We had just gotten off a very cramped discount airline plane, spilling gratefully out of the fetid recycled air, into the echoey half empty terminal.

We had no particular place to go – we were taking a short vacation. Relaxing now with each stride toward the day ahead, we talked and smiled as we planned what we were going to eat next in a favorite town we were here to visit.

As we made our way through the terminal, we noticed a crowd was forming at the windows to our right. Wondering what they were looking at, we did what curious onlookers do, and we joined the hundreds of others moving slowly toward the large panels of glass.

Immediately I spotted the military honor guard, and I clasped my husband’s arm, pulling him to a stop.

The airline was beginning to unload a flag laden casket, and the crowd was still. People stood straighter. Talking ceased, and ball caps came off, held to the side.

I thought of the three generations of my family that had served and were serving in the military. My grandfather and my father had gone to war, and by the grace of God, came home. My son had deployed, and was now home, awaiting the birth of his second son.

As I watched the slow procession carrying this hero to his final destination on earth, tears ran down my face. I said a prayer for the family, the friends, the loved ones that were left behind. I said a prayer of gratitude for this one who gave the ultimate sacrifice for our country.

I am grateful to that one.

I am grateful for them all.

We are under hurricane warning.

It’s eerily calm outside. It’s an odd thing to know a category 3 hurricane is directly below us.

I watch the weather pages. We have water and food staples and flashlights and candles.

It’s an uneasy wait.

Then storm is forecast to turn east, sparing us from a direct hit.

I know from 18 years of living here that the storm will do what it wants.

The plants and porch furniture are now huddled on the screened back porch. We have the boards ready for the window if things deteriorate.

I’ve harassed my kids in the danger zone into leaving, and I am breathing a sign of relief to know they are safe. All my family is calling around to check on each other, before the power and cell phone losses come.

The news shows video of storm surge already flooding low lying areas, a good 24 hrs before landfall.

I’m grateful for the technology which tracks and predicts the storms.

I hate hurricanes, though. My nonchalance changed after Hurricane Ivan.

I’m nervous. We are prepared.

We wait.

Viva Mexico! 🇲🇽

I am not exaggerating when I say I love Mexico. My husband and I have been here several times, and every time we love it more.

The people of Mexico are kind and warm, laid back and content. This vibe soaks into your soul under the hot Caribbean sun. It doesn’t take long to slow your pace, a smile spreading on your face that will remain long after you leave.

Good stuff!

We decided a more relaxed excursion was in order this year. In years past we explored Mayan ruins, and underground rivers. It involved long bus rides, interrupted by stops at souvenir shops. We loved the adventures, but this year, we sought rest.

We travelled by catamaran across the Gulf waters to a spot some 100 meters from shore. At 0830, I admit I wasn’t mentally prepared to jump in the cool water, so I hung back and took pictures. My husband jumped right in, waterproof camera Velcro’d to his wrist by a bright yellow floatation band. He took pictures and videos of the fish and rays I missed due to my reticence to start my day with a descent into 15 foot waters, as alluring as they may have been in the brochure.

Once everyone was back on board from the snorkel portion of the day, we approached a private beach, where the catamaran was pulled closer to the shore with the aid of one crew member and a large rope on the beach. One by one, we waded into the water, and emerged on the beach with to begin our excursion in ernest.

We wanted to relax – and we were soon in awe of the level of relaxation we achieved. On this private beach , our small group had our pick of lounge chairs, hammocks, or king sized beds under rustic palapas.

We chose option C for the bed, and ahhhhh it was amazing.

We come from one of the most beautiful beaches in the world just 30 minutes away, so we didn’t miss the beach time. We we did was lay back on the waterproof mattress, listening to the wind whip the palm fronds like streamers. We watched the kids play in the water. We reminded ourselves a couple of times that it was MONDAY!

Utter relaxation!

Shortly before we left, we let the hammocks give us a sway.

I have no words.

As I lay there, I was transfixed by the palm fronds above me. I took the picture, then looked around me, completely content.

Laying back in my hammock, I glanced up- and wait a minute, was something looking down at me? Squinting, I realized there was a cute face peering down!

We had seen a *creature emerge from the jungle that served as the edge of our island retreat. It resembled an anteater, but island staff called it a badger. We looked at them askance, and explained to them that badgers stateside were a surly lot. They just laughed and told us their version of “badger” was nice.

*Said creature was actually a coati. It is a member of the raccoon family. This information was gleaned from the Internet as soon as we docked.

Too soon, it was time to wade back into the catamaran. In actuality, it was perfect timing, with an isolated thunderstorm moving in quickly. As soon as we got onboard and under the safely of the cover of the deck, it began to pour.

The catamaran staff and guests danced all the way back to port, an open bar giving some more liquid courage than ability to dance and stay upright in the rough seas.

Back in port in Cozumel, we wandered through the shops, the catcalls of nearby venders calling out to lure us their way next.

Just outside the port, we ate chips and salsa and tamales, listening to the waves crash below our dockside table.

As my husband said, it didn’t suck.

Day one in Mexico was a success – sun, sea, swaying palms, hospitable, friendly people, and new flora and fauna discovered.

A good day, indeed.

I’m sailing the high seas!

The spouse and I enjoy going on cruises. We get a balcony room, and off we go to some exotic locale we would not otherwise get to see. We average one cruise per year.

We like to turn off the phone for the days we are at sea. Ten years ago, WiFi was so expensive, it wasn’t a realistic option to have a phone on. It made the escape from reality more tangible – no internet, no social media. Now you can cruise with an inexpensive WiFi package, but we choose to keep our phones on airplane mode.

There is much people watching to do, and it’s different every cruise – and port.

The future grumpy old gal has started to squint out from her “back in my day” abode. My first observation- babies on board!

I do not understand why someone would bring a newborn on a cruise ship.

As I carry hand sanitizer on both hips like a germ slinger, I realize a cruise ship is a floating Petri dish. Every time I climb or descend the hundreds of flights of stairs per sailing, I know the glossy rails are covered in remnants of the unwashed.

Seems like a perfect place to bring a vulnerable baby! Sarcasm, of course.

Small cabins with no where to put said baby, and people up all night and day, often inebriated, and the lack of routine, all combine into a disaster for babies and toddlers.

Who cares about the babies when you get a good deal, right?

I know I enjoy the screaming little tikes when I’m trying to enjoy a four course meal in the formal dining room. Who wouldn’t?

Back when I was parent to small children, we didn’t go on cruises. My world was focused on keeping the tiny human in a routine that fostered their growth and comfort.

I also didn’t subject their understandable raucous communication to strangers. Sure I’d like a nice fancy dinner- but I had chosen to have a baby. Baby came first, and my wishes to be entertained and fed in nice places moved to the back burner, and we stayed home. When we ventured out, it was on short jaunts to kid friendly places. When said small humans got tired or out of sorts, as they are genetically want to do, we took them home.

We didn’t inflict them on strangers.

Crazy talk, I know.

Now back to embarkation day!

My second observation is this: give them buffets and they will come. And they will stay.

We boarded in New Orleans, a city famous for an amazing array of delicious food. The passengers from this port came to eat!

While we immediately made our way to our stateroom, unpacking our suitcases and getting our tropical clothing in order, a stampede was happening on the lido deck. When we causally strolled up there shortly after pushing our emptied suitcases under the bed, the whoosh of the sliding door revealed a culinary free-for-all already well underway. Tables packed with cruisers pushing the upper limits of the BMI chart were happily diving into platters laden with every food offering available. A steady stream of folks was going back for seconds- or maybe thirds. We still had over 2 hours until we left port!

Lord help the soul who tries to walk about the lido deck on sailing day! Children ran zig zag, double fisting their ice cream cones as they head for the pool. Grammas and grandpas using help walking, ranging from canes all the way up to motorized scooters,with or without oxygen tanks, perilously wove through the herd, as it were.

If I’d had an appetite, the conspicuous excess I beheld surely worked as a suppressant.

Always present in the background, the workers from all around the world (except notoriously absent Americans, not surprising given the workload).

We strolled up to the top deck, more interested in watching the departure from the shores of the muddy Mississippi, as we began our journey south towards the Gulf of Mexico.

Bon Voyage!

I have truly appreciated the online community of diabetic warriors that I am a part of. I have learned so much, and it’s comforting to know someone understands.

With the victories come the tragedies. This week two diabetics died in their sleep. This is how I discovered the term “dead in the bed”.

I was laying down this afternoon, restless. I have a CGM – continuous glucose monitor. It will alert me if my blood sugar is high or low. I had not heard an alarm, but the unsettling thought came to my mind “dead in the bed”. Curious, I glanced over to my PDM to see what my blood sugar was. It was 60 – and dropping. I suspended my insulin pump, and headed to the kitchen.

Turns out my cell phone provider was out. My husband, who got the critical low blood sugar alert as my blood sugar dropped into the 40’s, could not call my phone. We could text. I ate a handful of candy corns. I gulped down a spoonful of icing. Still, my blood sugar continuously dropped. I ate a big bowl of pumpkin spice Frosted Flakes – my first cereal in almost 2 years. Too bad I couldn’t enjoy it.

When I got to 39, sweating and shaking, my husband called on the land line. I was ready to call 911 as he prepared to come home. And then…my blood sugar slowly turned the corner.

This was the worst hypoglycemic episode I’ve had. Somehow, my brain triggered me to check my blood sugar. Ironically, the disturbing phrase “dead in the bed” may have prevented me from that very fate.

Now, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. My blood sugar has rebounded with a vengeance, and I’ll spend the rest of the day treating my high blood sugar.

Even the best technology can fail. Thank goodness for that nagging, scared thought.

(My loyal dog, sitting on my foot until I felt better)

Repent at leisure…

It’s an old saying, but oh, so true.

I had a rough and rocky teen years. Teen angst is real, y’all. I tried my best but there was that aforementioned problem with questioning everything. I was grounded most of my senior year.

Segway into a pregnancy at 17, and a volcanic break from my childhood sweetheart. I hoped that one day we’d be together, when he grew up and worked through his issues. Hope springs eternal in the heart of a teen.

It was not to be. When our son was just over three years old, my true love was killed in a tragic car accident.

Devastation.

Next up, the Air Force cop who was everything to me, and I was his girlfriend – while he was at this post. Promises of marriage, eternal love, etc., where shattered when he deferred, just days before he got out of the Air Force to return home. “I can’t raise another mans child” was his lame excuse. Off he left us, all three of us crying – my son, myself, the betrayer. Heartbreak again.

So I was done with love. If I ever got married, it was going to be by the book. I formulated a list of requirements- this would be the answer.

To say I was jaded was an understatement.

I met a friend of my sons aunt. We began to talk, long distance. He lived in the Pacific Northwest, I lived in the west. He checked off the boxes.

We arranged to meet.

28 years ago today, I eloped. One of the biggest mistakes of my life.

I meant well. I had a formula, and he seemed to fit the mold.

Except his great job was undermined by devastating debt, and nothing to show for it.

The home he rented was a shag rugged, velvet couched pit of filth.

He was not who he presented himself to be.

In a panic, I asked his father for money so I could keep the power on. Keep the car from being repoed. Keep the phone.

I planned my escape – could I?

No.

I got pregnant a month later.

Marry in haste, repent at leisure.

I made my bed.

So I tried. I got the finances in order. We moved into a better home. I took care of myself, my pregnancy, and my son, and I did my best.

Three years later, he was forced out of his job for insubordination.

We moved to his family home in the Midwest. His true nature returned en force. Filth. Anger. Snot rockets. Disappearing at night.

I soldiered on. I was a Christian disciple now, and I didn’t have grounds for divorce.

We lived in poverty. We had a great church family, and my faith kept me looking up.

When he took up with a pregnant stripper, I finally had enough. I was six months pregnant myself, going to work and school full time. Adultery was the straw that broke the weary camels back. We separated.

Seven years after that hasty elopement in a small gambling town, I was free.

Three kids ages 2-12. Stone flat broke. No child support. No alimony.

I learned a lot – the hard way. Unfortunately, so did my children.

I graduated from nursing school and worked full time at a well paying job. Once graduation came, I slowly clawed my way into self sufficiency. I learned to love myself. To take time.

It was a perfect setup for the sociopath abuser who came next. A predator who had evil thoughts toward my children.

Of this, I cannot write yet. It was three years of terror. I fear his presence to this day. We escaped in a hasty flee, packing a truck and leaving while he was at work. The damage from that evil “man” has residual ripples even now.

But we got away.

I stayed away from dating for several years. I got counseling. The PTSD from #2 still paralyzes me at times, but less frequently.

I can see now, all these years later, how one hurt led to a desperate decision. How blind trust led to a dangerous situation.

I had to stop running, and make peace with my past. Apologize to my children. Forgive myself.

In 2007 I met a wonderful man. We took it slow, we had fun as friends, we fell in love. I continued getting therapy throughout. After 18 months, and counseling at church, we married.

Now I am at peace. I am secure in who I am, and I am loved by a man who has never harmed me or my children. Slowly, the old wounds heal. I breathe easier. Our family grows in love and trust.

I’m safe.

I’m blessed.

When I was younger, I was a very gregarious and talkative child. So much so that my father nicknamed me “mouth”.

I had a question for everything- I took nothing at face value. I was all about finding out why.

As a kindergartner, I was the first to raise my hand and say “oooh I know that!” I did this so much that I was immediately promoted to first grade.

In grade school, I began writing stories. I’d bring them to school and share them with my friends. I also was the class artist, drawing pictures for whoever asked for one.

High school had me known by many, but not in the popular group. I was in the artsy crowd – I was in the creative dance troupe, I was in almost every school play, and I wrote for our creative writing anthology.

It set the stage for me being on stage. I have sung on stage before a few, and before thousands. I’ve performed solos in churches, and at the mall.

I was on the debate team (back when civil discourse was actually possible), and won a state short story contest, placing me in front of a crowd yet again.

So imagine my surprise when, sometime in my late 20’s, I realized I was an introvert.

Oh, I can speak and teach in front of crowds with ease. Just don’t make me talk to anyone.

I realized the extrovert me was my shield – if people perceived me as one thing, they accepted me as such. Most people never delved deeper than the pretty, outgoing singer/writer/artist.

This is a double edged sword. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten more anxious and withdrawn. I spend most of my time alone with my dog. It’s hard for me to be in crowded places. I get physically ill at the thought of having to make small talk.

It’s not that I don’t want to. I do! I’m just terribly anxious in social settings. Give me a performance to give, a lesson to teach, and I’m there.

I desperately want more close relationships, but I’ve hid so long behind the facade. I’m comfortable with my safe people- my husband, kids, family, and a small handful of trusted friends that are like family to me.

Even in my running, I’m alone – when I race, I’m alone in a crowd. I feel kinship with the other runners….but I get my medal, eat a banana, and go home.

As I get older, I’m introverting. I’m aware of it. I’m trying to push through my comfort zone.

Some days, though, I just can’t.

When I was around 10 years old, my paternal grandmother came for a visit.

During the short time she stayed with us, she taught me how to knit. This was no mean feat – I am left handed, and she was right handed. Despite my backwards approach, she managed to give me the basics.

In the mean time, she gave us blankets she had crocheted or knitted. There is something extra wonderful about being curled up with Gramma’s blanket on your lap.

She also crafted Christmas ornaments, knit bells with our names spelled out on the side, and tiny metal bells making a muted ding when we hung them on the Christmas tree.

Just last year, my mother gave me the ornaments my grandmother made for me. It is a treasured, tangible memory of my grandmothers loving hands.

In our house, we have a large circle of lace framed and hanging prominently in our foyer. My husband’s grandmother tatted this beautiful lace doily – an art that I don’t know if anyone still takes up.

We also have a framed quilting square from one of his grandmothers quilts.

All of these crafts have been passed down, generation to generation.

Here I am today, and I realized I needed to start crafting something for my generations to come. I have picked up a crochet needle, bought some baby blue yarn, and consulted a book to learn how to crochet – left handed, even!

I want my grandchildren to have something tangible from their Nana. I don’t sew, or have the eye sight fine enough for quilting – but I can knit and crochet.

It is currently a slow and painstaking process. I am by no means able to just crochet away as I talk and watch TV. I plan to try and work on my projects daily. Over time, I’m hopeful I will be able to crochet blankets for our grandkids.

It may be easier to buy it off Etsy, but it wouldn’t mean as much.

I’m trying my best to keep the handmade crafted blankets continued down for the next generation.

Maybe, one day, someone will take up after me and continue the tradition.

My baby boy is sick. He’s on round two of a stomach virus, and it’s triggered his bleeding disorder, which is an autoimmune disorder.

My baby, my first born, is 33.

He first got sick with this when he was seven years old. He came home from school and was covered in bruises, the largest a deep purple, and covering his entire right forearm. I asked him if he’d been kicked by a horse. He just shrugged – he had no idea how he got the bruises.

I was not a nurse or medical at all, so I immediately thought it was leukemia. Instead, I was told he had ITP, and a platelet count of 5,000. It was supposed to be 140,000-300,000.

ITP has many names – idiopathic or autoimmune thrombocytopenia pupura. It’s a low platelet count, and bruising. Platelets are a part of a very complicated system that clots blood. From age 7-10, my son was hospitalized multiple times, often with platelet counts less less than 1,000. It was harrowing to know what could happen if he fell down. Hit his head. Got in a fender bender when I was driving. Etc.

For a couple of years, he was on high dose steroids. It helped keep his platelets up, but it made him gain a lot of weight, and he got cushionoid. He looked like an overweight kid. It was the steroids, but he still got bullied.

At the age of 10, the doctors advised me to consent to a splenectomy for him. They said there was an 80% chance it would cure his ITP. It was a big training hospital, and he had a great doctor. I had an organ removed from my child. It’s a terrible thing to choose.

Within 2 years, his platelet counts began to dive again. They did a CT scan. They thought they saw an accessory spleen – he had 4 accessory spleens when they took his spleen out the first time. They asked to go in laporoscopically and take it out. I let them go into my sons abdomen again.

After a couple of hours the surgeon came to me, crying. They didn’t find anything with the scope, so they had to open him up again. She found nothing. So my son was filleted open for nothing.

The rest of his childhood was intermittent visits to the hospital. His platelet level crawled up into the 20,000 range, with no symptoms. His body was compensating. Short bursts of steroids were given, or gamma globulin, a blood product, when he was hospitalized again. By now, I was a nurse, and was adept and dealing with these acute episodes.

When he graduated from high school, he had platelet counts in the 60-80,000 range. I was happier that they are higher. I also had to turn over the reins of managing his ITP. This was extremely difficult.

Whenever he gets sick now, his body will attack his own platelets. The spleen is the largest organ of the lymph system, and the remaining lymph nodes are working full force.

As an adult, the stress of all the hospitalizations has made him wary to be treated. He eats healthy, and he takes a lot of vitamin C. He tries to stay well. He works with the public, though, and is exposed to viruses.

So here we are. He has a virus. He lives an hour away. He is symptomatic. He doesn’t want to go to the hospital – he doesn’t have insurance. I give him advice on the stomach virus. On fluids. On disinfection. I make him promise me he will go to the hospital if he has a bleed, or a headache. He gives me his word. My parent live within five minutes of his house. They are at the ready. He says he will call them if anything happens in the night.

I HATE THIS!!!!

He’s always my firstborn, my baby boy. I feel so helpless. Just like I have for the past 26 years.

I pray he gets better and doesn’t get hospitalized. I also pray they will find a cure for this obscure disease which strikes my child intermittently with acute, frightening flare ups.

May tomorrow bring better news.

Current heat index is 95°.

It’s 5pm, and it’s the end of September.

I’m. Over. The. Heat.

I am not a hot weather person. I love seasons, and fall is my favorite. I like winter. I like spring. I don’t enjoy summer.

I live in the sweltering south.

My children and family are largely located in this hell hole now, so I’ve been trying to make my peace with the heat.

It’s not working.

Now, to add to my misery, I’ve been diagnosed with type one diabetes, and the heat literally messes with my blood sugar.

Nothing would make me happier than to move. North. Out of the south.

We talk of retiring in Kentucky, and that still counts as south, and they have seasons.

I also have grandsons now. I don’t like being far away from them. I have learned this the hard way from the child who married the Air Force. Those grandkids are way up in the Midwest. No bueno.

Meanwhile, it’s too hot to breathe outside. If I want to walk the dog, I have to go early or late in the day, lest I cook her pads off her feet. When I try to exercise, I am drenched in sweat five minutes after I exit my well air conditioned house. I come home covered in gnats.

Deep sigh.

I hate hot weather.