I don’t feel good.

I don’t know if it’s the last five nights of night shift, the storms rolling through, or my body throwing out symptoms I don’t want to pay heed to.

It’s day two of my commitment to exercise every day – specifically to walk then run. Every day. From now until November.

Yesterday, I drove home from my travel assignment, unpacked, and fell into bed. By the time I woke up, it was pouring rain, with no end sight.

I was stuck with the dreadmill, because I made a commitment- to myself, first and foremost.

Today I awoke ill…and it was again pouring.

I spent the day resting and plying myself with a myriad of homeopathic treatments. Drinking water. Waiting for the rain to stop.

Finally, just after my dinner of rice and hibachi veggies, it did. Out I went.

I realize how much I’ve grown into this runners mentality…even though I’ve struggled to get back on track since my type 1 diabetes diagnosis.

The humidity is 92%, and that itself would have kept me inside at some point.

I have so many excuses.

Resolve must overcome.

Overcome the night shift/day shift fluctuations that keep me exhausted.

I must push through the Florida heat, humidity, and gnats.

I listen to an audiobook in one ear, and observe my surroundings as I quickly walk my 4.5 miles for the day.

Instead of focusing on the bad, I look for the good.

Mimosa trees, battered by the double deluge of today, with their leaves still folded in, protective.

A grand old crepe myrtle, weighed down with huge clumps of white flowers curved down at lovely angles.

Crossing a bridge and stopping to see the turtles, who rush over in the muddy waters, hoping I’ll throw them a snack.

All these things keep my mind off the humidity I used to curse, and that used to keep me from working out.

No more.

I’ve got goals – long and short term – and I’ll reach them.

One day at a time. I’ve done it before, going from a sedentary life to one where I’ve run 22 half marathons, and many other races, over the course of eight years.

Today I walked. Next week, the running program begins.

I was almost three years into a hell I willingly walked into.

If it looks to good to be true…it might be a sociopath.

I was tender and healing and hopeful.

They were predatory.

Appearances were good…but great evil lurked below.

I set boundaries, which were crashed through with force. And rape.

Committed, I moved forward, and north.

Without a support system, I sought one – and found myself in one as sick as they were.

Behind my back, my children were harmed. In front of my face, they were groomed.

It began the first day of summer.

It ended near the end of summer.

I slept fitfully one day after a night shift. I dreamt of coming and going, in a dreamscape that wasn’t exceptional in any way – except for the narration.

In the background, I intermittently heard the word “misogyny”. The dream would progress, and again, like a skip in a record, “misogyny”.

I awakened puzzled, for though I had a vast vocabulary, I didn’t know what this word meant, or why it was the voice of my dream.

Hatred of women.

My true awakening began.

The nightmare of finding what somewhere deep inside – my darkest fear – was on the verge of happening.

I fled.

Only after did I discover the depth of horrors that occurred under the roof I suffered under.

Summer.

May they rot in hell.

Sunrise made itself known through the triple set of doors.

Even that level of glass couldn’t contain the violet and pink light that was slowly seeping over the sleepy country landscape.

It calls me like the siren song. I have to go see it for myself, and push through the triplicate of exit doors, buzzing myself out the last one, and into…glory.

It’s humid already. I can smell the fresh cut hay, and somewhere nearby, a cow is lowing.

I walk across the tiny parking lot, and onto the damp, dew kissed grass. I need to get out from under artificial light, away from overhead lines.

The sky is a pastel pink and purple song, the light flowing over the trees, and through the fields of hay and corn. It brightens and morphs into new beauty as I watch, as if I was turning a kaleidoscope slowly, and the brighter colors of orange and yellow spread along the horizon.

I breathe in my fill of the morning beauty, and return inside and let my coworker go get hers, too.

A storm is churning out there in the gulf somewhere, and we may not see another sunrise like this for a few days.

Heading home after shift change, I’m sitting in line at a fast food restaurant, waiting for my grits.

Straight ahead, I spot an elderly woman sitting by the side of the road.

She’s between the road and the train tracks, and she’s set up a couple of folding tables right there in the grass.

She spread a sheet on the tables, and there are baskets of peaches, tomatoes, and I think okra peeking up out of a basket. She sits with her head down and her hands clasped in her lap. I see cucumbers and squash, and I figure it’s fresh from her garden. It’s 7:30am.

I make a mental note to look for her again. I want to stop and buy something, but I have neither the cash nor the fridge space here in my travel job motel.

Driving toward my small town away from home, there is a biplane swooping and diving over the fields. The corn is fringed with yellow tassels, a sight I can’t get used to this early in the year, after living for years in the Midwest. Up there, it’s growing blue green and tall still.

Back at the motel, I turn on my electric blanket, toss my key card on the dresser, and sit to eat my grits. It’s my time to wind down. I’ve arranged my room as I do every week, trying to bring a sense of normalcy to my nomadic existence.

After a few minutes, I call my husband, who is just starting his day, and he says good night.

It was.

Last night, as I calmly sat at work at the start of my night shift, I sat straight up in a panic.

Flustered, I opened a colorful zippered pouch to search for the source of my anxiety- I grasped a small, rubber encased vial, pulled it out, and held it up to the light.

Squinting, my pulse increased as I saw what I already knew would be true – I was out of insulin.

I’m a type 1 diabetic, and a working travel nurse far away from home.

It was only 4 years ago that I was diagnosed as a type 1 diabetic – actually LADA. Look it up if you please, but basically my body attacked itself, and now I don’t make insulin.

It’s mid day on a Thursday. I’ve awakened every 2 hours, waiting for my endocrinologist office to open – they are closed tomorrow. If I can’t make this happen, I’ll have to drive back home, get insulin, returning after a missed shift of work.

I speak to the doctors office. I had left a message with the service last night, and an urgent message on the patient portal, but this is too urgent to wait on.

I speak to someone at the doctors office. It takes two people to get the prescription to electronically send to the pharmacy closest to the town I’m working at.

I immediately called the pharmacy, making sure they have all my correct insurance and contact information.

For two hours, I wait. I have another 12 hour shift tonight…but I have to have insulin.

I get a text informing me that my insulin is here. I immediately get in my car, and drive to pick it up.

I’m back at my hotel, and the precious, full vial is now protected by the rubber sleeve – one dropped and shattered bottle of insulin, and I learned never to be without it. It’s tucked into my “pancreas” – the nickname for the colorful bag that contains my continuous glucose monitor receiver, my insulin pump monitor, lancet device, alcohol swabs, and needles.

I went 4 decades without even thinking twice about what I ate or drank, leaving my house with a wallet and a set of keys.

Ten years ago, with an incorrect type 2 diabetes diagnosis, my life suddenly turned into total accountability- counting every single carb I ate or drank.

Eight years ago, I had gone from overweight and sedentary, to regular, purposeful exercise.

Four years ago, and now I have to check myself before I go anywhere. My “pancreas” must be stocked and at my side. I have to have fast acting carbs on my person at all times. I have juice pouches in every vehicle I drive.

All of these things are in place to help me manage this diagnosis the best that I can.

It’s all moot, though, without that little glass bottle.

I have good insurance, and thankfully, today’s emergency prescription fill was only $25 for the vial. I have paid as much as $300 for it – with another insurance carrier.

At ease, I prepare to rest. My mother and close friends call and make sure that I’ve gotten my insulin. I sigh as they do, relieved that this very real worry is assuaged.

Four years.

Seems like a lifetime ago.

In April, the big tree in the middle of the back yard came down.

It was at least 40 years old. The branches spread over most of the back yard, rendering grass growing nearly impossible.

Squirrels nested high in its branches, and used the nearby tree limbs as an overhead highway.

My lawn was covered most of the year with the hard little brown leaves that these oak trees drop year round.

The roots knobbed up all over, tripping me if I wasn’t careful.

It’s sister tree broke in two a couple of year ago. In the dead of night, a huge thundering whoosh outside my window woke me.

Half the tree has cleaved off, fortunately landing away from the house, spanning across the fence and it’s lacing of confederate jasmine.

How that old fence held up, I’ll never know.

Late last year, we spent the afternoon at a nearby friends house, floating in their pool.

It was the beginning of an idea.

Covid sealed the deal.

We love to travel, and do it often. In the 15 years we’ve been together, we’ve gone all over the country…and on many cruises, and trips to Europe.

Grounded for over a year, we decided to get an in ground pool.

I knew this meant an end to the big tree in the middle of the yard.

I spent the days before the excavation looking up at the tree – standing at its trunk, gazing into the lattice of branches and leaves, squinting when the sun peaked through.

I ran my hand over the bark…I took pictures. I told the tree thank you.

I was sad when they took it down. First, the branches were pared off, leaving it barren, as if it had been stripped by a hurricane.

The next day, they dug up the root ball, and pushed the mighty trunk over.

Today, after a few laps in the pool, I floated for a while.

I studied the trees that run along the edges of our fence on two sides. I watched the squirrels come so far – and stop. I followed the birds as they flew overhead, and kept going – no place to stop in the middle. Dragonflies floated over. High, high up, a bird of prey glided easily on unseen wind currents.

Twenty years of my life, I spent time under that tree, and the sister tree whose unseen damage scored it in half one night.

Now, I spend my days floating in my hole in the ground.

And I remember the tree.

lol

Has there ever been a lonelier time to be alive?

I listen to my audiobooks as I drive five hours a week to get to my travel nursing assignment. To and fro, I’m immersed in times past.

These couple of weeks, the novel was set during the dust storm. It was a dire time of famine, hunger, desperation, death, and loss.

They had community. There were no devices to keep them in a fake world – they lived and breathed the world that they woke up to every day.

There were friendships – actual human, face to face conversations. They went to each other’s homes, broke bread, brought fresh produce, checked in on one another.

They went to church where the star was the Bible. They humbly served each other, and were in community.

For over a decade I’ve talked of the great big church, and the abject loneliness therein. The inner circle of country club Christianity- a scourge that gets worse by the year.

I sought connection as a young child, and found it in church. In community. In relationships with like minded people, who walked the walk.

For fifteen years, that has been missing in my life.

My days are spent alone. My phone rarely rings. I speak to my family, and I see my son and his family weekly when I babysit my grandson. The rest of the time, silence. Solitude.

Loneliness.

I’m purposing to spend more time with my loved ones – the ones who live an hour away, and the ones who are states away, I call more frequently.

The vast, vast amounts of my time are spent alone…and yes, lonely. I commute to work for days. I’m home and see my husband when he gets off work, and on weekends I’m home.

I’m tired. Tired of being lonely. Tired of fighting for community. Exhausted in striving to get the Body to do what it should do…but won’t.

Coupled with my depression, the loneliness compounds the negative narrative that tries to insinuate itself into my thoughts. My will to fight for connection wanes when I feel I can’t even get out of bed some days.

My dogs surround me. They bring comfort, as they know I am sad. Again. Still.

It’s not the same as community.

That’s what I need.

Marriage anniversary number 13.

Come January, we’ve been together 15 years. officially together longer than any of our previous relationships. Definitely happier for a longer duration in either of our historys!!

We are a blended family.

When we started this journey, I had 3 children, he had 2. Their ages ranged from 22 years old to 10 years old.

Since then? We lost a pregnancy. We gained another son, three daughters in love, a son in love, and six grandchildren. With two more on the way!

Has it been easy? No. Has it been worth it? Absolutely!

Persistence pays.

I’m feeling extremely blessed. I’m in love, and I’m loved – cherished, in fact.

It’s humbling.

Two people who had been betrayed by unfaithful spouses took another chance. Trusted God. Moved toward a happy future.

We’ve been able to go on lots of trips, traveling to Europe, Mexico, multiple cruises, weekend getaways, and just days on the beach.

Sometimes, it’s too easy to get distracted by the noise – the ones who don’t accept us. The ones that oppose our marriage – still! The people who should be on our side… but aren’t.

I’m learning to let go of those who don’t accept the fact that this happened, is happening, and will be happening, until death do us part.

We have learned to find those who love us, and we cherish them.

Other times, it’s the two of us.

That’s okay. Our relationship changes anf grows, and gets stronger for it.

We’ve taken our experience and try to help others who are starting down the blended family road.

The kids are grown – most are successful and happy. Some are struggling – but they are adults, with their own lives.

We are here for all of them.

Now, it’s him and I.

As it will be for what I hope is decades to come.

“And many more”…

Blessed, indeed.

I wake up in the late afternoon for my drive to work.

I’m a travel nurse, and I am deep in southern Georgia, driving country roads to and from my rural hospital assignment.

Summer is just around the corner, and already, the eastern sky is an angry grey, pop up showers visible along the horizon.

I get off the main road after 2 exits, and spend the bulk of my 25 minute drive running alongside the railroad tracks. To my left, miles and miles of farmland.

Right now, early corn is already tasseling. The large irrigation systems are sprinkling the fields, moving slowly, row by row. On my right behind the train tracks, newly planted fields curve and twist along the edge of stands of southern pine.

I smell rain, and soon my windshield is splattered with a few minutes of rain, even as the sun is waning.

I spot a farm stand on the right, and the barn door is open, so I pull across the empty road, bumping across the red clay, parking next to the worn concrete foundation.

On the long covered slab, a farmer has pulled up a tractor, its scoop full of zipper peas. Methodically, he and his wife feed the peas into the shelling machine, and I’m excited, knowing I’m going home with fresh shelled peas.

Inside the big worn doors, a variety of fresh picked produce awaits. Corn, tomatoes, green beans, yellow squash, cucumbers – I sigh with happiness as I peruse the offerings.

The intoxicating aroma of fresh peaches calls me, and I pick up a box after checking them, holding the fuzzy fruit to my nose, and inhaling deeply. “They were picked yesterday!” the young woman tells me – as if I couldn’t appreciate the wonderful fresh glory before me. “I’ll take a box” I respond, rattling off my order.

A barefoot little pigtailed girl walks up, half eaten fruit in her hand. “I’m eating a peach!” She smiles up at me, presenting the fruit proudly, her hand dripping juice. “I love peaches!” I respond. She’s pleased, and runs back out to watch her grandparents shell peas.

I talk to the young woman a few minutes as she tells me the story of her twin girls birth – I work with her cousin, and we talk, as women do, about babies and birth, and the miracle therein.

I tell her I’m driving home tomorrow. She tells me if I ever need produce and they aren’t open, just message her and she’ll get Mama to set some back for me.

Arms full of produce, I place it all carefully in the back of my Jeep, waving happily as I head on in to work.

I’ve bought enough fresh produce to eat, give to Mama and my kids, and put up fresh for the long summer months without farm fresh goodness.

I pass the grain mill, slowing as I hit the edges of town. I turn at the second of two lights, passing historic downtown as the road quickly heads into the small neighborhood that borders the farmland heading out of town.

Back at the hospital, I bring in the produce for safe keeping overnight.

And every time I pass the box of peaches, the sweet nectar wafts past me, making me smile all over again.

I’m immediately going to age myself by posting this.

I feel compelled to anyway.

Dear 99% of people with internet access: you are never, ever, ever going to be famous.

Quit Facebooking, and get some face to face time serving others.

Clock out of Tiktok, and spend time getting a trade that will support you, instead of depending on others to do so.

Tip toe away from Twitter, and spend more time listening.

Seek wisdom, not attention.

You are never going to be famous. Or even well known.

You’ll just be broke.

Sincerely,

Every generation before the Internet.

Pregnancy is truly a miracle.

The growing of another human – or humans! A precious few months. Anticipation. Excitement. Nervousness.

The private moments of the mysterious movements beneath your skin. The taps. Hiccups. Bumps.

Then one day, birth. We are told the pain is coming – some of us take classes to prepare.

There is no real preparation for the pain – we want to run away from it, but we can’t. So we focus, breathe, and after some time…the tiny human is removed from us. The cord is cut.

The first separation.

Years of snuggles, one on one care. Never more than a fingertip away. Carrying them because you have to…and you want to. Smelling sweet baby scalps, kissing elbow dimples, watching and waiting for firsts…first smiles, laughs, or words. They are totally dependent on us.

Then slowly, they are not.

Chubby legs that kicked as they lay in their crib start to crawl. Hesitantly, they stand…balance…walk. All too soon, they are running.

Foe the next few years, we are chasing them.

Trying to protect them from dangers seen and unseen. Clasping their hands tight as we cross the street. Hovering close as they play in the park. Escorting them to the bathroom.

Then they start school. We smile reassuringly as they climb the enormous steps on the bus.

Then we walk back into the house…alone.

Our baby is now in the hands of strangers all day. We wait to see them, excited to hear their tales, and cherish the papers they bring us.

Fast forward, too fast, to high school graduation. We remember our own ceremony, and our gut clinches as we look at the future looming ahead – a future they barrel into, fearless, even as we dread it.

They are legal adults now. Making decisions that are good, and bad. Our parent hearts rejoice when they succeed, and we spend sleepless nights in anxious worry when they go off on a path we know will not end well.

Each milestone is a further separation – marriage. Having a family. Moving out into their own lives.

They always remain attached to our hearts, though….that’s the one place the cleaving is never complete.