FAMILY, FRIENDS, AND FINGERS

For all it's awe-inspiring scenery and unbelievably rich history, Europe is still many, many miles away from everything I had ever known. I had always been able to call or visit family pretty much whenever I wanted. Now it wasn't possible. I was suffering physically, mentally and emotionally from some unknown ailment. I felt like I needed my family near me to help me through the trauma and the turmoil. But I also had the desire to be a strong and supportive military spouse and mother.


That's the period in my life when I realized fully the network of support that the military affords its members. I was never alone with my doubt and fear. All I had to do was reach out and accept the friendship available to me from others, perhaps not in my same position, but close enough. That time also gave me the opportunity to reach outside myself and realize that I had something to offer in return.


When RA strikes, it is so easy to become completely self-absorbed. Mine hadn't yet been diagnosed, so the traveling pains, fatigue, and emotional stress were taking a toll on me. I had heard "it's all in your head" so many times that I wanted to knock a few off. (heads, that is). So with all the confusion and worry I was dealing with, the last thing I felt like doing was entertaining. But that comes with the territory of being an Army wife.


The first time the holidays came around, I was expending all my energy on choosing gifts for our daughter, delighting in the Christkindlmarkts, and preparing packages to send back home. My mother became very fond of the fancy liqueur chocolates I later sent every holiday season. The last thought in my head was to entertain a group of strangers. But my husband had a number of soldiers in his platoon that were also going to miss Christmas with their families.  These were kids, not too much younger than me, but who were single. The mess halls would put on a big, fancy feed, but it wouldn't be the same as a home-cooked meal and time with family.


So I finally got over my selfishness, took extra vitamins in an effort to increase my energy levels, and determined to make it a memorable holiday for as many as we could fit into our apartment. I baked, roasted, mashed, boiled, fried and toasted an assortment of all the favorite holiday dishes that I could think of. I even managed an edible version of my dad's incredible dressing. By the time I finished, my hands were so sore that if anything barely touched my fingers I would cry out in pain. So I repeatedly filled the sink with hot water and soaked them as often as possible. My husband wanted to help out by washing dishes, and I normally would have jumped at the opportunity to let him do them, but it was another excuse to soak my hands, so I turned down his offer.


That Christmas was the beginning of a tradition we continued with throughout the many years my husband served. We met so many people from all over the country, and made so many new friends, that it would have been horrible if I had stood in the way for any reason. We played games. People brought guitars and we sang until we were hoarse. We shared stories of family traditions. We ate until we could hold no more and then we went out to walk through the moonlit snow. I packed up every available container with goodies for people to take back to their barracks so they could share with others. We laughed. We cried. We hugged. We just had an absolutely incredibly good time. (forgive all the adjectives, but we really did.)


Of course, when I woke up the next morning, my hands resembled boxing gloves. The knuckles were swollen so badly that I couldn't straighten them all the way. And that's the first time we noticed a strange knot on one of them. At first I thought I'd gotten something in my finger. Perhaps a splinter from a bamboo skewer. Or maybe I had cut it and it had become infected. The only thing I knew for sure was that it hurt like the dickens, and I wanted it gone.


It was going to be a week or more before I could get into the clinic, so my husband took me up to a smaller clinic at one of the other bases. I'm so thankful he did. At the hospital clinics I could never get past the screening PA's. But this clinic was so tiny that they didn't even have a PA. I saw an actual doctor, and he knew exactly what was going on with my finger. He gently took my hand in his and said I had a rheumatoid nodule. I had no clue what he was talking about. He ordered a couple of blood tests and gave me the wonderful news a short time later. 


Merry Christmas to me, huh?


Hope you all have a healthy and productive week. I'll be back.


Harmony

In Memorium

Memorial Day Weekend is nearly here. I was hoping to participate in a blog hop with a group of authors from the publishing company I signed with, but I'm a stop on a blog tour for another author, and I can't be in two places at once, at  least, not on one blog. So I decided to use this blog in an unofficial and unknown salute to the men and women who have sacrificed their lives so that I may enjoy the many freedoms that are available to me. It won't get much traffic, and it won't be promoting my novel, but it will serve its purpose.

Twenty years of my husband's life was devoted to the military, and to protecting our nation. I followed along whenever I had the opportunity and the permission of Uncle Sam. There were long periods of time when I had to stay behind because of my health. The year he spent in Korea was like that. That was the longest separation we experienced as a married couple, although there were many that lasted several months. Difficult doesn't begin to describe it, especially when I couldn't even manage to tie my own shoes. 

But would I have kept him at home with me when so many others depended on him to be ready for anything and to be willing to give his all if it was required of him? No. He's not that kind of man. I can't recall the number of times he has said he would gladly go again if he were called. 

Even though he has left me when duty called, I was never left alone. The most amazing trait that the military instills in our soldiers, I believe, is the sense of brotherhood. And even though I know there are many female members of the military, they are a brotherhood. They support each other, and each other's families, as equally important and equally loved. The service members have this mindset and use it in such a way that they are assured, even if they are halfway around the world, that someone is looking out for their families.

It's important to remember every day that a soldier will lay down his/her life for us. But it's also important, at least, for me, to remember that they will do whatever it takes along the way to make the life of their fellow humans a little easier. That's one of the reasons they can go off to battle and leave their loved ones behind. They know that the others who have gone before them, and managed to return, will be looking out for their families until they return. I hope and pray that each one of them has the opportunity to return. 

Thank you from the deepest depths of my heart to every service member who has sacrificed for another.

Enchantment, Energy and Excruciating Pain

As a reader and a writer, I've always been enchanted by new worlds and interesting characters. That's what Europe was for me. I fell in love with the people, the culture, the architecture, and the food. Such amazing food.

I inherited Germanic traits from each of my parents, but it still surprised me when the natives would strike up conversations with me while waiting for a light to change, or stop and ask me for directions while I was out walking. When I opened my mouth and my southern accent destroyed their language, they would always laugh and pat my hand, as if to apologize for my blunder. It took me forever to figure out why everything I tried to say in Deutch, or I think they call it Germ now, was so hilariously entertaining. I kept wondering if I had said it wrong. It wasn't wrong, it was just - funny.

After I made a few non-American friends, they explained why people laughed at my speech. From that point on I felt comfortable laughing with them when I explained in halting German that I was an American and had no clue what they were saying to me. I had learned several phrases before traveling to Europe, but the sentence structure isn't the same as ours, and I would ask a question and then be totally lost in the translation of the answer. Fortunately for me, everyone I came into contact with was very helpful in assisting me with the language, or anything else I appeared to need help with. It was frustrating from time to time, but everyone maintained a great attitude throughout the process.

One activity that is, or was, popular in Germany is the Volksmarch. I fell in love with the whole concept, and spent many weekends with my husband and young daughter, hiking through the woods. I never tried anything other than a 10 kilometer march, though. Our child was still very young, and many of the walks were in places where a stroller would be impossible, so we ended up carrying her most of the time. My husband never complained (she was small for her age), but it soon got to the point where I couldn't help carry her, and the responsibility fell to him.

I had always been very active, and I loved walking through the woods, breathing in the fresh air, and listening to the birds. There was the added incentive of a medal for everyone who completed the march. We have a drawer full of them packed away somewhere, and our daughter has her own collection for her participation in the kindervalken. Some of them are quite ornate, shaped like lederhosen or painted in multi-colors. She's very proud of them, as we are of her.

But soon the problems set in. On one particular walk, we were about halfway through when my legs gave out. I couldn't walk, and I couldn't figure out why. One moment I was hiking up the trail, and the next moment a severe pain stabbed through my inner thigh. I couldn't make my hip move. My husband walked on a ways, and then realized I was no longer beside him. He turned, our daughter astride his shoulders, and asked me if there was a problem. I told him I couldn't move, and he laughed. "What do you mean, you can't move?"

I just stood there, my left leg behind me, and stared at him. "I mean, I can't pull my leg forward. It's stuck."

He returned and set our daughter on her feet. She promptly sat down in the pathway and began picking at acorns or something. He tried to get me to walk forward, but I absolutely could not lift my leg and swing it forward. I was truly stuck.

After a couple of moments, he lifted me and carried me over to a small boulder. I sort of half-leaned, half-sat on the rock, and waited for him to figure out what to do. I didn't hurt much as long as I didn't try to move my leg, but it definitely wasn't going to take me further. There was no way he could walk back and get the car, because we were on a woodland path and there was no way he could drive back for me. We hadn't seen anyone else for a bit, so we didn't know if we were at the end of the line or just in a lull. If anyone had come by, we couldn't explain the situation to them anyway, because everyone else was German. He couldn't carry me and our daughter out, and she probably couldn't have walked the remaining distance.

So we sat there for awhile. It wasn't bad. We talked and laughed and made little games of what we would do if we had to sit out there all night. Or maybe all week. It was a lovely day, although the air would cool once night set in.

After an hour or so, I managed to stand up and walk again. The pain was horrible with every swing forward of my left leg, but I dragged my butt out of those woods and collected my medal. We weren't even the last to finish! As we sat on the side of the trail, many others had passed us by with a smile and a wave and a "Guten Tag." We just smiled and waved back, and our daughter would call "Choos!" as they walked away, which always brought a chuckle. I don't know if I spelled that right, but it's kind of the German equivalent of "Bye," I think.

That wasn't my last Volksmarch, but it was the beginning of a new awareness of how my body was betraying me. It was a lesson for just how quickly the pain could incapacitate me, with no warning. And I still had no idea what was causing it. At the time, I thought I might be dying from some unknown disease. It was a very scary thought, and I didn't like it. Not one little bit.

I hope everyone has a safe and enjoyable Memorial Day weekend. Don't forget the men and women who have given their lives for our freedom. And appreciate that freedom by being free with your love and understanding of others. I think that's the best tribute we can give to their memory.

DISCOVERY, DELIGHT, DESTRUCTION

Do you remember the song, The Happy Wanderer by Friedrich-Wilhelm Möller? I guess it’s only fitting that it bounced through my head repeatedly during the eight or nine hour flight to Frankfort. I was on my way to join my husband in a foreign country for the first time ever. I couldn’t wait!

I’ve always loved travelling. My mother dubbed me “Captain Gada$$” at a very early age. I was always on the go, or begging to go somewhere the minute I got home from wherever we happened to be returning from. Yuck! I know that sentence is a mess, but hopefully you’ll overlook the grammar lapse for now.

My husband and I had travelled some over the years, but never outside the contiguous states, so this was a thrill. However, once I arrived at the Frankfort airport, I was convinced it was all a hoax. Sure, there were signs posted throughout the terminal in a language I couldn’t read, but that didn’t mean I was actually in another country. And once we got on the bus, the landscape was unfamiliar and much greener and more lush than that which I had left behind, but that didn’t mean anything. I remember commenting to my husband that I knew it was a joke and we were probably somewhere in the upper northeast.

Then we arrived at the post where he was stationed, and we piled into the little German model Ford my husband had already purchased. My 1967 Mustang was still on a boat and wouldn’t arrive in the country for another two weeks.  

One of my husband’s coworkers picked us up. We drove through an unfamiliar town and headed out along a highway with breathtaking scenery. As we proceeded, the elevation rose. Before long we turned off the highway and began a sharp climb up a mountain. I counted (for the first of many times) thirteen switchback turns until we reached the top. A scene right out of a storybook unfolded before us. A lovely little village spread out all around, with a twisting, narrow thoroughfare cutting through the middle. If I looked out the side window I could see sheep grazing on the steep hillsides. Window boxes filled with bright blooms decorated windows that were opened wide to the brisk mountain air and golden sunshine. I fell in love.

We lived in that little village for several months while we waited for government housing. The apartment building we found was small, just two apartments upstairs, and the other family were also American military people, so I had someone to talk with. But I didn’t have a lot of time for talking. I spent many of my days exploring the village. I would pack my daughter up in her stroller and walk up the hill to town. We had to shop daily, because our refrigerator was tiny – as were many of the conveniences we Americans take for granted. But I loved exploring the shops and getting to know the inhabitants. I found that if I at least attempted to speak to them in their language, they were more than happy to laugh at my efforts and then explain that they could speak English. I never left a shop without a small token prize for my daughter. A generous slice of delicious bologna from the meat market. A piece of ripe fruit from the grocery store. And the tiny department store – where I purchased a pillow, towels and blankets, always gave her gummi bears. She learned to say, “Danke” very quickly, which delighted the townspeople.

But all the time I was finding so much enjoyment in this new culture, my body was trying to destroy itself. One luxury I did not have was a clothes dryer. My husband managed to procure a miniature washing machine, which I had to push across the kitchen and attach to the very small sink in order to fill it with water. It wasn’t very efficient, and I usually had to wring out the clothes by hand. The forceful twisting soon became painful, and before long my hands began to swell across the lower knuckles. Then I had to hang the clothes outside from the balcony. The weather turned cold soon after we arrived, and often the clothes would freeze before they would dry.

I found that soaking my hands in hot water relieved the pain a bit, but our water heater was about the size of a backpack, so I didn’t like wasting it. Also, our landlady, although a very sweet woman, was very frugal with the coal, so our apartment stayed cold. I was grateful that I had listened to a friend when she told me to pack for colder weather. The cold didn’t seem to bother my daughter too much, but I wore numerous layers, and often gloves, just to stay comfortable in the house.

Before long the snow came, and I would sit in the living room and watch it float down in flakes the size of baseballs. The valley became a winter wonderland as the snow turned everything white and turned every unfamiliar landmark and bush into mysterious creatures. I tuned out the aches and pains while I absorbed the scenery and basked in the beauty that surrounded me.

Unfortunately, all too soon we received notification that we were up for housing. We left the mountaintop and became town dwellers. And the disease moved with us, voracious and armed for battle.

COMPLAINING, COMPANIONS, COMPASSION

Before life with Arthur, I had never been much of a complainer. I had little to complain about. Life was good, if not great. I was young, I had a great marriage, we finally had our first child, and I loved the military life. It’s not for everyone, I realize, but travel is in my blood, and meeting people and making new friends is something I've always good at.

None of that has changed over the years. I still enjoy meeting new people, and although long car trips are not something I enjoy overmuch these days, I have discovered I have a definite affinity for ocean cruises. Basking in the heat of a tropical ship deck is close enough to a sauna to melt the knots right out of my aching muscles. As long as I can find a place out of the sun, I’m good.

I must digress for a moment here, and take us back to the days immediately preceding our trip to Europe. Since I was staying with my parents temporarily, I decided to take on a part-time job to help occupy the days until I could join my husband. I had never worked much in fast-food, always preferring office work to standing on my feet all day ensconced in the smell of hot grease. But I thought it might be a fun change of scene, and there weren’t many employers willing to take on office workers for such a short time.

So I applied for a job at the local Wendy’s. I liked working with the young kids that often fill those positions, and the manager was a family acquaintance who knew my time there would be short. I went off to work in my blue striped apron, knowing my parents would love the time alone with their granddaughter.

What a nightmare! At that time, Wendy’s had only recently introduced their first chicken sandwich to the menu. One of my assigned tasks was to prepare the chicken breasts for deep-frying. I had to place the breasts in a shallow pan of flour and break down the membranous fibers so that they didn’t curl up when fried.

The only way we were allowed to break down the chicken was with our knuckles. I had to press the backs of my hands into the chicken meat hard enough to break it down, but not too hard. A utensil would have mashed it up too much. Knuckles were best.

It wasn’t long before my hands because extremely sore and tender, and they swelled slightly. My co-workers and companions didn’t understand it. Several of them were also assigned to the same task, and had no such problems. They made me feel like a total wuss.

My mother was compassionate about it, but didn’t understand the extent of the pain I was experiencing. For that matter, neither did I. My hands got so sore and stiff that I couldn’t pin diapers on my daughter. She has very sensitive skin, and wouldn’t tolerate disposables, so I had always used cloth diapers on her. But suddenly the pressure of squeezing the large safety pins caused extreme pain in my knuckles. I thought it was all just a reaction to the chicken breast pounding, so I gave up the job.

Now I had more free time than I knew what to do with. I began looking up old friends and spending time with them. But it wasn’t long before they started acting strangely. It took me a while to figure it out, but I finally realized that it was the constant complaining I had begun.

I honestly didn’t mean to complain. And it’s not like I went on and on about how bad I felt all the time. But I’ll give you an example of what my life was like at that time, and see how you would describe it.

My friend and I arrange for her to pick me up to go shopping. She arrives at my parent’s house, and I limp out to the car. (I’m limping on my right leg.) My friend greets me with a frown and asks what’s wrong with my leg. “Oh, I don’t know,” I say as I arrange myself in the car. “It just hurts sometimes.”

We get to the mall, and after a while we’ve got a selection of items to try on. We come out of the dressing rooms, and I’m rubbing my left shoulder. “Did you hurt your arm?” asks my friend.

“Um, no,” I reply. “It just hurts all of a sudden.”

My friend eyes me a bit doubtfully. “How’s your leg?”

“Oh, it’s fine.”

We head down to the food court, but half-way through lunch, I stop eating. “Is there something wrong with your salad,” asks my friend.

“No, my jaws just ache,” I respond. I pick up my tray with my left hand and stretch my arm out toward the trash bin, which I force open and dump the remains of my lunch.

“Doesn’t that hurt your arm,” asks friend with raised eyebrows.

I toss the tray onto the top of the trash bin. “Nope. My arm’s fine now.”

See where I’m going with this? By now my friend is beginning to think there’s definitely something wrong with me, but she’s sure the problem is somewhere in my head, not in my leg or my arm or my jaw. I know this to be true because she later admitted it. She’s not the only one.

But that’s how it started out for me. The pain in my joints would travel throughout my body, stabbing me here, pinching me there, until I doubted my own sanity. I definitely felt pain, but aspirin didn’t make it go away, and I had never taken anything stronger. So I started believing that I had developed hypochondria. The word ‘arthritis’ never entered the picture. Not once.

That was my life. Still young, still wearing those four-inch spike heels, a fairly new mother going off to a strange country, and having mental issues. But I wasn’t going to let it get the best of me. I pushed the pain to the back of my mind as much as possible, and kept doing what I had been all along. I took care of my family. Probably not as well as I had been in the past, but hopefully well enough that they didn’t notice what it was costing me.

Hope you all have a blessed week. I’m going outside to lie in my hammock and smell the honeysuckle.

Harmony

Saying Good-bye for Now

I know I should have posted letter C today, but my mother-in-law passed away yesterday morning, and I've been busy with too many important tasks to take the time to think about a blog post. My children needed hugs, my husband needed lots of support since he is the oldest, and nearest relative to take care of final arrangements. And I have to assist him with this. 

It wasn't unexpected, but we're never prepared for death. That's why we need to take every opportunity to make the best use of our time while we're still among the living. We need to fill our hours with the people who are important to us, and people that we may not even know, but that we are important to. Little kindnesses and random acts of caring are so important. 

My mother-in-law wasn't the gentlest or most thoughtful of people, and she tended to be self-centered, especially as she grew older and began having health issues. Pain has a tendency to bring out the worst in most people. Occasionally my husband would get short-tempered with her, especially after the fifteenth phone call at two in the morning, when she thought she was holding the television remote, rather than the telephone, and simply couldn't figure out why the channel wasn't changing. Or when she would tell him for the umpteenth time that she couldn't figure out why she had that lump on her finger, or asked him repeatedly why he supposed it hurt her so much to bend her knees.

RA hasn't made me a nicer person, probably, but it has helped me to be just a bit more patient with others. It's enabled me to understand that someone may look healthy and happy, but may be hiding a wealth of pain. And because I have tried many times to downplay my own pain, and hide the ravages that the disease has heaped upon me, I have learned to realize that everyone has something they are hiding. Since I love a good mystery, that fact has helped me take a bigger interest in others. I have found that when a person discovers you are truly interested in them, they become much more open to sharing, unless, of course, they have something to hide. 

That's all the thoughts I have for today. It's a rather pathetic effort, but I am saving my energy for the next few days. There is much to do, and saying my final good-byes to a love one must take precedence. If you are still blessed with loved ones, take the time to touch one another and share some conversation. If you are alone, call or write a friend, or better yet, meet some new ones. We can find friends in the most unlikeliest of places, if we're open to it. I spend time volunteering at the elementary school when I can. Who knew that at my age, some of my best friends would be kindergarten students? They have taught me so much!

Good night, and I hope it really is good. 

Harmony