Pretty Pictures (Get Messy Art Journal Blog Hop)

26
Mar

Despite seeming like one more dabble in a long list of dabbling, art journaling has been a really helpful tool for me for over a year now. Sometimes I use it as a “prayer language” if you will — a way to commune with God and work through things for which I’ve yet to find language. Other times, it’s a valuable creative expression for me. Because writing has been challenging (writing here refers to making forward progress on the novel I’m working on…along with forming consistent cohesive thoughts to submit to other online venues), I’ve been using a different form of that drive to create and have been putting things in my Etsy store, as well as guiding some art journaling workshops.

I’d like to share some more images with you. Many of these, but not all, are in response to prompts given by the Get Messy Art Journal group. A little background on them: for a small fee you get a lifetime membership. They offer tutorials, inspiration, and examples, and even just the tips on how to photograph your pages has been helpful. I’m going to leave a bunch of links at the bottom of this post, and these are other people who have also joined the Get Messy group. If you’ve got a minute, it’d be interesting (and I know they’d appreciate it) if you popped over to see their pages.

I’m grateful to have this space to share this journey with you. Thanks for being such a supportive group.

If you want to see the other takes on these prompts and just other styles people have, here are seven other people who are taking part in this blog hop and the Get Messy bunchafun.

Karyn http://karynscraftingobsession.blogspot.com.au/
Lauren www.lauren-likes.com
Rebecca http://daintydora.co.uk/
Keshena http://prettypaperandcoffee.com
Kimberlee http://scrapsandsass.blogspot.com
France http://bananafishstudio.com
Nina www.meinlebeninscraps.blogspot.de

What do you think? Do you ever get a craving to mess around with paints? Could you even see these images? — I was worried they might not load for some people. Thanks so much for reading!

No shortcuts, no Passes

23
Mar

It took me forty-five minutes to drive there, but I barely noticed. I didn’t have a good grasp of time; my attention was elsewhere. I think even if time marched by playing a tuba it would barely have registered (I probably wasn’t the safest driver on the road). So forty-five minute drive up felt like a blip, and the forty-five minute drive home was a good recovery time so I didn’t look like I’d been crying. Although, I probably always looked like I’d been crying…because usually I had been, or if not fully crying all the time, then on the brink of it.

Something told me to get help. Something inside me said I’d better call for reinforcements ’cause I was working above my pay grade.

Thus I found a counselor who was probably going to be a good match with my personality (I have counselor friends so that helps in weeding through the seemingly boundless choices) who happened to be forty-five minutes away. Worth it, if the counseling helped to assuage the gushing pain from losing my dad. I’d have been willing to drive for hours to make that happen.

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When my husband and I were first dating and also in the early years of our married life, if we had a disagreement I would want to address it right away. I’d want to talk it out and work through it. I felt very unsettled until we had come to some conclusion or found a middle ground of compromise — an action plan, if you will.

Need more communication? Set aside a specific time to connect each day so things are kept current.

Not sure about the finances? Decide in advance how much you’ve got to spend that week and stick to it.

How are we going to coordinate schedules to make summer plans work smoothly? Pull out the calendars and mark ’em up with who’s going where and when.

This drove my husband a little batty (I’m putting words in his mouth, but I think he’d agree). It must have felt like constantly making New Year’s resolutions every single day.

He wasn’t always ready to crush a problem the way I was. He might first need to be made aware of the issue. Then if it was deemed to really be a problem, he’d need time to analyze it and consider the different aspects of it. And one possibility was that there was no resolution to be made.

Hubba-whuh??

No resolution? No action plan? No CLOSURE???

You’ve got to be kidding me.

This approach caused problems for me in many ways. It required patience — not my strong suit. It required thorough analysis — again, not always my area of expertise. And it required an ability to acknowledge that some things could not be given a clean answer — for sure not my forte at the time.

In this period (which may have lasted longer than I care to admit) I found it challenging to discover my own propensity for being defensive and reactionary. I also have a great imagination, which can be less-than-helpful in conflict situations. The longer something dragged out, the more imaginary issues I infused it with and the more complex I made the problem. But in trying to force the discussion before he’d had time to mull it over, I was bullying my own agenda through. It would actually lead to more conflict, since then we’d have to unravel the additional subject of our different ways of processing problems.

What a headache.

I used to hear people wait to bring things up with their spouses, and I thought it was such a funny way of coming at something. If you wanted to talk about something, you talked about it, the moment it popped into your head, which was usually one nanosecond before you brought it up. What was this waiting business? Why would you need to wait to talk about something if it was important to you, and if you were talking to someone who loved you? It made no sense to me.

It does now.

Waiting to talk to my husband about something is a consideration to his process. It’s appreciative of the way he ticks. It’s not a matter of manipulation, nor is it a form of being subservient. It’s a matter of courtesy. It’s also ends up being better for me, since if I address every little blip that pops into my head, I’ll be addressing things that end up being much smaller in significance, and I’ll waste a lot of mental and emotional energy inconsequential stuff.

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When I started going to the counselor, I thought she’d have some solutions for me. I expected her to recommend a few books, maybe a YouTube video I should watch, even some natural supplements I should try. I figured we’d confront the issue of kids, deal with it and be done.

She gave me nothing.

There was nothing she could give me that would deliver what I wanted from her.

I wanted to find a loophole.

I wanted a shortcut.

I wanted to bypass feeling so horrible all the time, feeling like I couldn’t gather a thought, like I was walking around with my head in a sound-proof helmet with a tinted visor.

There was no way she’d be able to offer me anything to help with any of that.

What I needed was to settle down into the grief and quit trying to leapfrog over it. I wouldn’t be able to speed it up, and more time would have to go by before I could have any hope of feeling those things less frequently.

Did I mention that I started seeing the counselor in September? My dad passed away at the end of June.

I guess you could say I was trying to get a jump on that grieving thing, really trying grab hold of it and get it all out, rip off that Band-Aid.

It’s a wonder the counselor didn’t toss me out of her office.

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There’s no short cut in grief. You can’t expect to face the thing head-on and somehow beat it into submission. You can be present in it, mindful of your needs and respectful of your own process. There’s no closure that I can see, no end point. My dad keeps on being gone and missing out on stuff he ought to be here for. That’s not going to change. He will forever miss out from this point forward, and we will forever miss out. There’s no amount of processing or action-planning that can alleviate that.

Yes, maybe counseling will end up helping. Maybe if I can be clear about what I hope to gain from it (besides catapulting me over the sorrow) I’ll benefit from it. I’d better if it takes me forty-five minutes just to get there.

What’s your view of the benefits of counseling? Have you had times when you felt it would be helpful? How do you “get the most” out of counseling — or is that the wrong mindset?

Remember, this Medical Mondays series is open to anyone who might want to share. Just contact me if you’re interested in guest posting, and we’ll talk details. Tell your friends!

Legitimate Journeys

20
Mar

There are people who are solid in much of what they do. They have a plan, they stick with it. They don’t question the “why” of things, and they are content. Their journey is sincere, their faith is genuine, and they’re dedicated, upstanding members of their communities and their lives. That journey is a legitimate journey.

I’m realizing I might not ever be one of those people.

Instagram: tclmn

That’s not to say I’m the opposite of them. I’m also sincere and genuine. However, it appears that my journey might look much different than theirs, specifically my journey of faith. My faith is real even if it’s messy, and I must work to affirm that my journey is also legitimate. It takes a certain amount of vulnerability and willingness to admit that I’m more like “one of these kids is doing their own thing” as the PBS show used to sing. I don’t know that I aspire to become more like the non-questioning-types, but I just sort of assumed it would eventually happen, that maybe along with maturity or a certain number of years I’d mellow into a version of myself that’s closer to them. I’ve long known there are seasons of faith, times of drought and times of plenty, and that over the course of a lifetime a person will see ebbs and flows. I just thought I’d out grow the tendency to ask why.

Let’s just say, It ain’t happening.

It appears that I am born to question, to wrestle, to see inconsistencies between what was said and what was then implemented, to be able to hear Christian-ese even though I’m steeped in it. It’s not something I try to feed. I try to be careful to not base my worth or identity on going against the stream. It’s just something that keeps coming up.

It’s like when you suddenly become aware of a beeping coming from another room of the house when you’re trying to have a conversation with someone. You can’t NOT hear it until you break off your conversation and investigate the beeping (and in this example, turn it off).

It seems my ear may be tuned to the beeping question why.

It also makes me wonder if other people can hear it, and are just trying to act like they hear nothing.

Can you recognize different seasons of faith in your life? What season are you in right now, and how can you tell? What questions do you find yourself asking when it comes to matters of faith?

Creative pursuits are healthy Pursuits

16
Mar

Today you’ll see a short list of different articles and websites that document the benefits of pursuing creative outlets. This is by no means exhaustive, but meant to whet our appetites for incorporating small acts of creativity into our lives, or helping us see where we’ve already have worked these into our regular routine, maybe even unknowingly.

We’re all familiar with the stereotype of the eccentric creative person, plagued by substance abuse and unmet deadlines, stumbling around the city while mumbling to herself about changing the wording on page 78 or some encoded rant about a Muse. These ideas don’t reflect the best parts a life spent in pursuit of creative expression. These are the shadow side, the side when a person (who may’ve been somewhat fragile to begin with) allows their drive to become obsession and their discipline to become enslavement. That’s not what we’re talking about.

While creativity is a mysterious thing, that doesn’t have to mean it’s somehow malevolent. Tapping into our creativity doesn’t mean we unleash some pent up darkness (although, let’s be honest, a little aggression thrown down on a canvas does release some inner negativity in a constructive way). It means we bring out to play a child-like part of ourselves we’ve ignored — we’re big grown-ups now, after all — , a part that is willing to try new things without the expectation of instant mastery, a teachable part that is curious and adventurous. It is this part we engage when we allow ourselves to express our creativity, in whatever form that may take.

We’re talking about the freedom that comes with play, the ingenuity that develops when you allow your mind to wander and make connections between seemingly unrelated things, and the exploration of purpose and wellbeing that comes as you discover the intrinsic fullness of exercising your brain and your heart through creative outlets. Sound good?

http://mrg.bz/tO0tgY

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Here’s the brief roundup of just a few websites with information about the healthiness of creative endeavors.

An article researched by people at the website Art and Healing.org lists the health benefits from different creative activities, as well as different movements (yoga, tai chi, etc.). Another article, this one from News in Health, cites the benefits of listening to music, doodling, writing, and other creative activities. It stresses that you don’t have to be a professional artist in order to reap the positives of artistic activities.

This article by Be Brain Fit includes a video that discusses the benefits of art therapy.

This article offers an interview with an art therapist, and in my own experience with art journaling, I echo her statement that “the point” isn’t about the end product but about the process. And I love this piece from Psychology Today about the merits of meaningful activities done with our hands, not just mindless key-tapping or scrolling, but the act of transforming something, be it veggies for supper, yarn and textiles, or paper and paint.

Are you a little more visual? Need to see something in action? Here’s a short experiment in art therapy which measured its influence on happiness: In this video they even say you don’t have to be an artist in order to see the positives that can come out of artistic expression (and it’s from Soul Pancake, which is just a super fun, sweet phenomenon).

And finally, here you can watch a program about people who’ve been diagnosed with cancer and how exploring the arts adds to their wellness and sense of fullness.

Creativity is a wide open field, with room to spread out and inclusive of many different forms. Don’t be too quick to discount yourself from the party.

I’d love to hear your responses, and whether you feel you take time to invest in this important part of yourself. Please chime in in the comments, and be sure to share what form your creativity takes.

Sometimes plans come Together

12
Mar

Did you grow up watching the A Team? I know I’m dating myself by asking, but maybe you’ve seen re-runs. Oops, dated myself right there too, didn’t I?

Back to the A Team.

Do you remember their black van with the red stripe, those characters and their catch phrases?

“I pity the fool…”

The guy they called “Face” because apparently he was so handsome? (Wonder if that guy ever got over finding out that he wasn’t all that handsome?)

And my favorite, “I love it when a plan comes together” said by the guy with gloves, chomping on a big cigar.

Being a child of the 80’s, I’m sure it provides fuel for cult classics.

It may also provide cause for psychotherapy, because “I love it when a plan comes together” has been true for me. I DO love it. I enjoy planning things and watching them come to fruition.

There’s just one tiny problem…

When the plans DON’T come together. When the plan doesn’t work out. When all the best arrangements and orchestration goes down the tubes and you’re left with a big rats’ nest of problems, similar to Bon Jovi’s look during their Hair Band days. The internal decision is there – do you pout and withdraw or go with it? Can you get over it? Can you allow for the unknowns, leave room for the not-always-negative improvised and natural moments that come when we don’t orchestrate every.single.detail?

It might be challenging for some, easier than you’d think for others. Which way do you lean?

http://mrg.bz/cNrdDm

Want to share a story of plans gone awry? We’d love to hear from you!

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(This is a short link up with Five Minute Friday, hosted by Kate Motaung. We let ourselves write without listening to the inner critic, just write for five short minutes and put it out there. Then we get to see all the ways people interpreted the prompt, all the different ideas people have. It’s a lot of fun, with people from all over the country, and it’s open to anyone, so if you’re interested, click on Kate’s name and add your five minutes!)

Depression is more than a Hashtag

9
Mar

I’ve gotten to know Kate a bit through a shared online writing group. She’s basically amazing. Ask her about her stage makeup (is that what you call it when you can transform yourself completely with makeup?) or about her taste in fairy wings and you’ll get an answer from an expert. I asked her to share today about her depression, because if you look only at her social media photos, you’d have no idea she ever feels anything but jaw-droppingly put together. And I think that’s the way certain health elements can be — hard to sympathize with because a person is able to get through a day or may show few outward signs of distress. But we on the outside have no idea what it took for that person to do what had to be done.

Here’s Kate’s post, and please help her know her voice is important by showering her with glitter and love in the comments.

http://mrg.bz/e84IRn

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I turned my depression into a hashtag.

Because “real” depressed people prove how depressed they are by advertising it on the internet for all to see and scrutinize. Ahem. Just kidding.

Actually… I did do it for the sake of visibility. By definition, a mental illness originates in your brain. And because, like most humans, I keep my brain stored between my ears, it’s hard to know what depression looks like. It’s like bronchitis; I can’t see the tiny cactus spines growing in my lungs, but I feel them trying to claw their way out of my chest like a baby xenomorph.

Depression is like a metaphor wrapped in a cliche cultural reference.

The way people view depression is through the lens of popular culture, which hasn’t been especially kind or empathetic about it. Portrayals range from demented invisible rabbit hallucinations, to montages of tween girls sitting in their pajamas, staring out the window. Granted, the latter is more relatable to the truth about depression, but it isn’t the only truth. I still have good days, even when I’m fighting depression. I still leave the house, I still eat meals, I still talk to people. Depression just makes all of those things extremely difficult. That isn’t hyperbole; I have to talk myself into following a routine, despite feeling like the saddest doll in the doldrums — or I wind up feeling like I am actually losing it. Like… I’m not even remotely in control of my body or brain. This we will call the “danger zone”. We do not go to the “danger zone”, for it is dark and full of terrors.

But despite running a blog dedicated to Anxiety and Depression advocacy and awareness, I don’t find myself able to talk about depression as readily as a seasonal malady. It’s too difficult to make people understand; it’s not just being sad all the time. It’s just as painful as have a physical illness–sometimes more so. Which makes people super uncomfortable, like they don’t want to talk about me having a problem in my brain because that idea is just gross. …and yet, on Facebook, people talk about the color of their mucus and how many times they’ve thrown up.

Excuse me! Gross! You’ll talk about bodily fluids, but you won’t even listen to me talk about pain that you can’t even see?

I have lost friendships over depression. But, despite the temptation, I have never disowned a friend for having pneumonia. Why is this disconnect between discussing physical vs. mental illness so very rift-like?

It makes me want to vomit. So… I turned my depression into a hashtag of my own invention: #7daysoflight

I committed to one week of total transparency about my depression–but I advertised it as a beauty campaign (because remember, people think depression is icky). I pledged to spend one week posting one photo a day of myself in an outfit, complete with hair and makeup. Naturally, there are people who do this every day of their life, and I applaud them for it.

When my depression is at its worst, the thought of putting on makeup is frankly just impossible, let alone curling my hair and picking out clothes that actually match and aren’t made of Lycra.

I feel better when I am in full regalia, however, so it made sense to me that spending one week keeping myself together physically might help me mentally. And help me be SEEN for once.

It did help me feel better. It also didn’t. The thought of having more to do in the mornings was stressful, which meant starting my day already frustrated. It meant pulling myself out of bed and climbing a hill made of lipstick tubes and bronzer and fake eyelashes–for a picture. To put on the internet.

Did it help people really see me, though? Not as far as I can tell. Because I didn’t make it a conversation. I made a gallery of seven photos, each showing a day of triumph, which was very visible to me–but I never talked about how I had championed my depression each day. I just posted seven versions of my face looking more put together than usual.

What does a depressed person even look like?

I don’t really talk about having bad days on Facebook in general, and I curate my image so carefully on social media that there aren’t even any candid photos of me, really, unless they were approved before someone posted them. Because never do I want to appear as anything other than this carefully woven basket-case. People know I’m “a mess”, but if you look at my profile, it’s unclear if I’m messy because I’m constantly painting, or because I have assumed the cliche title as compliment bait.

And admittedly, I like attention. In certain controlled situations, the likes of which I have created with my own cunning. But I’m an Introvert as well as depressed and anxious, so I don’t actually like baring my real problems.

That’s where we have a huge problem with mental illness visibility in the first place: the people who suffer do not want to even attempt to be seen, because people without mental illness do not want to talk about it. That’s what it feels like. So we don’t speak up about what it’s really like to be prisoner to your own body. So the stigma holds, and we hear people called “crazy” because the victims are invisible.

I have a confession to make: I cheated at my own challenge. I took a day off of the internet. I sat around in the comfiest clothing I own, and I went nowhere near social media. And the next day, I posted two photos: one I claimed was from my internet-free day, and one from that day. The internet-free day photo was actually from several weeks ago. I wanted to be invisible.

But what I am and was feeling over those seven days? Several things, on and off. Most days, even when I’m doing pretty well, my hands just ache a little bit. I’m prone to small headaches, but I combat it with lots of stretching and drinking water constantly.

And when it’s bad?

Joints aching so badly that my hands are nearly numb

A headache so terrible that my body starts to try to put me to sleep

Stomach pains and a severely disrupted digestive system, which makes me wary of all food and not want to stand or walk

Mood swings, which leave me angry or upset about absolutely nothing (or ten times more reactive to small things)

Inability to focus on any one task

Insomnia

My hair falls out in clumps
Heightened paranoia and dastardly intrusive thoughts
Night terrors
Little or no enjoyment of things I normally like
Difficulty driving
Panic attacks, which leave me short of breath and hyper-aware of possible triggers

The list goes on… and that’s just what depression does to me, nevermind all the symptoms of anxiety that I experience on a particularly rough day.

Yeah. It’s gross. To live it.

But despite being frustrated that sometimes I am very sick, I’m really not ashamed of it. Because there is no room for shame in my body when all that other stuff has taken hold. I’ve failed myself in only one instance lately, in this seven day challenge: I didn’t allow myself to be visible. To turn a phrase, I advertised the armor instead of the war.

I spend so much time listening to my body and validating my own feelings, and yet I didn’t extend myself that courtesy at a prime opportunity. So now, my depression is still invisible, and I have seven pictures of myself looking put-together, no different than the tons of selfies I take on a regular basis (I’m team selfie — if you feel good about yourself, there’s no good reason not to share that with others!).

The truth about becoming visible is that I have to overcome my fear of appearing broken. Sometimes I am broken, and sometimes I just want to tell people that I’m not doing very well, but that I’m working on it and not to worry.

In order to de-stigmatize talking about mental illness, I can’t rely on other people to see the truth behind the projected image. I have to change my language to a format the general masses can understand (and it has nothing to do with bodily fluids).

So here’s what I am today: not broken, small headache, and out of all the joints in my body, only my fingers are aching. Outfit? Lycra pajamas–but they’re matching. No makeup, no intrusive thoughts. Hopeful, overwhelmed, but putting my energy towards letting go of today’s fears and embracing the gifts of the day.

See? That wasn’t so bad.

Bio: Kate is a Portland-based writer, artist and mental health advocate. She is appreciative of Jane Austen, a coffee snob, and a lover of Young Adult fiction. Visit her at thehonestbrain.wordpress.com for more information about her journey to better mental health, as well as testimonies from other mental health champions.

Double takes and obnoxious Color

6
Mar

It’s the end of the week; time to blast you with a vision impairing burst of color. Or at least that’s what seems to have happened this week. It looks like I forgot to allow for much white space, and that goes for the art journaling as well as in my life. It’s been a busy week — have you found that happening for you as well?

Here’s a little something to push you over the edge into the weekend.

Done on a sheet of watercolor paper — not my usual approach

The next one came out of a challenge from Get Messy Art Journal, a fun site with prompt, tutorials and challenges. I’d been saving the front page of a newspaper magazine, and the challenge was to use ripped pieces of paper in some way. Can you see the lady on the bottom right corner?

She’s an Inspiration

The next two are two takes on the same thing. I facilitated a workshop, once through The Urban Retreat and once for a young adults group at a church. I like to practice and prepare ahead of time, making sure I keep lists of everything I’d like to have available for the experience. These are two passes at the same material. I like how they turn out differently, even though it’s the same me doing them.

Spray ink, alcohol ink, medicine cup, and -- wait for it -- the needlepoint door-hanger.

Made with (amongst other things) spray ink, alcohol ink, medicine cup, and — wait for it — a needlepoint door-hanger. (Note: I didn’t really use a Sharpie in this one, but I needed to block out something for the photo. You didn’t even notice it until now, did you? Rats.)

I love the colors in this so much I want to nibble the edge of the paper.

Moment of bragging: I found the needlepoint form of a door-hanger for $0.49 at a craft store. It works really well with spray inks and not so well as a stencil. But with a little finessing I think there’s a way to make it work.

That’s all for now. What are you doing to feed your soul this weekend? Be good to yourselves! And be sure to check back on Monday for a Medical Mondays guest post. As always, thanks for reading!

What school doesn’t teach You

2
Mar

Today’s post is from an up-and-coming writer in the medical field. She happens to be my sister, so you know she’s a good egg. (I’ve always wanted to call her an egg.) She shares about the most difficult season our family has gone through (and is still going through…very…very…slowly…) and writes about it from her medical perspective. I know you’ll find it interesting. Show her some comment-love today, will you?

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http://mrg.bz/PdGn03

Going to PA school is a full-time job. There are hours and hours of lectures that cover every body system and every possible thing that could go wrong. At times you start to believe that you have that rare genetic disorder that consists of frequent leg twitching and abnormal knuckle hair. Or maybe the lecturer covered abnormal moles and suddenly all of your “beauty marks” look like melanoma. At some point during the didactic year, you have to just ignore all the bad things that you might develop in your life or else you might become paralyzed. Just continue to drink from the fire hose and make it out alive to start practicing medicine. One thing that PA school did not prepare me for was family illness. There was not a single lecture entitled “How to Stand By a Loved One Who Gets Sick”, or “How to Walk Gracefully Along Side a Parent Who is Diagnosed With Cancer”.

My sister called me one evening last September and asked me to go look at my Dad’s leg. I made the short drive and noted that his right leg was twice the size of his left.

“How long has it been like that, Dad?”

“Just three days.”

“Who told you to wait three days?”

“Dr. Downing!”

My Dad was not, in fact, a medical doctor. Among other degrees, he got a PhD in Theology and was a pastor of a church before retiring a few years ago. I directed my Dad to go immediately to the ER because I was worried he had a DVT, or blood clot, in his leg. A DVT was diagnosed and he actually had a large clot that extended from his ankle to his thigh. I wanted to be wrong.

A couple months later he was visiting a freshly hatched grandchild and became short of breath. My parents drove to the hospital and the doctors there found a showering of emboli or blood clots in the lungs. They also found a mass.

“We’re not sure what it is yet. I think I just swallowed a ping-pong ball!”

“Dad, this doesn’t sound good.”

“We are preparing for the worst, but hoping for the best.”

I tried to do just that. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. But in my mind I just kept thinking about stages. Cancer stages.

My dad was quickly diagnosed with lung cancer. I wanted to be wrong. They saw a “hot spot” when they did the initial scans and wanted to do a bone biopsy. On the way down to get the biopsy my dad started have trouble finding words. My mom made a detour and took dad to the ER and they diagnosed him with a stroke. Because they made it to the ER quickly, they were able to receive TPA, also known as clot-busting medication. He was admitted to the hospital and my brothers, sister, and I drove to see him. My dad continued to be in good spirits, and felt lucky that they had made it in time to get TPA.

“I had meat soap, meat soap….Kath, what did I have for dinner?”

“Meat Loaf, Gary!” my mom said.

We all circled my dad, laid across his chest, and prayed. Please, God, make this go away.

A couple of days later I received a call that Dad was doing worse. I immediately thought that the stroke converted to a hemorrhagic, or bleeding, type of stroke. I wanted to be wrong. I walked into the hospital room and my mom gripped my neck. My dad had a hard time speaking, and he couldn’t open his eyes because the hemorrhagic stroke affected his equilibrium. I slept over that night next to him and I heard him whispering the names of his grandchildren. I knew that this scenario was not good.

My dad was fighting stage 4 lung cancer, and the stroke had weakened him significantly. The great 6′ 2″ giant, was a little hunched and his long gait was reduced to shuffling. But he and my mom still managed to travel to Costa Rica that winter. My dad would get his chemo, wait a day, fly down to Costa Rica for 3 weeks, and return in time for another run. He regained his strength and he boasted that he was able to do his daily walk and push ups. He told me that when he was in the hospital after the stroke he felt helpless, but never hopeless. He continued to fight the cancer with chemo, sunshine, changed his diet and began eating as a vegetarian.

My dad fooled us all. He convinced us that he was feeling really well. So well, that he wanted to go to Costa Rica alone, without my mom. But we found out that the chemo wasn’t touching the cancer and that they would see if he would be a candidate for a clinical trial. I wasn’t comforted by the news. On the way home from Costa Rica, my dad got really, really sick. He fell down the escalator in the airport. He was confused and lost his passport. How he got home, we will never know. God didn’t take away his cancer, but one of his angels brought my dad home safely. Even in his confusion, he was thoughtful enough to buy one of his grandkids a breakfast sandwich. He had it in his pocket for two days.

When we heard of these events, I already knew the cancer had taken his brain. I tried to hope for the best, I did. But my training wouldn’t allow me to ignore the facts. They found mets to the brain and he was no longer eligible for the clinical trial. They would start radiation, and this was only to help with symptoms. This was not a cure.

How do you stand by a loved one when they are sick? You go with them to doctors appointments. I went with my parents to chemo and radiation appointments. I argued with the doctors. I brought with me articles about possible alternative treatments for my dad’s cancer.

Sometimes the only way we feel like we have some sort of control over the situation is to study it. I spent down time at work looking up articles about lung cancer treatments and ways to combat side effects of chemo. And when you finally realize that knowledge is not going to save your dad, you cry with him. And when your mother no longer can handle injecting him with blood thinners, you go there every night and do it for her. And when he is ready to let go, you be there to hold his hand.

How do you walk gracefully alongside your parent who is diagnosed with cancer? You do exactly as my dad said. You hope for the best, prepare for the worst. The graceful part is tricky. No one does it perfectly. Just hold each other up and do cancer together. It’s the only way to survive the diagnosis. This is something school just can’t teach you, and there is no way to prepare for tragedy. And sometimes no matter how much you know, it won’t change the outcome. Sometimes its better to be a friend, a partner, a daughter than it is to be a PA.

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I am a PA with a family. Currently, I work in a busy ER and juggle my career, my husband, and my three children. My blog is to help prepare students, discuss medical topics and the PA profession as a whole. I write a column for PAs Connect entitled The PA Mama . I coach pre-PAs and help them get into school. You can find me on Facebook at PA Trek. Please feel free to contact me at pachustle@gmail.com or Follow me on Twitter.

A surprise Visit

27
Feb

My mailbox has had a rough run. It’s been bashed into twice. One time a driver knocked it all the way down, leaving it sprawled in a most undignified fashion, junk mail scattered in the driveway. It has a thankless job, usually delivering mail that’s immediately tossed in the recycling bin, or mail that elicits a sigh from the recipient — another boring bill that needs attention.

I’m sure it was thrilled to get a different response this week, anything to break up the monotony of disdain and neglect.

My friend on the other side of town mailed me a book. It just so happens that this book is one I’ve been planning to dig for, since I didn’t find it on the shelf or in the easiest box to locate. She had it, and she took the time to mail it back to me.

But that’s not all.

In addition to the book, she included a short note that told me I wasn’t forgotten, that she remembers that I’m still grieving the loss of my dad, and in that remembering she told me that he mattered, and that I matter. She even sent a gift card to a coffee shop, which just speaks of the additional thought she put into returning the book, which became so much more than returning a book. It became a care package.

But that’s not all.

Surprises all around.

When I was thinking about finding the book, I was thinking about the author and what he wrote about different kinds of prayer and spiritual disciplines.

I was not thinking about who had read the book.

I read the book, and underlined it and jotted little notes about interesting parts.

My former youth pastor had read the book, and it was originally a gift from him. He wrote a page-long letter inside, affirming me and blessing me.

And my dad read the book.

My dad read the book and jotted things alongside my own. He underlined passages that stood out to him, along with notes that revealed his thoughts to what the author wrote.

It surprised me completely, the receiving of the book, and then discovering kind letter from an important part of my high school years, and then the handwritten words from my dad inside. It was such a gift to me.

Seeing my dad’s notes was like finding a letter my dad had written to me, and getting a little surprise visit from him when I’m so sad he’s gone and I can’t talk to him about everything that’s going on. I’ve been savoring the book, trying not to look through it too much until I have time to dwell in it, soak up the visit in the pages.

This post is for you, R. You had no idea how your act of kindness would encourage me. Maybe you didn’t even know my dad had written in the book — it’s probably been on a shelf for a while. As is common when things are prompted by the Holy Spirit, your timing was spot on. I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to act on what started as an idea, to go through all the steps necessary to get that book (and your note and the gift card) to me. God used you to take care of me. I’m so grateful for your friendship, not just today but always.

This post was in the works already, but when I saw this week’s prompt over at Kate Motaung’s blog and Five Minute Friday linkup I knew it dovetailed perfectly. I may have gone over the five minutes a bit, but this is pretty unedited so that’s in keeping with the spirit of Five Minute Friday.

Thanks again for reading and being a part of the virtual family here. Have a wonderful weekend, and if there’s a note you’ve been thinking of sending to someone, I encourage you to do it. You never know how a little note can be used to show God’s love to someone.

Color and Love

26
Feb

Life-giving

Bolstering

Discovery

Unearthing

Open

True

Unhindered

Bold

When I allow myself to silence my inner critic, allow myself to play with abandon and freedom, I feel all the descriptors above. Sometimes it takes a while, sometimes it comes more freely. Time always passes quickly, and when I’m messing around with paint, I’ve had to start setting an alarm so I won’t be late for other commitments. To lose yourself in something you love is a sure sign of an activity that replenishes your heart.

Here are a few samples…

Pages from Paint and Pencils with The Urban Retreat

This next one is a love note to myself, courtesy of the Get Messy challenges. We were challenged to use our favorite materials, colors, arty goodies and write ourselves a love note using this approach. It scares me a little to let y’all see the big ‘ol face I put on there, but part of sharing these is to let you in on my process and lack of artistic training AND IT STILL ENDS UP COOL and means something just to me. Sorry, didn’t mean to yell at you; I just get excited. I happen to be a big fan of modeling paste, so if you could touch this spread, you’d get to feel all the bumps and texture, which just makes it more sensory fun. Maybe I should start using those scented markers to further the sensory experience? Hmmm…food for thought. (My favorite was always the yellow marker — what was yours?)

Big Hair Don’t Care – Self Love Note, Get Messy Art Journal Challenge

Another challenge was to write a love note to a stranger, AND THEN TO LEAVE IT SOMEWHERE for someone to find. ::Gulp:: I did this, but it was not without some fear. My daughter was with me when I dropped one off, and she was pretty convinced we were doing something illegal. It did have an air of conspiracy to it, which just made it more exciting! The first picture tries to show some of the materials I used to create the love notes (complete with a $0.79 paint grid found at the hardware store — gotta love a good deal). The other two are the love-drops around our town.

A paint strainer as a stencil? Yes, please.

Even sideways (because I can’t get it to cooperate) you are loved. Just as you are.

Showin’ some love at our local library.

That’s about it for today. If you’re interested in seeing some other art journal pages and responses to art challenges, click here to go to the Get Messy linkup.

Do you need a love letter today? Is there someone you could send a love letter to, to take some time to put into words your care for him or her? Think about it — it’s hard to say it too much and it’s hard to be over-loved! When’s the last time you got something special in the mail?