Today is the day I move into my second Airbnb.

After the disaster of my first Airbnb, my dog and I have been at an extended stay hotel for the last two nights.

The room was like a studio apartment. I truly believe my years of struggle and poverty make me more adept at rolling with the punches. I’ve definitely had apartments with smaller living spaces than this. In unsafe neighborhoods.

I have walked the dog this morning, and now we are relaxing until our late checkout. When we arrive at the new town, we are going to go on a long walk through a local park. By then, it will be time to check in at my Airbnb.

I also spent my life moving frequently as an Air Force brat. So I can pack and go with the best of them.

Here’s hoping that today’s space will be where we stay for the remainder of the nursing contract. I work all weekend at a very busy hospital, and it will be good to know the dog and I have a safe, comfortable place to call our temporary home.

This travel nurse has already had some unexpected bumps in the road, and explored some interesting places.

Time to focus on the job – patient care begins again tomorrow!

I packed my sedan on Sunday, and headed north for my first travel nurse assignment.

I had rented a private room in a beautiful subdivision. I checked the crime statistics, and it was a safe area. My favorite grocery store was close by, and parks and outdoor spaces to enjoy were abundant.

You know what they say about when it seems too good to be true.

I arrived on a warm afternoon, unloading my belongings and trusty companion Australian Shepherd into a 2000 square foot, two story home on a wooded lot.

As I unpacked, I noticed a lot of things that were in need to repair. The refrigerator was sparse. The kitchen was barely stocked with basic cooking equipment. But there was a gourmet cappuccino machine, and the home furnishings were lovely. I took the explanations at face value. The owner was kind, and seemed a kindred spirit.

The first day was uneventful. My dog enjoyed roaming the houses with the owner gladly letting her out in the back yard. I was relieved she was out of the crate.

After being in the home 24 hours, the owner called the agency and inquired as to why she hadn’t gotten the rent yet. I had gone through a rental company, and paid the first month fees three weeks ago. The owner was indignant, and I understood. You should be paid for services rendered.

This morning, I awoke to a house without power. The red flags began to wave. The fee owed was nominal, so I offered to pay the power bill, and deduct it from what I owed.

I did so. Power restored. Crisis averted…or was it?

Due to the fact the owner had not gotten paid yet, she cancelled the contract with the rental company.

I felt very vulnerable, far from home, and now without a rental agreement.

Later this afternoon, I received an email from the owner, from her house, stating I needed to pay the balance owed via Vimeo or Western Union. If not, the email ominously went on, other utilities faced shut off.

I had no protection. And no intention of staying in such an uncertain circumstance. I packed up my belongings and my dog, and headed south.

I have a great nurse recruiter, who found me an extended stay hotel to park safely with my dog for the next couple of nights.

My ever helpful and resourceful daughter found me another place to stay – with dozens of great reviews, handy to my place of employment, and safe. Fingers crossed I will secure this place.

In the mean time, I go to orientation again tomorrow. I’m determined to do a stellar job at this contract, serving the community, and putting the gleam back on my resume, after months stagnant in my nursing role, thoroughly enjoying my wife, mother, nana roles.

I knew this was going to be an adventure…I just didn’t anticipate this!

I’m a nurse. We roll with the punches!

Now pardon me, I’m going to relax with a game of solitaire.

Are you mindfully looking for beauty in your everyday life?

It’s all around.

In the wake of Earth Day “celebrations”, I think it’s important to appreciate this planet we’ve been given.

Part of stewardship of our earthly dwelling is caring for it.

If you just press through your day, staring at traffic, staring at walls, coming home and staring at your television before you finally stare at your eyelids, you’re missing out.

You won’t care about the earth because your world doesn’t go past your nose.

I try and go outside everyday and appreciate what I see. Appreciate deeply!!

It was easy last night. We went for a walk at just before dusk, and my state is in full spring bloom. All my senses were deluged by a flood of beauty. My eyes took in the pastel, sweeping clouds. The mallards huddled on the golf course. Flowers blooming around mailboxes, and magnolia trees in bud.

My nose would catch the briefly overwhelming wave of heady confederate jasmine. The deep mossy dampness of the earth. Sweet aromas of clipped grass.

I heard the varied songs of the mockingbird. The melodic melodies of the frogs, warming up for their nightly serenade.

I felt the cool breeze, with the last lingering effects of winter just a hint around me.

Some would counter they don’t live in a lovely place – but I disagree, for I have found beauty everywhere. In November, caught in a blizzard for almost nine hours on the East Coast, I looked past the cars, and saw wonder. Transformation. Beauty.

Life. Everywhere. Struggling. Thriving. Evolving.

If you purpose to look for it, you will see it.

When you do, be sure to be just as vigilant to care for it.

Due to some epic poor decisions I made, my twenties were pretty hard.

I had started college in pursuit of a journalism degree, but had a baby instead.

The next ten years were lessons in hard knocks.

I was blessed with parents who kept me from living under a bridge, but who were not codependent. There were no handouts.

This meant working three jobs at a time, having junker cars with no A/C, and not having furniture in my bedroom so my child could have furniture in theirs.

After a disasterous elopement to a future adulterous spouse, I was left with three kids, and I was broke.

There were no mani-pedi’s for me, no spa days, no salon ‘dos. It was struggle.

When I was 26, I decided I had enough of the struggle. I worked full time, I went to school full time. My supportive parents paid for child care. I lived in a shack and drove a POS Volkswagen.

Once a year, I went out to eat at a nice restaurant. That was it for “treating myself”. No concerts. No parties. Just adulthood.

Through prayer and tenacity and hard work, I got a nursing degree.

At the age of 30, I was a registered nurse. Slowly, my savings built. My parents helped me get a low interest rate on a car and I paid for it.

I got a bed and furniture for myself.

Little by little, things got better. There was no splurging – when I was 38, I went on my first vacation with my family. I took the kids to Disney World – paid in cash, $1k for four days.

I didn’t expect more because I knew that my decisions had led to these consequences. I was determined to make a better life for my children, and I did my best to do so.

A better life didn’t mean handing them everything on a silver platter. All three of my kids know the value of hard work, know what it means to make the most of what you have, and most of all, count your blessings.

I got my first pedicure in my late 30s. I got my eyebrows done for the first time in my 40s.

I see a generation now that has expectations of little girls getting mani pedi’s regularly, and getting their eye brows and hair done at fancy salons.

Meanwhile, for years the boys had their hair clipped at home with the clippers I bought at the big box store. My daughter had her hair trimmed at the discount haircut shop.

We lived within our means, and made the best of what when we had.

Has social media been the flame that lit this ever growing fire of self indulgence? Or was it a generation of parents who wanted to give everything to their kids – and did?

I’ve been married to a great husband for over a decade now. We live comfortably, but continue to spend the same nominal amount on each child for Christmas and birthdays.

We see some struggling, but we don’t do handouts. Our children are establishing families of their own, and, for the most part, working hard to make their way.

Great expectations can kill your dreams, if you expect the world open up before you and give you everything you want.

I raised my kids with the expectation that hard work and service to others leads to a good life. To expect no handouts. The road was theirs for the taking – but they would have to work to get it.

Life will prove me out.

My son flew out of town this morning.

His flight took him over the area at sunrise – it’s a glorious spring day, and he had the best view possible.

I’m dealing with a lot of heavy stuff right now. Most of it is out of my control, and I am learning the lessons I need to learn about self control and trust as I walk through this.

Having the right perspective always is helpful. When I got the snap my son took from the airplane window, I got my perspective for the day.

There’s a lot of nonsense going on down here, but above me…peace. Calm. Omniscience.

It’s the same feeling I get when I lie on the ground and look at the stars at night. Little tiny speck of a thing me suddenly doesn’t have big giant problems.

It feels horrible when the problems of life start piling up. When hurting people hurt me. When answers aren’t easily found.

Today was a reminder that I may never find the answer to what is plaguing me.

I can back up, look up, and get perspective.

You know what? It’s another beautiful day.

My Mama grew up poor, and in the South.

This point was brought home to me often in my youth.

Every Christmas, I would get jacks in my stocking. If you are unfamiliar with playing jacks, Google it. I spent my childhood years playing jacks…until I lost the little red bouncy ball. Then one by one, the jacks would be stepped on, lost, or tossed, and I’d be ready for my next set of jacks, come Christmas.

In the summer, when we lived in southern states, we’d look for puddles deep enough to have tadpoles. Many dozens of tadpoles turned into little toads and hopped away into our back yard, fed a diet of oatmeal in their Plastic shoebox home.

My favorite thing to play with was a June bug.

June bugs are fat, unwieldy beetles that somehow manage to fly. Their flight path is slow and wobbly, and they are easy to catch.

Instructed from the memories of Mama’s youth, I’d take a long piece of string, and make a slip knot on one end. Carefully I’d lasso a leg on the hapless beetle, pulling it taunt.

The June bug would take flight, unfolding its wings from its brown shell, and I’d walk along, waiting for it to get altitude.

Once above my head, I’d swing the June bug round and round, circling my arm like a crazed rodeo entomologist.

Eventually, the beetle would have enough of the circling, and would turn itself at me, causing me to drop the string, and run screaming like a little girl.

After a few minutes, I’d pick up the string and loosen the slip from the leg, setting the June bug free to drunkenly wander off.

My favorite June bugs were the luminous green ones. Their shells changed color in the light, and caught the sun as they whirred overhead.

Tonight on the porch, I heard something tapping against the front door. I was talking to Mama at the time, and as I glanced down, I said “June bug!”

She responded it was too early for them – and it is – but she immediately began to talk of her times playing with June bugs as a child, laughing as she remembered swinging them over her head.

It’s a childhood memory that we share, decades apart, but beloved by both of us.

This is the month of the military child.

When I was growing up, we were referred to as “Air Force Brats”. I was not offended.

I’m still not.

My mom was induced into labor to have me a little early, so my dad could see me before he went off to Vietnam.

The next time he saw me, I was walking.

I lived in several states before I could remember anything – although my first memory is as a babe in arms, coming off a plane with my mom. I remember seeing my dad, and my big brother with his crew cut.

From preschool through high school graduation, I attended seven schools, in five different states, and one foreign country. The first 18 years of my life were spent as a military dependent child.

I rarely saw extended family – we were always far away from them, and we certainly couldn’t travel around to see them. Grandparents were people who sent cards…sometimes with cash in them.

My dad went on several tours of duty by himself. These were the times the appliances broke, the car broke down, or one of us kids broke a bone. It never seemed to happen when he was home!

I grew up in the 1970’s and 1980’s, and there were no big family vacations to exotic locales. For us, the pop up camper was our weekend escape to campsites in our great nation. In 1977 we made a stop at Disney World before we flew 20 hours to our new assignment in the Pacific.

My mom didn’t work outside the home – she took care of us three children. That kept her plenty busy.

My oldest friend is a woman I met in ninth grade. The rest of my dear friends are from high school. We live all over the country now, but keep on touch. Those friends I made in school are part of my extended family.

Everyone responds to what life gives them differently. For me, being an Air Force Brat gave me a deep appreciation for military members and their spouses. It made me appreciate the blessings of being born in this great county.

God bless America, and our military.

Two of my kids are in military families now. I’m grateful for technology like FaceTime, so I can see them and my grandkids, wherever they go. It’s hard to be far away from them.

I’ve traveled more than most people, and I’m grateful for the experiences I’ve had as a military child.

I learned how to pick up and move, and how to start over midstream.

I long for the day we build our retirement home, and our kids and grandkids have a touchstone to go to.

I’ll never stop traveling, though.

I’ll go as long as I’m able to.

My alarm started playing a Resurrection hymn at 0600.

My eyes popped open. My body began its own wake up notifications – sore back, crick in the neck. Wakened from a deep sleep that had finally swept me away just a couple of hours earlier, I was exhausted.

A voice in the dark said “Wake up! You know you want to do this – you’ll be upset if you don’t go.”

I pushed out of bed. He was right

Last night, I set out the clothes I would wear for today’s 5k, along with the body glide and fanny pack. The new normal involved carrying my diabetic supplies at all times.

Three years ago, I ran a 10k on a Saturday…then turned around and ran a half marathon the very next day.

Today, I struggled to get motivated to run a 5k.

I choose to broaden my perspective- eight years ago, I was a couch potato. I didn’t pay any attention to what I ate, and I certainly didn’t exercise. Sure, I was 30 pounds overweight, but I had reached the age that my relative weight was much lighter than most of my peers.

Then I got a type 2 diagnosis. In the space of the next six years, I lost 30 pounds, and ran 21 half marathons, along with countless other races of shorter duration.

I’m back at square one, essentially. My insulin needs are a mysterious formula that ebb and flow with the effects of stress, hormones, illness, and the ever present diet choices. Type 1 diabetes is a completely different animal.

I got out of the car this morning determined to run the race.

I knew what I was capable of – I have already done much more than I ever thought I could.

It’s time to readjust, and persist.

Twenty months ago, I was diagnosed with type one diabetes – this is insulin-dependent, and nothing I did brought it on me. It’s an autoimmune disease, and I may have inherited a tendency for it, or I may have just acquired it. Nothing I eat, or don’t eat, has anything to do with this diagnosis. My BMI is in normal range.

In 2017, when I was diagnosed, we quickly learned the limitations of my insurance. While previously hospital insurance as a registered nurse has been fantastic, the corporation that took over my hospital brought with it an epically bad health care plan. I had to meet a $3000 deductible before I could begin seeing benefits. That meant $600 a month insulin. I quit that job after six months of this terrible insurance. I simply could not afford it.

I’m now on my husband’s policy, and up through last year his insurance was fantastic. Durable medical equipment, i.e. my insulin pump and continuous glucose monitor, were covered at 100%. Insulin was still expensive, but not as expensive as it had been with my prior insurance.

This year’s insurance has changed. Now durable medical equipment is only covered at 90%. That sounds fantastic – until you realize that every quarter I will be paying $600 for diabetes supplies alone. I had to get a prior authorization to get my test strips monthly, locally, with a coupon – or that would be another $200 quarterly.

Don’t get me wrong – I am extremely grateful that we have insurance. We pay handsomely for it! That being said, I don’t understand why it’s so darn expensive to keep this diabetic alive.

I am very compliant – I keep close tabs on the carbs that I eat, and the medical equipment I use helps me keep my blood sugar under much tighter regulation. Eating less carbs means using less insulin, and it saves me money, as well as keeps me healthier. (Note: I’m on a diet that is approved by my endocrinologist. I am not keto! I just don’t eat the high carb diet of most Americans.)

I could save money by going back to multiple dose injections of insulin, but that’s a lot of pain and heartache and hassle. It also does not control my blood sugar as well as the devices I use. I look at my medical devices as a form of preventative medicine. In the long run, they keep me out of the hospital, out of my doctors office, and keep me healthier – which is good for every single system in my body. So I don’t look at these devices as a luxury. They are a necessity.

It’s a necessity that a lot of people cannot afford. People without insurance, or people with crappy insurance, do not have access to these devices. And insulin is obscenely expensive without insurance – so diabetics, who did not have any part in their diagnosis, are doing drastic things to try to stay alive. Like rationing insulin. It’s extremely dangerous!

I’m disgusted by this whole gouging the consumer mode that big Pharma uses every single day. Specifically for diabetics, who, once diagnosed, have the disease for the rest of their lives. A disease that affects every single organ system in their body. A disease with horrible long-term sequela if it is not managed well.

I’m determined to take the best care of myself that I can. I log everything that I eat, I exercise regularly, and I’m in close contact with my endocrinologist.

There’s only so much I can control, though. Endogenous factors such as hormones, illness, and many other things we don’t even know about, all contribute to a day in the life of a diabetic. The stress of having to come up with money to pay for the very equipment and medications I need to survive does not help.

I will keep advocating for diabetics, writing my legislators, getting on board with advocacy groups. I will keep trying to be heard.

I hope that one day soon this punitive pricing will change, and type 1 diabetics will not be punished for a disease that they did not ask to have.

In the meantime, it’s back on the phone for me – trying to find all the ways I can get discounts or coupons or help for my medications and supplies necessary to live.