed in movies, the way flashbacks are used? They can be a tool for screenwriters too. How about in the movie The Sixth Sense, we get a glimpse of the character and through the use of Flashback we get a darned good ending to the whole story.

I understand that the flashback is sometimes necessary to the movement of the story, but over-done and you lose the reader. You need the FB like you need your morning coffee, and it will taste just as fresh and creative to the reader.

Writer’s Digest has an excellent article on the Flashback and how to use verb tenses, to shift the scene. Be careful though because you have to know the POV (Point of View) that you are in as a writer and which tense you began the book with.

I remember a time in my childhood when things were simpler, I never worried about bills, actually I never worried about life, it flowed for me without me even being aware. Then the time came I ventured out on my own (at 17) because I was a big girl and then all hell broke loose. Life happened, spun out of control and segued into my future. Nuff said.

So what are you, writer, going to write about? Are you going to tell a story without a flashback? Making everything clear from word one? Or are you going to tease the reader a bit with a dangling piece of chocolate and carry him down memory lane so he/she can see where the character has come from, where they’ve been and where they’re going.

It’s all up to you. You are in the creative driver’s seat and you need to head down the highway of bringing a story alive! I only hope that I’ve helped in some way of getting the points across for you to begin!

Write on writers!