"Medicine's not a science."

Or, to instead quote Sinead O'Connor, "I went to the doctor / And guess what he told me."

But now I'm ahead of myself. Let's start at the very beginning - a very good place to start.

I had a bad night of sleep on Thursday. I'd been a little off-kilter that evening, but worst of all was my restless leg syndrome ("RLS"), which was abnormally difficult, much as I'd expect if I'd had several cocktails, even though I hadn't. As a result, I didn't sleep well.

[06:30] When I finally arose in preparation for my work day, I was tired and light-headed. The world wasn't spinning, but my equilibrium was amiss. Much as I'm usually a bit nauseated until breakfast, I assumed I needed to get food in my belly. Food didn't necessarily settle the unease, though. Again, I expected it was due to poor sleep and simply working through the morning would put me to right. I judged the lightheadedness as non-lethal and drove to work without incident.

At work, I was still lightheaded, and starting to wonder how much more would trigger a faint. I felt able to continue with my projects, but alerted my co-workers in the event I suddenly became worse. They helpfully suggested I phone the consulting nurse, which I did.

[08:32] The nurse had a lovely bedside (phone-side?) manner. She walked me through a progression of of questions about my symptoms and habits. She helped me define my lightheadedness, and discerned that, because the objects in the room weren't seemingly swimming, that I was merely light-headed, as opposed to experiencing vertigo. Among the things I mentioned as out-of-ordinary were the poor sleep, the act-up of my RLS, and that, due to my lapse in refilling, I hadn't taken my daily sertraline (an ongoing anti-anxiety medication) in four nights. She dismissed the latter two experiences as irrelevant to my lightheadedness and strongly suggested that I have someone drive me to be seen by a medical professional. She attempted to make an appointment with the clinic, but due to overbooking she recommended I visit the urgent care associated with my medical plan. I thanked the nurse and decided to proceed with a meeting already in progress.

While the meeting was nearby and I sat for the bulk of it, I found I was continuing to feel dizzy, and distracted from the conversations as I sought a comfortable and effect way to keep my head from moving (which, by the way, makes it very difficult to nod my head in agreement). Apparently my distraction was noticed and I was encouraged to go home (my husband was later told that I was looking "glassy-eyed").

[10:00] I packed up my belongings, phoned my husband for a ride, and went to the break room to await him. I was pleased to be able to lie down, though frustrated that it was not easy to read through my symptoms.

[10:45] My husband arrived and listened to my timeline of symptoms as we drove to urgent care, wondering if my difficulty with anxiety (and depression) was a culprit.

[11:19] Check-in at urgent care seemed to go smoothly - there were few people in the waiting area and my husband was told I was third in line for triage. I was actually triaged (a nurse took my vitals and asked me to list my symptoms) about 15 minutes after check-in. I was hopeful, as this seemed to happen with remarkable speed (everybody can remember an emergency room visit with long waits and ill feelings).

[12:21] An hour later I was called into an exam room. While one nurse directed me to the room, another offered me a gown. They left and, as best as I could guess, I was supposed to change to some degree and wait until someone came back. I complied and sat to read my book.

[12:45] Awhile later a nurse introduced himself, confirmed that I was feeling dizzy, asked if I'd already had my vitals read, and explained that he was going to hold off on putting me on a IV drip until after I'd been seen by a provider. Um, OK. By this time I had given up trying to sit in a chair and managed to adjust the levers on the exam table to allow me to lie on my side to wait.

[13:40] A physician assistant arrived an hour later to confirm my symptoms and walk me through some brief field tests. She determined that I was suffering from benign paroxysmal positional vertigo, caused by a small "crystal" deposit in my ear. She advised me that she would order meclizine and see if that helped.

[14:12] Half an hour later, the nurse returned and asked me how I was doing with the meclizine. Upon my informing him that I was still waiting for it to arrive, he expressed surprised and apologized by way of explaining that he thought another nurse was going to take care of it while he was at lunch.

Wait? What?! At this point, feeling forgotten and vulnerable (I was still lying down), I phoned a friend and asked her to wait with me. And, if possible, bring me some lunch. Thank goodness for available, generous, and patient friends!

[14:18] I was given two pills and a glass of water, shortly after which another nurse ushered in my friend.

[14:22] I was feeling better and, while not feeling 100%, responded as such when the nurse came with my discharge papers. He briefed me on my aftercare - that I should go to the clinic pharmacy to pick up meclizine, what signs I should watch for in case I needed further PCP, UCC, or ER care, and exercises I could do at home that might help decrease the vertigo. I was given my after-visit summary and allowed to disrobe to leave.

[15:11] I went to the pharmacy window and gave them my ID number. The attendant didn't find any prescriptions on file, so I pulled back out my paperwork to repeat what I had been told. What my nurse failed to tell me was that meclizine is OTC. (Thankfully they stock it in the clinic's pharmacy.)

While at the window, I asked if I could speak to a pharmacist on an unrelated matter - that I wanted to determine if I needed to moderate my dosage of sertraline, as I had lapsed in its refill. As she pulled up my record, she asked if I'd experienced any difficulties since my last dosage. I told her that I'd just finished a visit to UCC for lightheadedness (refer to 08:32, above).

"Yes, dizziness is normal for missing as many doses. You should resume your usual dosage as soon as possible and you'll likely feel better soon after."

[15:23] Arrive home, resume sertraline, lose vertigo, and feel back to normal the following day.

Vignettes from Fifth Grade

My teacher was Mr. Pepper and he played the guitar. I brought him rocks from the playground after recess. I was going to be placed in "Open Class," but my parents fought against this new-fangled notion of mixing grades and had me put in traditional 5th grade.

Question #10 in our reading workbooks always began with "What do you think..." and I would occasionally be marked wrong! (For what I thought!) I campaigned against the injustice, going so far as to fashion and wear a billboard on the playground. Say no to #10! Viva la resistance! Mr. Pepper and I finally struck a bargain and I only had to answer every other #10. I still think those questions should be re-worded.

I chose Hawaii for my state report because I felt I was an expert based on our annual family vacations to Maui. Surprisingly, it entailed more work than just writing down what I already knew about the place. I got frustrated one day and wadded up my work-thus-far and threw it in the garbage. Mr. Pepper had me retrieve it, rework it and showed me how I could paste the rumpled paper onto a report page, as to salvage the piece. He gamely noted "nice texture!" in red ink when he returned it to me with final comments.

I met a girl named Dana who lived up the street. I went for a sleepover one night and her parents were gone much of the evening. We played with ingredients in the kitchen and would up wilting lettuce in a frying pan. The texture was intriguing and we thought it would be fun to bag it and sell it as "pot" at school. The next week, Jake said he'd buy some, but made faces and exclaimed "Ewww!" when we handed him the damp baggie. Looking back, I'm appalled at this game and that - despite all PSA's that drugs were bad - I thought it a good idea to sell pot.

Another classmate brought a gigantic bottle of vitamin c drops to school one day and sold them a tablet at a time. Sweet, exotic treats that they were, she made quick sales. Jeremy reported that they gave his dad the runs. Mr. Pepper decided to stop the sales of pharmaceuticals in school.

I ran for class president against Worth. My mom told me that she ran for class office when she was in college and worked with a friend to hand out flagged gumdrops across campus. I wrote clever sayings on tiny flags, glued them to toothpicks and stuck them in gumdrops. I tried to hand them out during freetime, but Worth said it wasn't fair. Mr. Pepper backed him up that it wasn't a reasonable campaign practice to bribe voters in the 5th grade. I cried and asked to call my mom, who - not seeing what the big deal was to any of us - told me simply to abandon the practice. I was crushed, even though we got to enjoy the candies after the election. My Print Shop printouts from my Apple II+'s dot-matrix printer paled in comparison. Worth won the election.

Our gold rush unit culminated in an overnight trip to Skagway via ferry (Southeast Alaska's topography doesn't allow for roads) where we saw Soapy Smith's grave, gambled fake money in a saloon, watched a musical revue, slept in the basement of a church and hunted for "gold" rocks. We fund raised for this trip by holding a family spaghetti feed in the school gym. One would assume there must have been other means that contributed to this field trip, but they eyes of a child only see things as magical happenings.

I developed a crush on Jaylin, a plainish new boy in school. It was less of a hearthrob so much as a curiosity about behaviors I saw in Bop! and Bananas. I'm sure he was clueless about how to respond to my friendly "advances," but gladly accepted monetary loans when I offered them. I think I ended 5th grade owed $2.

I didn't care for a particular girl because she was smelly and mean. My parents thought I was discriminating against her because she was poor, and thus smelly. I finally had to rat on her to get my mom off my back about spending time with her: I told them about how she wrote the f-word on the chalkboard after school one day.

Several times a year the school counselor would visit and let us know that we could come see him about any problem at any time. I thought this attention might be kind of neat, so I wrote a note to him about how I had a relative who annually binge-drank and another relative would have to fly to Seattle to find him and bring him back. I was disappointed that the counselor never called me in for an appointment. I tried again by writing about my parents yelling at each other during a disagreement they had one evening. This time, the counselor came to me during class and invited me to talk about it. The occurrence I'd described in my note actually wasn't that big of a deal and now I found that the counselor's appointment really wasn't as cool as I'd hoped. After some dull, "How did the argument make you feel?" and "It doesn't mean they don't love you," counseling, I was eager not to return to the office.

My "growing pains" were increasing and I sometimes had cold numbness in my pinky fingers during piano practice. After a series of doctor appointments in Juneau and at Children's Hospital in Seattle, the experts diagnosed me with rheumatoid arthritis, which was to be treated with 3 aspirin and 1 Tums three times daily. In short time I began gagging nearly as soon as I saw the bottle of Bayer. The Tums made it even worse, since those had to be chewed. I hid or disposed of the pills as often as feasible and tearfully swallowed the chalky remedy when forced.

The second part of my prescription was that I was to limit physical activity, particularly in school PE. My doctor's note was met with distrust and criticism by the awful Mr. Bonk, who was the worst excuse for an elementary school PE teacher to begin with. For a short time he let me sit out the activities prohibited by my note. Soon, however, he took me aside and told me that he had talked with his doctor who said I could jolly well do a certain number of similar activities. This brought him the wrath of my mother who called his office, Mr. Pepper and our school principal. The following week I came to class, asked him what I should do that day, and he told me he wasn't going to talk to me because my mother was trying to get him fired. Classy.

Even better, his wife served as a substitute some weeks later. By that time my family and the school had come to the agreement that I would just walk laps for the duration of PE. At the end of class she let me know that Middle School wouldn't allow me to walk laps, and that I'd lose credits (whatever those were) if I didn't do the activities with the rest of the class. Geez.

Finally, a radiation appointment in Seattle suggested hypothyroidism. By the end of the year, I was beginning to resume PE exercises with my class and taking a once-daily synthroid pill instead of the abundance of pain relievers and antacids.

Names I remember: Dana, Jeremy, Jaylin, Rory (during legislative season), J.J., Worth, Hiram, Kelly, Joy, Jessy, Sarah, Jean, John, Julie, Judson, Sherwin and Mark. Mr. Pepper, Mr. Bonk, Mr. Deitrich, Mrs. Harris and Mr. Walker.

Workout confession

Don't tell my Middle School PE teachers, but secretly - I like sit-ups. Sure, they're exhausting and leave me rife with midday stomach cramps. Sure, the friction on my hiney results in open wounds. Yeah, I'm definitely slower than most... or ANYBODY else, but I still like 'em. I like how they make my tummy feel tight and buff. I appreciate how a little leverage pumps me up and down (and not without effort).

OK, and I also enjoy how a brief break between sets is accomplished by simply falling backwards with my arms akimbo.

On death and dying

A handful of elderly friends and family died at various times during my youth. I knew these were sad occasions, but I was not particularly affected. The first serious death took place when I was in 10th grade, when news shot around school that Joe Price from Haines had drowned while diving for sea cucumbers.

Again, while a sad report, this news didn't particularly move me... at first. However, within some 30 minutes, I walked into sophomore biology, began to put my books on a table, and... *BAM* felt literally awash in sorrow. This was an entirely new experience for me - the sorrow was more physical than emotional, and wracked my body. I'd gotten to know Joe and, while not a close friend, enjoyed his company. The guy had even drawn a corny cartoon in my pink address book at the close of summer camp.

The school attendance secretary was compassionate, and allowed us a free pass for the asking. An odd group of students from various grades and social circles gathered at a table in the commons to just... talk. And talk and talk and talk. We may later have gone to someone's house to talk some more. The shared sorrow, I realize now, was important in grieving, especially for a peer - so young!

In the next couple of years, my great uncle would die from a fall, and my great aunt soon after, from old age. Having had my grandparents pass on when I was quite young, these two were surrogate grandparents. I was confused and saddened. Perhaps not so much as I had been for the loss of Joe, given their old age, but still regretful that I wouldn't have them anymore. Later, with the birth of my first child, I was sadder, still, for the inability to have them enjoy each other's company. Later I would fantasize about them meeting and playing together in heaven.

The next eventful death was that of my mother-in-law's (from my first marriage). She died painfully from a cancer and, as usual, much too young. While I grieved, I was also comforted in my role as a supporter - to be the strong one for my [ex-]husband and our small family.

The next one was the SERIOUS one. Clearly, we're not supposed to have our children precede us in death. However, my nearly-3-year-old son was killed when we were rear-ended at high speed on the freeway by a vehicle that was passing emergency vehicles, and whose owner was talking on a cell phone and, if measured under today's blood guidelines, would have had DUI-levels of alcohol in his system. Understandably, the grief that followed was the most complex and lengthy, and I'll spare the detail. Sixteen years later it seems to have been someone else's life, particularly since I've essentially begun a new family since then.

I think the array of experiences has left me a fatalist to some degree. There's nothing I can do to prepare for a loved one to die, because drowning/falling/aging/cancer/collisions lay in wait. While that credo sounds deranged, it also gives me freedom to "live as if each day were my last." Perhaps that explains my penchant for bursting into song upon inspiration from a passing phrase. And explains why I'll voice my opinion or suggestion without fear of rebuke, no matter how far-flung my point may be.

With these fatalistic realities, I take some comfort in that there's nothing I need to do prepare. At the same time, I realize how human we all are and on some late, sleepless nights I shed tears for fear that the unknown can and will happen to me and those I love.

Showering: habit, ritual or OCD?

I take a shower every morning. Night doesn't work at all - my hair is all greasy and I'd spend the whole day smelling like "night sweat." Each day starts clean.

Find undies in drawer and grab relatively-clean tee from closet door handle. Proceed to bathroom and close door. If we're in the middle of winter darkness, I'll turn on the shower light. If there's enough ambient light at that time of day, I'll do without the light.

Open shower door, nudge nozzle aim toward wall, turn to HOTTEST, step back out for warm-up period. Turn ventilation on to 60-minute setting.

Remove clothing: pull nightshirt inside-out and hang on peg. Pull off sweats and hang on same peg, carefully keeping space between stinky night clothes and cleanish re-wearable clothes. Socks and undergarments are then removed, I crack open the door, I toss the items in the laundry basket outside, and re-close the door.

Pee in toilet. If I don't do this, I will have the unignorable urge to pee once I climb into the shower. Peeing is a must, even if I don't think I need to go. Flush and wash. (Not sure why I wash, given that I'm about to immerse in a full-body cleanse, but it seems a good habit not to break.)

Pull floor towel from either the side of the towel rack (if husband showered last) or from front bar (if I showered last) and place on floor in front of shower door.

Adjust water from HOTTEST to GOOD-N-HOT and re-aim nozzle back to center. Step into shower and close shower door. With back to nozzle wall, let water soak my hair until I am completely warm.

At this point, if I find I have been scatter-brained lately, I begin to count sets of ten. I estimate each task should take no more than 10 counts, and thusly counting can keep me on-track and away from day-dreaming time away in the shower.

10 counts to shampoo. (No enlightment here - I apply some citrus-smelling stuff and scrub.)

Turn to face nozzle wall and 10 counts to let hot water melt the adhesive on my Breathe-Right nosestrip. Used strip gets placed in Dixie cup next to shower toiletries.

10 counts to apply face wash to face, make sure to massage into my nose creases. If I squirted out too much, I'll apply the extra to my neck.

Turn back around and cut length of dental floss. Wrap around fingers and count off the spaces between my teeth (more than 10). Used floss gets placed in Dixie cup trash.

Adjust nozzle to JET setting.

10 counts to rinse the shampoo out of my hair. I typically move my head in a zig-zag pattern to get a full forehead-to-nape rinse.

Soak washcloth under nozzle for 10 counts. Wring and scrub facial wash off face. Rinse washcloth, wring again, and replace on hook.

Warm plasticy used-to-be-a-spa-pom-pom under spray. Wad and dip in soap dish residue and measure 10 counts to scrub under arms. Allow for any other cleansing at this time.

If I recently had my legs waxed, I will allow 10 counts per leg to scrub the lower leg skin, as to discourage ingrown hairs. I'm not certain this actually provides any protection, but it's a satisfying scritch nonetheless.

Twist nozzle back to shower mode and rinse fully before turning handle to OFF position. Brush water off easily-accessible large swaths of body. Open door and step out onto floor towel.

Reach over toilet area divider and pull bath towel from towel bar. Dry self, starting with face. It helps to make "mrfff mrfff" sounds while drying this part. Continue to dry, top to bottom, and end by twisting towel into turban atop head.

Apply fancy hand cream to face, being careful to cover area under eyebrows, but not so far as the eyelids (I risk sweating the lotion oils into my eyes otherwise). Apply deodorant. Apply different hand cream to biceps, as they always seem to be dry.

Assess chin for tweezing. If hairs found, curse that I didn't do this before I applied the somewhat slippery cream on my face.

Remove towel, fold lengthwise and snake it over the towel bar to dry. Same with floor towel.

Don undies and brush hair with green plastic Goody brush with protected bristle ends.

Don cleanish pants from bathroom hook. Don tee I brought in with me. I'll wear this for the next 1/2 hour 'til I've stopped sweating from the hot shower, at which point I'll put on my "real" shirt for the day.

Exit bathroom, squeaky clean.

Mmmm doughnut

There are certain foods I've recently come to believe just aren't worth: the calories, the effort of eating, or the slime in the mouth. It's not a diet thing, it's just a complete realization.

Example:

Doughnuts. My child asks for them as a special treat. We make the date. We visit the hole-in-the-wall doughnut shop. We browse for our favorites: maple bar for her, perhaps an old-fashioned for me (or a bismark, apple fritter, cherry turnover, etc.). They smell yeasty and sweet. The sugar is pleasant, but then the fat begins to coat my teeth and mouth. Pretty soon it seems to hit my gut. Gas follows sometime after, and perhaps a Tums-worthy moment. Hopefully it won't seek a rampage on my bowels.

That's a lot of displeasure for a nice smell and an initial sweet sensation. What I find most interesting is that I still believe I crave them.

Stupid doughnut lust.

Devil on my back

I, too, have a birthmark. ("Too"? Remember that these posts are inspired by the Encyclopedia book. Read it if you need to understand my references.)

I've had a quarter-size birthmark on my right shoulder since I can remember. It used to be dark brown and fuzzy, like a peach. My mother dutifully had it inspected at my annual pediatric appointments.

One year, while on vacation, half of it turned an unsightly greenish color, and I think my mother may have panicked; that half was removed and biopsied almost immediately. The results were negative (in other words, positive for good health) - no cancers, no infection - nothing but a mole (or, as my mother's family called them, "Wyllers").

Back at home, we scheduled a visit with a specialist to have the entire thing removed. Careful to preserve my back-modeling career, we also met with a plastic surgeon who had a procedure for taking skin from behind the ear to graft over the surgical area. The result would be blended skin instead of an unsightly 1-inch scar.

Unfortunately, the graft never "took" and I have a puffy slightly-larger-than-a-quarter-sized red mark on my back. Yeah, way better than a linear 1-inch scar.

It's a great ice-breaker at fancy dress parties where I wear strapless dresses, or at the pool when I put on a swimsuit. It always gives a new massage therapist pause; just wait 'til they touch it!

When I was in middle school, I wrote a poem about it, entitled, "The Devil on My Back." I illustrated the work with pencil drawing of a fanciful tree burl... with satanic horns. Did I mention I was a middle schooler?

All-in-all, it doesn't bother me as an adult. I only remember it's there I attend the aforementioned parties or pool events and another guest makes a small, compassionate gasp. It's as much a part of me as my hand eczema or the way my connected nerves make my finger web and throat tickle at the same time.

I live a sexy, sexy life.

I'm going to die

To start at the beginning (a very good place to start, as Julie Andrews would suggest), I've had chest pains since I was 11 years old. They were alarming and my mother had doctors run tests, but my heart looked good. Except for the brief mind-shocking spasm of pain, everything was normal.

This spring I began experiencing the pain on a regular basis. Several times a day I was nearly jolted to my knees with a pain that shot from my breastbone outward, lingering with an ache through the front of my ribcage. I decided this might not be normal and visited the doctor. She assessed me, taking into account a history of multiple heart tests that proved negative (reminder for the medically illiterate - "negative" is a positive thing when it comes to testing for stuff). Her diagnosis? Costochondritis, an inflammation of the joint between the breastbone and ribcage. It's non-threatening, though obviously painful, and treated with anti-inflammatories and ice.

Such a diagnosis was reassuring. It's good to know I'm not going to keel over with a heart attack at age 36. I mean, who would make sure that the husband's and 8-year-old's lunches included protein, fruit AND vegetable?

A week after the diagnosis I visited my doctor again, this time for my annual exam. In the course of it she performed a manual breast exam (sorry boys, but it's not the exciting activity you might imagine) and... located a small mass in the area from which my chest pain seems to stem. Given my age and a history of paternal aunts with breast cancer, this sort of finding suggests I hurry myself over to a mammogram center.

For an odds-maker, it's still a preventative measure and not necessarily a worry. A lump can be a great many things, though Susan Koman might have you think otherwise. Being the reasoning sort of person that I am, I left the doc's office, scheduled my appointment at the Milgard Center, and decided I wasn't going to mention it to family or friends since it was certainly no big deal.

Several hours later, my nerves crashed and I changed my mind.

Perhaps, as my beloved, my husband might like to know that I'm mentally spazzing and envisioning my ultimate demise. Sure, I'm a fatalist on these things (when I die, I die, and that is that), but there's such a great deal to organize with husband, family, friends and home. The possibilities overwhelmed. Given all this, the stretch from Thursday to Monday is a very, very long time. I highly recommend keeping a store of Valium on hand for just such a wait. I wish I had.

With Monday finally at-hand, my husband picked me up from work (he offered!) and waited for me to have my tests. First we waited in the waiting room (go figure - great name!), then I (women-only) waited in the nothing-but-a-bathrobe room, and then a technician took me in and guided me in a series of hugs and squeezes with a tree-sized machine. I'm not entirely certain the large-scale tortilla press did anything - there were no ray blasts, no loud zapping sounds, and no sizzling flesh scent. Nuttin' but the technician and me-n-my nerves... definitely nerves pinging.

I'd originally thought the nerves would subside after the mammogram. Granted, I was relieved that "The Big Squeeze" didn't hurt so much as I feared, I was still hunting wild butterflies in my stomach as I waited in [another] nothing-but-a-bathrobe room.

Let me interject here with an observation about the NBAB. Thanks for the reading material, but we're all too nervous to hold our attention on a printed page. And while there's something a little off-the-wall about our choices of dressing (breezy!), we're really not in a frame of mind to make small chat. I appreciate the soothing "spa" music, but we could really use some brain-rotting television as a diversion at this point. Just a thought.

Anyway, the wait was for my appointment with a sonogram technician. Since I was referred for a lump, they prepared to run the full slate of tests. The preliminary assessment of the mammogram was negative (reminder: that's good!), so this was to check and make absolutely-for-really-sure that there were no miniature burrowing gnomes in my flesh. Or something.

The sono tech (by now I'm ensconced in lab-speak, afterall) set me up in a fashion not dissimilar to that of having my baby ultrasounds many years ago. With similar baby-doc thoroughness, she "wanded" the bump area up, over, around, under, and nearly through. Impressive when one considers how tiny the suspect area was (the lump, not the breast).

Preliminary assessment was, again, negative. OK, finally my nerves can take a much-needed vacation.

The rest is uneventful. I dressed, I rejoined my husband in the fully-clothed-waiting room, and went back to work. A few days later my doctor sent me the test results with a summary of the radiology readings - everything is normal. We'll continue to monitor the area and the pains, but for now, it looks like I'm not going to have an ABC after-school special written about me.

Oh, and as for the title of this post? It's true. Really. We estimate I have about 49 years to live.

For these things, I am thankful

When I saw a therapist (I can admit it – I’m a big girl) in 2006 about anxiety issues, she suggested treating one aspect of my neuroses with self-appreciation and thankfulness, without guilt. While I have a handle on most of my issues (well, at least those I was trying to conquer then; I’m sure I’ve developed new ones now!), I realize I haven’t “counted my blessings” in some time. It seems wise to give thanks more often than during an annual November poultry pig-out.

School. Nearly every day I’m blown away by what I see of my daughter’s educational experience. I’m thankful that she has good aptitude for studies and friend-making, that we have access to such a fine learning institution, and that my husband and I have comfortable friend circles there, and are able to share the good experiences as a family.

Retreats. I am thankful that we have open access to a nearby summer retreat where we can all unwind and enjoy Puget Sound and good summer weather. I’m also lucky to have access to a getaway in my hometown, which we use mileage tickets to access at least once a year, in the summer.

Daughter. Of course I’m thankful for a wonderful little girl, and know I always will be. I never dreamed how proud I’d be of her, for her kindness, respect for other, aptitude for learning, and child’s joy of the world around her.

Bidet-functioning toilet seats. It’s warm when I need it, and the spray of water always leaves me feeling oh-so-fresh. It’s a shame these aren’t more common in this country/culture.

Adjustable beds. When I’m sick, it’s indispensable as a TV-watching aide and as a method to keep me propped up so I can breath well. It’s also a great daily tool to adjust to my aging body’s needs based on the variety of activities I’ve chosen.

Good neighbors. Even if the house wasn’t my dream of nooks and crannies, I’d be hard-pressed to move, given our good relationships with neighbors – a great bunch of people who watch out for each other and enjoy spending time together.

This is just a partial list, of course… I’ll endeavor to pepper my thoughts with further thanksgiving.

Home sick

My daughter is home sick with a cold today. At present, I'm thinking I'll pack her up with a book and some snacks and take her along to a lunch meeting today. I have a twinge of "oh, bad, bad mommy - just stay home so she can stay home and comfy in her own abode." But then, she's young, resilient, and is likely to be just as comfy on a couch in a quiet room. She'll just sit around and read anyway. Right? ... Right??