tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82820822024-03-07T17:51:05.094-06:00Like Rolling off a BlogThe ramblings of a hot flash in the making.Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comBlogger349125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-8794198955501758182024-01-18T10:31:00.002-06:002024-01-18T10:32:35.609-06:00Memories of Mary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq5aK54crINPliD11eIOgIJdoxdvZiOW-IdjZ_qnWmMt1Sh-Ku7xqGW10fPRNYP1n90hqc_STccf4BwCd9HtdsBHPojS-UK4Xb5l-8YVyzs7qZj3RF8HdUhnx1DR_DOaw-uVyGuFzxo9eRU-45VFvnLpqnwG-2stBvEuDhno9mbyuilXIWiGr8CQ/s4032/IMG_0203.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq5aK54crINPliD11eIOgIJdoxdvZiOW-IdjZ_qnWmMt1Sh-Ku7xqGW10fPRNYP1n90hqc_STccf4BwCd9HtdsBHPojS-UK4Xb5l-8YVyzs7qZj3RF8HdUhnx1DR_DOaw-uVyGuFzxo9eRU-45VFvnLpqnwG-2stBvEuDhno9mbyuilXIWiGr8CQ/s320/IMG_0203.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Prior to the very clear Gospel message giving the reasons why Mary had the hope of heaven, three speakers gave eulogies/memories of their relationship with Mary Alyce (Elfstrand) Wavinak. They all brought laughs and tears. But only one made me have to stifle sobs at the end. The one by her brother Mark. </p><p>You can find the video of his remarks <a href="https://youtu.be/v9B4BI9tj_w">HERE</a>. </p><p>When we learned of Mary’s stage 4 cancer at the end of October 2023, we did not know she would be gone within 3 months. Please, if you don’t know that you will be in heaven after your last day on earth … talk with someone who knows! </p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-986428894505812342023-12-16T09:14:00.001-06:002023-12-16T09:14:17.748-06:00Father Knows Best<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq3EyjsIEZlpoKTGZ1FXxdMIYvsz5DxoMf0aqj4Q6cM9vLDDfqcFw-VVBJ7vLo7DFuyhW2PTgloDNji_cWm4owH0YvIyElFqoDBQ6aFNA4bq5sRg4f3MWOl4k0qXyMSuOcjusU7O2cvbQkGbQs_8UWLnxFCXGikJuyyvwwxHp6O0IjQp8ZCFWWVA/s4032/IMG_0203.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq3EyjsIEZlpoKTGZ1FXxdMIYvsz5DxoMf0aqj4Q6cM9vLDDfqcFw-VVBJ7vLo7DFuyhW2PTgloDNji_cWm4owH0YvIyElFqoDBQ6aFNA4bq5sRg4f3MWOl4k0qXyMSuOcjusU7O2cvbQkGbQs_8UWLnxFCXGikJuyyvwwxHp6O0IjQp8ZCFWWVA/s320/IMG_0203.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Who remembers the old TV program, Father Knows Best? Our family watched it from time to time. You just don’t see families like that on TV anymore. Ah, but I digress.<p></p><p>It’s been several days since I felt like logging any activity, and frankly I don’t really feel like it right now. But here goes.</p><p>First off, how can I even begin to enumerate the friends and family who have been praying for me? It is humbling. THANK YOU, each and every one!</p><p>Secondly, having Mark and Ingrid be my eyes, ears, mouth, during the whole process has been so incredibly helpful. I appreciate them so much! If you are on FB (or perhaps Instagram), you are no doubt up to speed on the happenings of the last five days or so.</p><p>Thirdly, although they will probably never see this, I want to publicly thank my surgical team and hospital team. God was so good to get me in to a specialty surgeon. This particular surgeon is so well known around the hospital that he has his own set of supplies to treat his patients, lovingly called “The Salti Pack.” He has hand chosen a wing of the hospital to care for his patients. Thank You, Lord, for good care.</p><p>Okay, so when we make a Christmas list, we’d like everything on it, but don’t always get what we want. Father knows best. The surgery was more complicated than expected. But the mucocele DID stay intact, praise God! As of yet, we don’t know about malignancy, so still praying that God would be merciful and gracious with this request. Other than some nausea, I didn’t have major concerns with the anesthetic. </p><p>It takes a while for the digestive system to “wake up” after a surgery like this. I’m still in a slight bit of pain, but I get a really cool cover for my incision, as well as a waist binder to hold me together (I admittedly was singing “Breath of Heaven, Hold Me Together” from time to time.) Please pray for the nausea to abate and that I can tolerate what I need for nourishment.</p><p>For the time being, my diet has to be very restrictive: all soft foods for at least a month. That’s quite a shift from what I’ve been eating, so care is the name of the game. We’re trying to think of things that fit this new requirement. </p><p>I am thankful to be home. Thankful for electric recliners! And thankful for Christmas music. </p><p>As I have to constantly preach to myself about shifting the “what ifs” to “even ifs”, I also have to remind myself that Father Knows Best!</p><p> </p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-53670268751898689232023-12-11T13:15:00.001-06:002023-12-11T13:15:19.569-06:00Gratitude List BEFORE Surgery<p>1. Almighty God knows what I need </p><p>2. God has the power to provide peace, comfort, protection, and healing</p><p>2. Praying family and friends</p><p>3. An expert surgical team</p><p>4. A daughter and husband who will give up their time to accompany me before surgery</p><p>5. This stuff … that I’m supposed to start drinking at 5:15 tomorrow morning, and another one at 1 PM … oh my!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-uaKdqNTQuPuK75mmY6_ldQQcZ8yVnMlhKwNgWCU7Mb3OVD6YTVU1SCxYKuTv72nVyMuc-fa_p9ogDC6P2ni7N_4LFb8qyc6izIpg6JrEXNv9puVocgmY-rxvHZqzbgPuIJXU3Hw75sF2jKhSoqNHj8v0LSRroe-tMyyi5fNrHzGBHk75q4xYpw/s4032/IMG_9799.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-uaKdqNTQuPuK75mmY6_ldQQcZ8yVnMlhKwNgWCU7Mb3OVD6YTVU1SCxYKuTv72nVyMuc-fa_p9ogDC6P2ni7N_4LFb8qyc6izIpg6JrEXNv9puVocgmY-rxvHZqzbgPuIJXU3Hw75sF2jKhSoqNHj8v0LSRroe-tMyyi5fNrHzGBHk75q4xYpw/s320/IMG_9799.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-37401223019675517292023-12-08T15:36:00.004-06:002023-12-08T15:46:04.711-06:00My Christmas List<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNA0qbNjblf9Gxx_3cYe_ijD7c2a6e2LEH4FF_N2pp1T5lCmyh6HDXgMjj08qVLRnB5e5jbo-qFpgqP-ZkFAg0COCH19YuhpFG7UCz5VE3IBSDgGzI3rD1yiw3wet_oXiJi0tsy8_mbWFUOeaR7107AX__2dRLS-B1BIuRONX72ZWuXrVh0uyggw/s4032/IMG_9798.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNA0qbNjblf9Gxx_3cYe_ijD7c2a6e2LEH4FF_N2pp1T5lCmyh6HDXgMjj08qVLRnB5e5jbo-qFpgqP-ZkFAg0COCH19YuhpFG7UCz5VE3IBSDgGzI3rD1yiw3wet_oXiJi0tsy8_mbWFUOeaR7107AX__2dRLS-B1BIuRONX72ZWuXrVh0uyggw/s320/IMG_9798.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Where shall I start?<p></p><p>Today has been a gorgeous fall/meteorological winter day! Sunshine. Mild. And God’s hands have been all over my day. </p><p>A month or more ago I gathered the Christmas lists for kids and grandkids and had fun pressing links for Christmas presents. Shipping here, there, and everywhere.</p><p>Then I wrote a short Christmas letter to send to those few with whom we don’t have contact through Facebook. A small group indeed. In that letter, I wrote a line that will probably haunt me for a while: Neither one of us have been hospitalized, praise God!</p><p>Hmmmmm</p><p>In early fall, I had begun having discomfort on the right side of my abdomen. No sharp pains, so I wasn’t concerned about appendicitis. But it felt like bloating and pressure, so I started consulting “Dr. Google.” I think we all have a love/hate relationship with Dr. Google.</p><p>I let it go for a couple of months, and noticed that I could palpably feel a mass deep on my right side. Still no real pain.</p><p>But right about this time, Mark’s sister came to visit. This is important in several ways. A couple of weeks before she came down from Minnesota, she was diagnosed with stage 4 liver cancer. We were all shocked and praying. Because of her painful symptoms, she encouraged me (no, she pushed me!) to at least go to my general practitioner to get it checked out.</p><p>Forward to November 22. My GP felt the mass and suggested that it could be a hernia, but she sent through a referral for a CT scan. I felt in no hurry, and scheduled it for Tuesday, December 5. Mind you, I’m writing this on Friday, December 8.</p><p>My Chart is an incredible tool. Scheduling, messaging, test results … and all in a flash! </p><p>Bottom line of the CT results: consult a surgeon.</p><p>Five and a half years ago, I went through major surgery for breast cancer, and my surgeon was the best! Dr. Klade. She is a general surgeon, so I thought it appropriate to schedule with her. I got a time slot for Thursday, December 7. Amazing.</p><p>After showing me what she saw on the CT scan, she cautioned me that this could be more major than just an appendectomy. She told me of a surgeon who was well known for this kind of surgery: Dr. George Salti. She volunteered to call him as I was leaving her office, and … shocker … he had left me a message before I even got back home. </p><p>“I will get you in on Friday.”</p><p>Okay, now the wheels are spinning awfully fast, but that’s definitely an answer to prayer.</p><p>So at 10:30 this morning, I met Dr. Salti, the surgical oncologist. Something about “oncology” is foreboding. His demeanor is caring. He is an expert in the field of complex internal oncology surgery. And once again, we looked at the CT scan.</p><p>A mucocele tumor attached to the appendix. The danger is rupture. God has been gracious to get me this far!</p><p>As of right now, the doctor does not think it is cancer, but only pathology after surgery will rule that out.</p><p>And again, a major blessing that he would get me in for surgery … Tuesday, the 12th.</p><p>Surgery was NOT on my Christmas list! But God has moved schedules to get this taken care of, and even though I can tend to worry, deep down I know Who holds me for now and eternity! </p><p>What IS on my Christmas list is a prayer request:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>That the mucocele will stay intact.</li><li>That I have no adverse side effects from the anesthesia and antibiotics (I’ve had issues before).</li><li>That the mass is benign.</li><li>That no resection of the colon would be necessary.</li><li>That there be no infection.</li><li>That my heart and head would remember God’s power, provision, and love for me.</li><li>That I would be a godly representative to all with whom I come in contact.</li></ul><p></p><p>Thank you! Now … what’s on your Christmas list?</p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-75547237879015609662023-06-11T13:40:00.002-05:002023-06-11T17:53:55.610-05:00Groanings to the Father through the Spirit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXM2XoOxZPprvxtma58YQSqkol9WjHZ7xCvK_lhkSPV-40sogHrarp1B_rW5bgRjVHmIPeUO2wIGAFHpDZV1CLDxpXJ8IpDC9GsdecQPUoa_OWkxiPZ-VBFCgmb0jFUdrz49dlcwJr5BmgrRkWhqqWbphbavr--jbKV8MH8bDguVlmtomywF8/s1600/lords-prayer-3761289390.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1241" data-original-width="1600" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXM2XoOxZPprvxtma58YQSqkol9WjHZ7xCvK_lhkSPV-40sogHrarp1B_rW5bgRjVHmIPeUO2wIGAFHpDZV1CLDxpXJ8IpDC9GsdecQPUoa_OWkxiPZ-VBFCgmb0jFUdrz49dlcwJr5BmgrRkWhqqWbphbavr--jbKV8MH8bDguVlmtomywF8/s320/lords-prayer-3761289390.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>It has been a LONG time, blogging friends! I am more prone to “micro-blog” via Facebook, but this was just too long.</p><p>Last night was one of those nights I couldn’t stay asleep. Unfortunately, when I’m wide awake in the middle of the night, my default is to check Facebook. I’m sort of glad I did.</p><p>Although I don’t know the circumstances, I can guess. An acquaintance from long ago had posted that her 30-year-old daughter passed away that day. Crushing. Horrific. No words can help.</p><p>My first thought was Romans 12:5. Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.</p><p>But then, when I couldn’t sleep, and I had exhausted what I knew to pray for this heartbroken mama, the words of what’s known as “The Lord’s Prayer” just kept playing on repeat in my head. </p><p>About the third time around, I started breaking down the parts of Jesus’ prayer. I don’t ever want to take Scripture out of context or make it say something it doesn’t, so I pray that the Spirit will change whatever words are not in keeping.</p><p>OUR FATHER</p><p><span> LORD, thank You that You have chosen me to be Your child through the sacrifice of Your Son Jesus. This allows me to call You my Father. What an unmerited honor.</span><br /></p><p><span>WHO ART IN HEAVEN</span></p><p><span><span> You are the Creator of all the universe. Nothing in the created world can house You. Our physical skies are not truly Heaven. Your dwelling place is beyond human comprehension.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span>HALLOWED BE THY NAME.</span></span></p><p><span><span><span> You are wholly set apart: holy. Your name cannot even be expressed by Your chosen people. You are utterly perfect and can abide no sin. I am not to take Your name lightly or disrespectfully. You say You are the great I AM … same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span>THY KINGDOM COME,</span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> We ask that You come quickly, Lord. You are the Sovereign, to Whom we owe our very lives and Who is omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent, all-loving, and all-wise. We want that Kingdom to be established.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span>THY WILL BE DONE ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> You have shown us Your will in Your Word. I ask to be a willing participant in that will…that I would seek and follow Your will, just as the heavenly beings do Your will.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span>GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD,</span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> I tend to want more than I need. But You have given me everything I need for each day. That is enough.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span>AND FORGIVE US OUR DEBTS AS WE FORGIVE OUR DEBTORS.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> This very much sounds like an “if-then” statement. I’ve been forgiven much. I owe it to all around me to give them that same grace and mercy. Conversely, am I forfeiting forgiveness if I fail to forgive others?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION, BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I know that You do not tempt anyone to sin. I am asking that You lead me AROUND and THROUGH temptation so that evil (or the evil one) cannot get its claws into my life. I do not want to trample on the grace and mercy You have shown me.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>FOR THINE IS THE KINGDOM, AND THE POWER, AND THE GLORY FOREVER!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Oh for the day when I see that Heavenly Kingdom! You alone have the power to get me there through the blood of Jesus. He glorified You. He asked that I, too, would glorify You. Eternally!</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>AMEN</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I agree. I concur. Your will be done. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>I’m praying for this woman’s heartache on the loss of her daughter. I cannot afford (nor can you, dear reader) to go a single day without accepting the gift of salvation that ONLY comes through Jesus’ sacrifice on our behalf. There is no other way. Don’t turn your back, or fall for the “all roads lead to heaven” lie. There is no “rest in peace” for those apart from Jesus.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>And if you don’t know what to say … The Spirit translates our </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>groanings that have no appropriate words.</p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-21155699918054093152022-03-09T13:09:00.001-06:002022-03-09T13:36:35.173-06:00At What Price?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYNtx1NhI09KpR-7vptbYZqb8oW1RUTQncOUxzXu40itc9YzzsVCfKGLvImAZFh5i2oICaISChdu1DgI5dTCPYSd9ib-GasYL6LEsu4dpdLA_4kxFyg_dNXybsbKCACZUNv50Z8njx6E1NGVlPg9H8gXGolPQVcEZ6VstABsyuUAsuy7_eNHo=s2388" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2388" data-original-width="1668" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYNtx1NhI09KpR-7vptbYZqb8oW1RUTQncOUxzXu40itc9YzzsVCfKGLvImAZFh5i2oICaISChdu1DgI5dTCPYSd9ib-GasYL6LEsu4dpdLA_4kxFyg_dNXybsbKCACZUNv50Z8njx6E1NGVlPg9H8gXGolPQVcEZ6VstABsyuUAsuy7_eNHo=s320" width="224" /></a></div><br /> If you have seen some previous Facebook posts, you’ve noticed that I’ve been reacquainting myself with this series by Jack Cavanaugh. The series follows a family from 1620 to present day. Wars. Intrigue. Family highs and lows. I have been thoroughly engrossed in the stories and educated at the same time. <p></p><p>Until this one.</p><p>I don’t mean to say it isn’t well written. It is. The difference is the timeframe. You see, all the previous novels have harkened back to an era in which I had no personal experience. You know … I didn’t live through it. </p><p>This story covers the Vietnam era. I DID live through this one. So it is hitting me in a different part of my gut. It is uncomfortable. Both the story and the feelings it dredges up as I think back over those tumultuous years … for me and for this country.</p><p>A scant year after the assassination of John F Kennedy, my father determined he would take a last ditch opportunity to enter the Air Force as a chaplain. 35 years of age was the cutoff. He was 34. </p><p>Unlike most military families, where the inductee enters service right after high school or college, this was an anomaly. I was 10.</p><p>At the end of 1964 (hello, Beatles!), we left the pastor’s parsonage in Conrad, Montana, and made the trek to Duluth, Minnesota. Get the picture? Bleak midwinter. Northern states. And tears for leaving the known for the unknown.</p><p>Fast forward to 1967 and my father’s new assignment. Yokota Air Force Base, Japan. </p><p>What’s going on in the South Pacific? You got it … Vietnam. </p><p>My father left for overseas, but there wasn’t enough housing available, so the rest of us moved in with my maternal grandparents in Bellingham, Washington. I started 8th grade, not knowing when my roots would be pulled up yet again. </p><p>Three months into the school year (end of October, 1967) we got the call that Dad had purchased a “paddy house” off base for a grand sum of $5000 US. Time to pack our bags and head to Travis AFB, between Sacramento and San Francisco. </p><p>One of my uncles (Ed Sawyer) was getting his doctorate at Berkeley at the time, so he and his family said they’d show us around until we had to board the plane. And yes, THAT Berkeley. Pretty much the headwaters of brainwashing at the time.</p><p>I remember the drive through Haight-Ashbury (you might want to look that one up, too). I can’t say I’d had a sheltered life, but that was an eye-opener. I had picked up a Haight-Ashbury “news”paper and was thumbing through it. The columns and the artwork would have appealed to their hippy, drug-stupored readership. Psychedelic nudity ruled the day.</p><p>For the years of 1967-1970, we lived in the relative safety of the Air Force base and its environs. There were some times when Japanese dissenters would threaten the base and throw Molotov cocktails over the fences. We always got advance warning and, as a teen, we’d joke, “See you at 5 for Molotov cocktails!”</p><p>Unrest doesn’t even begin to describe what was going on Stateside during those years. It didn’t take me long to be grateful that we were not anywhere near it. </p><p>My father ministered to airmen and soldiers who had been injured in Vietnam and were on their way back to the States via Yokota. Our youth group went to the hospital to sing to them at Christmas time. It was the first time I saw a person’s midsection held together with giant staples. </p><p>Our family always knew that we (the US) were involved in Vietnam to hopefully keep it from succumbing to communism. We all knew that threat was very real. No deserters or card burners where I lived.</p><p>It was also the advent of the “Black Power” movement. Since the Air Force was an integrated service as far as I could tell, it seemed like a moot point to me. However, the black power fist was frequently used in greeting.</p><p>Yes, that was a tumultuous time. The sixties were a cultural revolution from which we have never recovered. And reading about it in a novel pulls up all that sludge. I’m only 150 pages in, and already I’m steeling myself for the challenges that lie ahead.</p><p>If this were a book report, I’d tell you to start in 1620 and follow the thread </p><p>Those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it (or something to that effect). </p><p><br /></p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-23696975662023123892022-01-31T10:20:00.001-06:002022-01-31T11:55:27.062-06:00I’d Rather Dye!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-oGt4Xm9E0lqoZwytANpleCwFrqyrZKV2t3oT4BiBuXX55ERSVnzwzHdpWfSTnRSVINA8hSkuJl24zf6cSJh9Sf3_e1aGF4AaaFdFLlmgfLC34EgEmO8XarFOb3gB2zqf6S1_OcweNNuZQxPEJZYuoJympceMlhmLaM-jPTzZrxLTWLeRqo4=s1440" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1440" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-oGt4Xm9E0lqoZwytANpleCwFrqyrZKV2t3oT4BiBuXX55ERSVnzwzHdpWfSTnRSVINA8hSkuJl24zf6cSJh9Sf3_e1aGF4AaaFdFLlmgfLC34EgEmO8XarFOb3gB2zqf6S1_OcweNNuZQxPEJZYuoJympceMlhmLaM-jPTzZrxLTWLeRqo4=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Why in the world would I be showing you this silver streak down the top of my head? I’ll admit that I’m vain when it comes to the color of my hair. Kudos to my friends who rock the gray, but I’m not there yet.<p></p><p>You see, this particular gray streak is important to me.</p><p>In July of 2018, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a single mastectomy that same month. God is good no matter what. He walked me through that, providing family and professionals along the way. And I got through it without chemotherapy … all hair follicles intact.</p><p>In December of 2021, I had the obligatory mammogram. The images came back “inconclusive.” A survivor doesn’t like to hear or see those words. So I was scheduled for another mammogram at the beginning of January 2022.</p><p>“Distortion.” Now scheduled for a followup ultrasound that same day. </p><p>“The radiologist will meet with you shortly.” Oh great…</p><p>BI-RADS 4A. This is a designation of how concerned the radiologist is that the findings may be cancerous. The last time I had a BI-RADS number, it was 5. You don’t want a 5.</p><p>So now I would be scheduled for a breast biopsy on January 27. Unlike my previous ultrasound biopsy in 2018, this one has to be done at the hospital with a different type of machine: <a href="https://www.healthline.com/health/breast-biopsy-stereotactic#preparation">Stereotactic Mammogram-Guided Biopsy. </a> (linked if you are curious)</p><p>At that point my mind started going in all directions. All the “what ifs” that I’ve been through before, and yet I was at peace with the “whatever comes.” </p><p>One of the “what ifs” would be malignancy. And next step would be “what if chemotherapy?” </p><p>And that brings me to this picture. I had determined that either a) I’d be declared NED (no evidence of disease) and schedule a much needed hair appointment OR b) I’d be told I have a malignancy and need surgery and/or chemotherapy. If so, I’d hold off on dyeing my hair, because … what if it will all fall out anyway?</p><p>I went through the biopsy. Not horrible, and the staff are always so compassionate. They told me I should receive the pathology report within 2 business days. </p><p>About 20 minutes ago I got the notification of test results coming through My Chart. I stopped. I prayed. God prepared me for whatever I would read there. I opened up the My Chart test results and read:</p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; font-weight: bold;">-No evidence of malignancy in the submitted material.</span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666984558105px;">And now we breathe a huge sigh of relief … and make a hair appointment!!!</span></span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666984558105px;">Thank You, Lord! In the meantime, would you pray for a friend of mine who will be going through mastectomy surgery this Friday? Whether God takes us AROUND the challenge or THROUGH it, we can trust Him.</span></span></span></p><p><br /></p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-91302484968873313922021-11-11T08:49:00.002-06:002021-11-13T07:51:21.307-06:00Jesus and Veterans<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8D0gqNnVG_bsiQY8eUCwpUQ-qMwe3SsRRCkBZdNCwoN2HiwEMVO6KFCzemj74aKmu0smJpjOkODbbTO_veEm2aqMcOjJyMgZZb-unrrX9aI4iqAIWKq2v12R2CMXt5HTkkHaaRA/s2048/IMG_1985.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8D0gqNnVG_bsiQY8eUCwpUQ-qMwe3SsRRCkBZdNCwoN2HiwEMVO6KFCzemj74aKmu0smJpjOkODbbTO_veEm2aqMcOjJyMgZZb-unrrX9aI4iqAIWKq2v12R2CMXt5HTkkHaaRA/s320/IMG_1985.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div> In the late 1970s there was a popular TV show (I think it was on PBS) called “Connections.” It explored the gestalt of current events and inventions. A mind boggling, detail heavy, exploration of how we got to where we are.<p></p><p>This program came to mind while I was eating my breakfast this morning, staring out at the rain-soaked trees dropping their leaves on the green grass of the far west suburbs of Chicago. How in the world did I get to this exact spot on this exact day?</p><p>The short answer is “the sovereignty of God.” But a couple of the connections can be listed as Jesus and US veterans.</p><p>God’s provision for my life and eternity can be directly attributed to Jesus’ death and resurrection. The many connections He had to plan for me to get to the Cross of Jesus included the second major connection … US veterans.</p><p>When I was 10 years old, my father was a pastor in a very small church in Montana. There were weeks we apparently lived on the good graces of congregants who canned for the winter. Dad was at the edge of the age he would be allowed to still enter the Air Force, so that’s what he did. At the age of 35, he used his career field to enter the Air Force as a chaplain. </p><p>I am extremely grateful that the Air Force provided for our family for the remaining years I was at home, and many years after. We were able to see parts of the country...and the world...we may have never seen. From Montana to Minnesota. From Minnesota to Washington. From Washington to Yokota Japan. From Japan to Kansas City. At that point I graduated from high school and went to college, but Dad was stationed at Greenland, Germany, Sacramento, Klamath Falls, and Las Vegas before he retired.</p><p>It was in Sacramento that I rejoined the family after graduating from college. And that’s where another veteran entered my life.</p><p>After he graduated from high school, Mark had hoped to go to communication school for radio. Alas, his draft number came up … remember those? He decided to preempt the Army’s long arm and enlisted in the Air Force instead. After a stint in Sacramento and Iceland, he resettled near the Air Force base in Sacramento.</p><p>Dad … chaplain at McClellan. Mark … singing in the chapel choir as a recently separated sergeant. (and by “separated” I mean from the Air Force!) Mom introduces us, and the rest, as they say, is history.</p><p>But the connections that God orchestrated are indeed mind boggling. Had there been any missteps along the way, I would not have been sitting here enjoying my breakfast, sipping my coffee, staring at a view and man I’ve come to love.</p><p>On this Veterans Day 2021, I thank God for Jesus and veterans! </p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-50943722831523252642021-09-11T16:11:00.002-05:002021-09-11T16:14:19.056-05:0020 Years Later<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8IuZkbxdNDqH_oRUXH8bwwuZBaXcy59lIoW1xvnN5up8LWK2SvUf04Z2B40vaRKmEL04f7eFET_qYa_94d75T0JhDRDR-WUovoTikP1bBoWhcp-jpzanv9iSc3dWEou5ABKHXXw/s638/We-will-never-forget.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="638" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8IuZkbxdNDqH_oRUXH8bwwuZBaXcy59lIoW1xvnN5up8LWK2SvUf04Z2B40vaRKmEL04f7eFET_qYa_94d75T0JhDRDR-WUovoTikP1bBoWhcp-jpzanv9iSc3dWEou5ABKHXXw/s320/We-will-never-forget.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />From the first televised images to the heroic “let’s roll!” those of us who were of age remember where we were and the shock of the evil that attacked our country 20 years ago today. <p></p><p>Following are the memories of my brother Danny, who was working near the Pentagon that day. I had never heard his entire story and part of it brought me to tears. Danny is a man of character. I am proud to call him my brother. These are his memories as he wrote them.</p><h4 style="text-align: left;">Stand By – Meetings Postponed </h4><p>On the morning of 9/11/2001 and in Skyline-1 of the Skyline Office Complex, my TMA support teammates and I had seen the pictures and reports of a plane hitting the World Trade Center in NY. It was time for us to make our way to Skyline-6 for a meeting with your client in TRICARE Management Activity (TMA) Information Management (IM). We discussed what we had seen about the World Trade Center as we walked through the underground and then as we sat waiting in one of TMA’s Skyline-6 conference rooms. The meeting time came and passed. We waited. We got word that due to ongoing events and uncertainty of what was going on, our meeting would be postponed until another time. Then …</p><h4 style="text-align: left;">TMA Skyline Offices Shook (Pentagon Hit)</h4><p>Skyline-6 shook. Our TMA client (a Navy Captain physician) came into the conference room and told us, “The Pentagon has just been hit”. From his office windows, we could see the smoke rising from the Pentagon. Unknown at that time if other Government buildings or offices would be targets. “We’re evacuating. Everyone out of the building.”</p><h4 style="text-align: left;">Evacuating Skyline Office Complex</h4><p>We were on an upper floor of Skyline-6 in the TMA Information Management (IM) office space. There were multiple elevators that serviced Skyline-6 which, of course, were all turned off (shut down) during emergency evacuation. Dave Oris (fully wheelchair bound and dependent) was in the elevator lobby and obviously not able to go down stairs … much less many floors of stairs. I told Dave I’d stay with him until we could get someone strong enough to carry him down without his motorized wheelchair. As many people ran past us and into the stairwells, a much younger and stronger young man (I don’t know his name) came by and asked if he could help. “Do you know how to do a fireman’s carry?” Yes! He lifted Dave up onto his shoulders and I went ahead of them to serve as an icebreaker to clear a path through the many people running, pushing, and elbowing their way down the stairs. That strong, young man carried Dave all the way down those many flights of stairs without stopping, and we got Dave down to the basement parking level entrance that faced Rt7 (Leesburg Pike). Dave had already called family to pick him up, and the young man and I stayed with Dave until his ride arrived. Whoever that young, strong man was … he was a hero that day. He kept his head about him and used his strength to carry Dave to safety.</p><h4 style="text-align: left;">TMA Skyline Parking Garage Chaos </h4><p>People react to crises differently (an understatement). After we got out of the Skyline Office Complex buildings and were at rallying points in the parking lot, we were told to make our way home. For some of us, our cars were in underground parking … and mine was under Skyline-1. Like with the people pushing and elbowing down the stairwells; I again saw panic on peoples’ faces and in their eyes as they tried to get out of the underground parking. Some people were making lanes where there were no lanes. Some were so focused on getting out that they cut off other drivers and forced their way ahead. One person I remember seeing didn’t look left or right, didn’t consider other drivers around her, but she kept her eyes focused on the exit opening of the garage … she was going to get out no matter what.</p><h4 style="text-align: left;">People Walking on 395 </h4><p>Once out of Skyline parking and over to 395 south; the scene was very much from an end-of-times movie. Highway 395 was almost without cars, and there were some people walking on the shoulders of the highway. I learned later that day that my daughter-in-law, who was working for the Navy in Chrystal City, had driven through the smoke that was blowing across 395 from the Pentagon.</p><p>NEVER FORGET </p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-49261966672088925322021-01-07T03:00:00.003-06:002021-01-07T10:33:00.586-06:00I Been Workin’ on the Railroad … or … My Argument with the Shin-Hoe<p> by Rex Eldon Nelson (from an article that appeared in “The Good Old Days”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IgDY6RtgzTksvWe6jc-aTrtM5AUY_K4U1M8DvQcMKNOv0uG_sdT5C5g_LpZ3JBSEcdyMyN4ZfWdQ5XUrpWrno3vj29d5-eQ5KX4F0vsMFOjQuS7a5rQgPTO2mQ-wHz9nAP698w/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="472" data-original-width="604" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IgDY6RtgzTksvWe6jc-aTrtM5AUY_K4U1M8DvQcMKNOv0uG_sdT5C5g_LpZ3JBSEcdyMyN4ZfWdQ5XUrpWrno3vj29d5-eQ5KX4F0vsMFOjQuS7a5rQgPTO2mQ-wHz9nAP698w/" width="307" /></a></div><br /><br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"></blockquote>In 1907, I worked as a bridge carpenter for the Utah Uinta Railroad. This was a narrow<br /><br />gauge railroad that ran forty miles up into the Uinta Mountains to the mining town of Dragon. The<br /><br />railroad hauled gilsinite from Dragon, down the mountain, to a loading platform for the Rio Grande<br /><br />Railroad. The Rio Grande ran from Denver to Salt Lake City. <div><br /></div><div>The town of Dragon was home for the railroad workers, as well as the gilsinite miners. When I got word that I had the job in Utah, my wife Nettie and I were staying with her aunt in Grand Junction, Colorado. At the time, Nettie and I had one baby [William Earl Nelson] and another in the oven [Oliver Lescher Nelson]. We were both excited about the job, as I had had no work for a few months and we both disliked having to lean on relatives. The job started as soon as I could arrive, so we packed our things and bundled the baby, and were ready to leave in a few days. [RJE note: based on these clues, they most likely made the move in late 1909.]<br /><br /><br />We rode on the Rio Grande Railroad to the base of the Uinta Mountains. There we<br /><br />transferred to the Uinta Railroad's only passenger car for the forty-mile trip up the mountain to<br /><br />Dragon. That final leg of the trip seemed the longest to Nettie and me, as we were excited to get a<br /><br />look at our new hometown.<br /><br /><br />Our home was a tent house. That was the only kind of house that Dragon had. The floor<br /><br />and about the first four feet of the walls were wood planks. The tops of the walls and the roof were<br /><br />canvas. Over the whole house was a fly, like an awning, that sheltered us from the worst of the<br /><br />weather.<br /><br /><br />We had two rooms: a sleeping room and a living room. We had a big cook stove that<br /><br />doubled as a heater. The town had a central well and each house a water barrel. Every night after<br /><br />work, I hauled water from the well to our barrel so that Nettie would have plenty of water the next<br /><br />day. That house certainly wasn't much, but Nettie had a way of making a house into a home. We<br /><br />didn't have much then, but we were young and we were happy.<br /><br /><br />Dragon wasn't a very big place. Including both the railroad and mine workers and their<br /><br />families, the population couldn't have numbered more than 200. The town, however, boasted a<br /><br />beer parlor, a general store, and a hotel. The hotel was the biggest building in town; it was a two<br /><br />story all-wood structure. The hotel had a restaurant and the office for the only doctor for miles<br /><br />around. If Dragon hadn't had a doctor I wouldn't be telling this story today.<br /><br /><br />As a bridge carpenter for Uinta, I worked with the crew that constructed the railroad<br /><br />bridges over gullies, rivers, and marshes. We also built the wooden bulkheads that held the earth<br /><br />back when the track sliced through a hill.<br /><br /><br />One morning we, on the bridge crew, traveled about six miles out of Dragon to work on a<br /><br />bulkhead. We went by hand cart on the railroad tracks. That day my job was to strip bark from the<br /><br />logs with an adz. You don't see anyone using an adz anymore; power tools do the work instead.<br /><br />An adz looks like a hoe with a long slender, sharp blade. It is a dangerous tool if handled<br /><br />incorrectly. In fact, we called the adz, a shin-hoe, which seems a better name to me.<br /><br /><br />I straddled a log and got to work. I pulled the shin-hoe toward me, skinning off the bark of<br /><br />the tree. I must have gotten careless, because suddenly the adz sheared off a knot hole and came<br /><br />toward me out of control. The blade buried itself in the inside of my leg, close to the knee. When I<br /><br />pulled out the blade, blood spurted from the gash in my leg.<br /><br /><br />One of the men working close to me saw that I was hurt pretty bad and he hollered for the<br /><br />others. Someone tried to press the wound closed, but the bleeding wouldn't stop. Someone else<br /><br />said that they had better get me to the doc . . . fast. They hoisted me up and carried me to the<br /><br />hand cart. They didn't waste any time getting that cart started. I got dizzy and fainted and don't<br /><br />remember much about the trip, but I was told later that the hand cart literally flew along those<br /><br />tracks.<br /><br /><br />I vaguely remember being carried into the doctor's office, but I passed out before he<br /><br />stitched me up. I slept in that office all day. When I woke up, the doctor told me that a few more<br /><br />minutes and I would had lost too much blood to recover. He said that I was lucky the men had<br /><br />acted so fast. The doc added that it was a good thing, also, that I was so young and stubborn.<br /><br /><br />It was awhile before I was strong enough to return to my job. I still have that scar where,<br /><br />over 70 years ago, I had that argument with the shin-hoe . . . .<br /><br /><br />Nettie and I stayed two years in Dragon, and when the railroad didn't need us anymore, we<br /><p style="text-align: left;">moved with our two boys to Oregon.</p></div>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-31321066333613566742020-11-12T16:05:00.000-06:002020-11-12T16:05:24.903-06:00Nana Elf … and Changing Cars<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-jdABemi4Rf_wxP9qDrmGbQ9q3tVICzwwqD0WXIuCb9LkLdlc6ezmKuf5zfWRJc7RLprNFHeD5rgID-Jhn5C0ZdQtzWTzCCS9PL_izOw4Q5CMUZjO-BhbbxMpL2iWsWKZui6_1A/s2048/IMG_0676.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-jdABemi4Rf_wxP9qDrmGbQ9q3tVICzwwqD0WXIuCb9LkLdlc6ezmKuf5zfWRJc7RLprNFHeD5rgID-Jhn5C0ZdQtzWTzCCS9PL_izOw4Q5CMUZjO-BhbbxMpL2iWsWKZui6_1A/s320/IMG_0676.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>There’s always good news and bad news.</p><p>The best news is that I am the beneficiary of a new (to me) car. That is exciting.</p><p>More good news: I didn’t go into debt to get it, due to the generosity of our firstborn!</p><p>More good news: the sun is shining and the temp is hovering around 50 degrees.</p><p>More good news: I was flattered by some people with whom I was commiserating at the DMV.</p><p>So here goes the bad news:</p><p>The other day, when I would have liked to register the new cars and transfer license plates, the line at the DMV was excruciatingly long. So a day later I figured I’d try another facility. Yay! No line! Alas, that was because the facility was CLOSED due to COVID.</p><p>Since the sun promised to shine today, with mild temps, I decided to return to the original DMV and just stick it out. <i>I can do this! </i></p><p>In these times of virus protocols, the lines are definitely long because of “social distancing.” But I also remembered in previous dealings with the DMV that there are separate lines for licenses and for titles/registrations. I should have put this in the “good news” category, because I remembered to go to the front door to check out any line I should be aware of.</p><p>Lo and behold, there were indeed 3 lines. One for licenses (that is the line that stretched 3 blocks long), one for title/registration (that one had 5 people in it), and one specifically for “senior citizens” (with 3 people in line). </p><p>Pride goes before a fall, so of course I valiantly gave up my right to stand in the senior citizen line and instead stood with the title/registration folks. You can guess that the senior citizen line was emptied quickly, as they got priority, whereas I stood in line for 50 minutes behind my line. I pity those folks in the licensing line!</p><p>My turn finally came to get in the door. This is where you meet the “triage” employee. Title to transfer? Check. Current registration? Check. Driver’s license? Check. “Do you have your check or money order for the tax?” <i>What tax?</i> Oh, you know, just for showing up. <i>Nope. I don’t carry checks (don’t use them)</i>, and so I was summarily dismissed to go to the closest Post Office and buy a money order. Ugh!!!</p><p>A bit of side good news was that there was no line at the Post Office. Whew!</p><p>Back I go to the DMV, and this time I took advantage of the senior citizen line, you can bet on that!</p><p>Ten minutes later, I’m in the door again and given the go-ahead to take my number and wait to be called. 45 minutes later I’m at the window explaining my needs.</p><p>"Oh … you want to put your personalized plates on the new car? I see they are in your husband’s name as well. Here is a form he will have to sign before we can do anything." UGH!!!</p><p>By now I’ve wasted three hours of my day. But hey, it’s still sunny and early enough that I can drive the 30 minutes to get Mark to sign off on the plates and get back to the priority senior citizen line, right?</p><p>Whew, I’m back and in the door within 5 minutes, given a number, which is called within another 5. Great!</p><p>Until I reach the window. She looks over all the documentation. So far, so good. Yippee, I have the money order to pay for the tax. But what’s this? You mean the new car is a Tesla? Oh, that’s an EV. Yeah, we don’t allow personalized plates on an EV. You have to buy new plates. And by the way, they are a LOT more expensive than normal OR personalized plates. (Yeah, I get it. They have to gouge you somewhere since they aren’t going to get any gas tax off of me.)</p><p><i>So, you’re telling me that even though I renewed my NanaElf plates in July for a full year, that they are no longer good?</i> *insert her shrug here* <i>Not only that, but there was no reason for me to go have my husband sign off on my personalized plates?</i> *insert second shrug and a mumbled sorry*</p><p>When she slid all the paperwork for me to fill in, sign, and date, she then said … that will be $401. Yipes, what??? Oh, you’re using a credit card for that? That will be another $9. I said … After $400, what’s another 9?</p><p>Lots of wasted time. Lots of wasted “donated” money to the state of Illinois. But I’m street legal.</p><p>And so sad that “Nana Elf” is no more. :-(</p><p>This cautionary tale is brought to you by a citizen of the state of ILL. Yes, I did that on purpose.</p><p>One more piece of good news…I did not run into any ill-mannered customers or employees. Major gratitude there.</p><p><br /></p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-33555415088722333402020-08-07T10:25:00.002-05:002020-08-07T10:25:56.392-05:00Food Talk<p> I am battling (unsuccessfully) a sinus headache this morning. I thought my caffeine would squelch that thing, but no. It’s probably wise not to compose a blog while suffering an annoying pain, but here goes.</p><p>Almost a year ago, my primary physician told me that I was solidly in the Type 2 diabetic category, with an A1C of 7.4. Having lived with a Type 1 diabetic all my growing up years, and with a Type 2 diabetic for the last 20 or so (my husband), I desperately didn’t want to go on meds to control my rampant blood sugar.</p><p>Enter low carb eating … or keto. Actually, the two are a bit different. Keto is quite strict as to percentages of types of food one eats. Low carb is just being aware of carb values of foods and keeping consumption of carbs to a minimum. Some people track their carb intake.</p><p>I started battling what I thought was overweight early in my adult years. What I thought was “overweight” then is now my goal weight!!! And I have serious doubts that I’ll reach it.</p><p>When I decided to take weight loss seriously, I found a plan and cookbook that followed the “Exchange Program” suggested for diabetics. You got a certain number of colored dots, each representing a different food group, per day. You had to figure out what color dot your food was worth and go from there. It worked well.</p><p>And this is what I’ve discovered: ANYTHING WILL WORK WELL IF YOU FOLLOW IT, AND NOTHING WILL WORK IF YOU DON’T.</p><p>Having reached my goal, I slowly started putting the weight back on. And that began my long ride with Weight Watchers. Tracking, avoiding, worrying, you know the drill. It was a roller coaster ride of losing, failing at maintaining, gaining, and starting all over again.</p><p>I was a stickler for tracking when that’s what it took. But I got sick of food having that much hold over my waking moments. </p><p>You know what? Our bodies have needs. And God has provided a way to meet those needs. However, we always seem to go overboard into the “want” category, or worse yet, find ways to meet the needs that are not in God’s plan.</p><p>We are fearfully and wonderfully made, but that overdoing the food stuff brought me smack dab into Type 2 diabetic territory for many reasons. Eating too much. Eating too much sugar. My pancreas didn’t want to keep up.</p><p>So here I am, at the age of almost … oh well … 66, once again trying to get a handle on what my body needs versus what my appetite wants. I’m hoping I’ve hit a happy medium.</p><p>My goal is no longer a number on a scale. I do not track foods in any way. But I do make choices that I think my body can handle from a natural insulin perspective. </p><p>I belong to several “keto” pages on Facebook. But truthfully, I don’t follow the keto diet. I’m removing the word “diet” from my vocabulary. But there are some excellent and creative recipes I can use to keep my carb count in a manageable range. </p><p>My weight stalled several months ago. As I mentioned, I doubt that I will lose any more weight at all. However, my A1C is solidly in the normal range now. I think that qualifies as my happy medium.</p><p>So, back to the battle against this morning’s headache. It’s a small battle. The food battle will probably be top of mind until the day God calls me home!</p>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-62924142269146967602020-03-16T08:23:00.001-05:002020-03-16T12:05:32.454-05:00From Both Sides NowAs with any event or life experience, there is more than one view to be had. Look at the Gospels and discover that four different perspectives of the same era have basic commonalities and yet personal slants.<br />
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Enter COVID-19. Oh my. What can be said that hasn’t already either raised a panic or an eyebrow of distrust?<br />
<br />
If you are sitting in an apartment in Italy, you will have a very different view of this virus than if you are sipping coffee in an Idaho cabin.<br />
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Following are two very different (or maybe not) angles on the corona virus panic of 2020. One is from an avid political watchman. The other is from a medical professional in California. Both have drawn me up short. I need to be aware and possibly wary. But never weary in well-doing.<br />
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So … where do you land?<br />
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From an evangelical opinion writer:<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px; text-align: justify;">March 15, 2020</span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">Any real state of fear will bring panic, and once panic is the prevailing attitude of society at large, the herd seeks safety at all cost. Seeking safety under these circumstances allows for tyranny by the ruling class, and when the restrictive consequences of that tyranny are in place, escape from mass servitude is almost impossible to achieve. It must be understood that decisions made under stress due to fear end with a loss of freedom, and when freedom is compromised, what is left is slavery. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">We have been told that a pandemic is upon us, and that we must sacrifice for the good of all, and for the sake of the nation. If the people at large accept this premise, individual sovereignty is not only compromised, but also permanently damaged. When the masses as a group seek shelter from harm, and agree to temporarily relinquish some or all of their freedoms, oppression is the result. That is why panic is so perilous, and why hasty decisions should never be made during a real or supposed crisis. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">As I write this, it is obvious that none of these suggestions have been followed, and the herd has acquiesced to most all commands from on high in order to gain what will most likely turn out to be false hope at the expense of accepted domination. At this point, it is not too late to reverse part of the damage, but any continuation of mass subservience will only end in oppressive misery. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">There is no certainty that this new coronavirus called COVID-19 is any more dangerous than any other virus in the past, but the ruling class and their minions in the mainstream media and beyond, are screaming at the top of their lungs that this is the scourge of mankind, and that tens of millions of Americans will become infected, and that millions might die. This is being promulgated by government at every level, by so-called national and world health organizations, and by a complicit media that seemingly does as it is told by those holding political power. This is being done regardless of the fact that no one knows much about this so-called virus, knows little or nothing about its true origin, and knows little about its mutations. Also, politicians, claimed authorities, and alleged experts are in the dark as to how particular cultures have been more susceptible than others, and are unwilling to discuss that the probable cause of this is due to a man-made strain created in a bio-weapons lab, even though a preponderance of evidence points in that direction. All possibilities should be discussed. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">This government is now taking total control over our lives, and will take full advantage of this situation to bring draconian anti-liberty measures to all that live in this country. This is an atrocity, and one that will change the face of this nation. Current risk includes the implementing of medical martial law as well as the possibility of total martial law with any major resistance from those not willing to accept being in a captured society. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">Besides the sheer tyranny of these measures being planned and implemented as I write this, the certain economic devastation to come is unimaginable. No one will be spared economic harm, and many will be completely destroyed by the government’s response to this manufactured panic. In addition, when the virus scare is over, and it will be, the economic destruction will remain, and it could take years for any recovery to take place. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">Has all this panic been planned? </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">What is next on the agenda due to this panic? Will there be total lockdowns? Will there be universal travel restrictions, even at the local level? Will there be forced vaccinations? Will there be mandatory testing and inspections? Will there be food shortages? Will this lead to concentration camps for dissenters? Will the National Guard and military be patrolling the streets of your town? </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">There are many unanswered questions, and much uncertainty about this virus, so what is the real danger? </span></li>
<li><b class="" style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">The real danger to America is the U.S. government and its dictatorial response to what appears to be an orchestrated hysteria. </b></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">The solutions offered by this government, regardless of who is pulling the strings of these puppets, are far more dangerous than any manufactured pandemic. Fear and panic allow for control, and those in power understand this truth, and use it to their advantage. Panic is worthless, and can only lead to the acceptance of authoritative rule. This is the real risk; this is the real danger. If the people allow a takeover of their lives due to this panic, they will not only have lost their liberty and all they own, they will have also lost their sanity.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">You have now been warned!</span></li>
</ul>
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<br />
From a medical professional tasked with caring for the elderly in northern California:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I guess that is one paranoid way of looking at it and I admit I was one of these paranoid folks. I have changed my mind after reading what is occurring in other countries and is coming here. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is our elderly and chronically ill who are most at risk. My people. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am at risk because I take care of them and have them cough on me as I listen to their lungs. And I am in the “elderly” category with heart disease. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even with protective gear I am at risk because there is not enough protective gear everywhere . </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">If those who are younger and healthier can keep this thing from spreading and stay home if possible to keep hospital beds available for those most in need it will possibly make a world of difference. Because people panicked and hoarded hand sanitizer and masks now we don’t have enough. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">[The Chief In-House Physician] is truly worried and he is not by nature a worrier. He keeps in touch with colleagues overseas and knows people will die because we don’t have enough resources.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is tragic that our representatives have so abused their power that in a genuine emergency our response is to rebel. That was my response. Not any more. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">If some can sacrifice their freedom so others might make it isn’t that our highest calling? </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks for your prayers. I was making house calls today to a facility on lockdown. I have several patients awaiting test results. We need to get as many people as possible tested but the kits arent available yet. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is the most dangerous time in an epidemic because we don’t know who is infected. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do it for grandma. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">❤️</span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;"> </span></li>
</ul>
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<br />Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-62732040744108213242020-03-03T08:38:00.002-06:002020-03-03T09:02:00.166-06:00Looking Him in the Face(book)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If my memory serves me, lunches on every Friday of my school career consisted of a non-meat option…presumably in deference to Catholics who had been admonished by the Pope not to eat meat on those days.<br />
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Additionally, the only time I ever heard of Lent was from either Catholic friends or friends of friends. Giving up something for 40 days, from Ash Wednesday until Easter. Usually, it was meat or chocolate that made the top of the denial list.<br />
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I did not grow up in the tradition that included meatless Fridays, Ash Wednesday, or observance of Lent. Oddly enough, I have some Protestant friends who just recently decided that this practice might be meaningful to them.<br />
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“Religion” is a practice. Generally speaking, it is a practice that wants to attain something. Theologians have discussed the difference between “religion” and “Christianity” for quite some time. Law versus grace, and all the nuances of personal accountability.<br />
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This year, the definition of “Lent” became something I needed to ponder. Not in an effort to attain something, but in order to more fully appreciate the sins for which Jesus already died and resurrected … giving me eternal life as a believer. I knew I needed to repent of behaviors that took away the time and attention rightly belonging to my Savior.<br />
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Ouch! This hurts. The biggest addiction stealing my time is none other than Facebook.<br />
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Every day … multiple times most days … I access social media in fear of missing out (the dreaded FOMO disease). I get my news there. I share news there. I like to think that sometimes I even share soul-searching and encouraging messages. But how ironic is it that the very medium I say I’ll use to spread the Gospel is the medium that steals my time away from the same.<br />
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Since Ash Wednesday (an arbitrary date for me) I’ve had more time to read Scripture. More time to pray. More time to stir my mind. More time to rest. It may take the entire 40 days before I can genuinely say that my fingers don’t automatically head for the FB app icon.<br />
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I still struggle with the FOMO disease. But because I am so grateful for what Jesus did for me (as remembered particularly on Resurrection Sunday), it is time to look more fully in His face than into Facebook.<br />
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And that’s the truth.Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-74750021223200291452019-07-18T09:30:00.002-05:002019-07-18T09:30:50.164-05:00One Year…and CountingI don’t know how I feel about the term “cancer survivor.” I feel like I dodged a bullet somehow.<br />
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Yes, I HAD breast cancer. It was removed during mastectomy surgery one year ago this morning. Clear margins. No lymph involvement (that they could discern). I did not need chemotherapy, nor did I require radiation. I am so grateful. Those women (and a few men) who have had the entire package of treatment … now, I might call them survivors. That is tough stuff.<br />
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The entire process did teach me something about prayer and faith and my relationship with God. When taking a spiritual gifts assessment, my “faith” score is abysmal. But I dare say it went up a few notches since my breast cancer diagnosis.<br />
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I counted on the prayers of believers—especially those who have been through this before me. They know the emotional roller coaster. They know the potential risks and outcomes. And they “lowered me through the roof” or “dragged me to the Throne Room.” When going in to surgery, I had an uncanny peace that wasn’t the result of drugs but of the prayers of His warriors.<br />
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I thank my daughter for being with me through it all, always giving me a good laugh, and making me a fight song list … it alternately had me dancing and crying.<br />
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I thank my sister, who took time and expense to be here from California. She encouraged me and did the things for me I wasn’t allowed to do after surgery.<br />
<br />
I thank those “Pink Sisters” who paved the rocky road before I got to it: Wendy Carmichael and Janine Schaap. And all those other women who seemed to come out of the woodwork, who’d gone through the same. It is truly a sisterhood.<br />
<br />
I thank my husband, who was stronger than I could be, and who loved me (loves me) through the process and disfigurement.<br />
<br />
I thank my medical team. They’ve seen it all and yet made me feel like I was the only person they had to care for!<br />
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I thank my God and Savior, the Healer. Songs like “Wave Walker” and “Overcomer” and those too numerous to mention, reminded me of His steadfast love for me no matter what the outcome.<br />
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So, this is the first anniversary out of cancer.<br />
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Father, what do You want me to do with the next year?<br />
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<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-91267788240531143232019-07-15T05:30:00.000-05:002019-07-15T05:30:03.791-05:00EpilogueFrom <i>Take Care of My Child…for a While</i> by Joyce Sawyer<br />
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Later we learned the autopsy showed the cancer had involved the breathing control center. It was a quiet, peaceful way to die. I was so afraid he would choke to death or feel strangled as he had felt so many times before, and had been so frightened.<br />
<br />
Ricky’s vital organs and cancerous parts were given for research, in hopes some other child would be helped by what was found. We learned another child was in the hospital with that same kind of cancer and was indeed benefiting from the added knowledge.<br />
<br />
[Rhonda here. If you have been touched by my mother’s story, perhaps you’d like to consider giving a donation to the American Cancer Society or make sure you are listed among those who are Organ Donors. But the most important consideration is … do you know for certain where you will be after you draw your last breath? How about those in your family? Do you know you will see them in heaven? Jesus is the ONLY Way, Truth, and Life. Trust Him alone to secure your eternity.]<br />
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Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-34846534550323620552019-07-15T05:00:00.000-05:002019-07-15T05:00:14.392-05:00Chapter 21: Never Die in JulyFrom <i>Take Care of My Child…for a While</i> by Joyce Sawyer<br /><br />…Then on July 11, at about four Sunday afternoon, Dale came in to the living room and said Ricky’s eyes were rolling back and he was having convulsions.<br /><br />Dale was really shaken; it was terrible to watch and we knew death was close now. We planned to have Ricky die at home, but we realized we couldn’t handle this. He needed relief from pain and he couldn’t keep the pills down. He no longer had control of his bodily functions. He needed the help of a doctor and the hospital.<br /><br />Our doctor at McClellan [Air Force Base in northern Sacramento] had moved on Friday, so I called the doctors at Stanford Children’s. Dr. Wilbur was away at a convention and Dr. Long was on vacation. I felt like all our medical supports were gone. Dr. Serota was in Philadelphia and his replacement had not yet arrived at Travis [Air Force Base in Fairfield, California].<br /><br />I called Mather Emergency, an Air Force hospital east of Sacramento. They said they would try to reach a doctor there to admit Ricky, but to bring him over as soon as possible.<br /><br />Next, I tried to get an ambulance. Our emergency room said they only had one ambulance available and it couldn’t leave the base. I said, “What do you mean? My child is dying and you can’t send an ambulance?”<br /><br />“No.” They had no authority to leave, just in case there was an accident on the base. They had three ambulances, but only one was operable.<br /><br />I called the head of the McClellan clinic. He was out of town. I called his assistant. He would be back after six o’clock.<br /><br />Now Ricky was screaming with pain in between convulsions every few minutes. We just couldn’t keep the pain pills down him. I was becoming frantic. I called our emergency room again and said I would call the base commander. He had said that if there was ever anything he could do, just call. The sergeant said there was no need to do that. There would be an ambulance at our house in fifteen minutes.<br /><br />Dale rode in the ambulance with Ricky this time and the girls and I followed in the car. Ricky had several convulsions on the way. Dale was wringing wet when they got to the hospital—a twenty minute ride.<br /><br />Ricky was taken immediately to intensive care. An IV was started and the doctor arrived to prescribe Phenobarbital to control the convulsions. The doctors hadn’t warned me about those. They came as a surprise. The cancer was in the brain stem. I should have known it would travel up, as well as down, the cord.<br /><br />I said I would spend the night next to Ricky’s bed. The corpsman brought a noisy plastic recliner that only had one position. The nurse brought a blanket. Ricky was restless and cried “Mama” off and on. I would jump up and rub his head or hold his hand or massage his legs and feet. It was a long night. <br /><br />By morning he was stabilized. He was moved to a private room just outside ICU. Dale came over and I went home to rest and pick up a futon to stay the night in his room. We were told this was not allowed in the hospital, but under the circumstances it would be alright.<br /><br />We took turns sitting by his bed for the next four days, watching the pain return and more medication needed. Now he was paralyzed from the neck down. We had to move his arms and legs. Sometimes it was impossible to make him comfortable.<br /><br />He would say, “Move my legs like an Indian. Put them on the ceiling; put them in a circle.” Just when I would crawl into bed, he would cry to have his legs rearranged.<br /><br />He was barely sipping juices and chocolate milk. I wondered how long he could last this way. His mind seemed to be clear. He asked what time it was and which day it was. He asked me to hold his hand or rub his head, and would call me to make sure I was close by.<br /><br />When the tray came up on Thursday noon, I asked him what he would like: juice, jello, or chocolate milk. He said, “One at a time,” and he took some chocolate milk and went to sleep. Those were the last words he said.<br /><br />The chaplain had been in the day before and asked if I was ready to let Ricky go. He said maybe Ricky was holding on because I couldn’t release him. I thought about that and I prayed, “I love little Ricky, but he is in so much pain and so uncomfortable. I know he will be better off with You. I’ll let him go; You can take him.”<br /><br />After lunch, I sat next to the bed reading a book. The aide came in and said it was time to turn Ricky again. She felt him and said, “I think he has stopped breathing.” She went for the nurse and I held his fingers in mine. They were still warm but his face was white and his lips were turning blue.<br /><br />I said, “Goodbye, Ricky. I love you. You can live with God now and run and play baseball and football. We will see you pretty soon.”<br /><br />The nurse came in and listened to his chest and said she would notify the doctor. She filled plastic gloves with ice and put them on his eyes. We had arranged to donate his eyes to the eye bank. They came within the hour and thanked us for his eyes. There had been an emergency and a little child was waiting for them. Sometime I would like to meet the child who is seeing because of Ricky’s eyes.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /><br />Dale came over and I told him Ricky was alright now, and he said, “I know, but I’m not.” We called Dan and my parents and the other relatives. <br /><br />The memorial service would be Sunday evening. We decided to show three slides of Ricky; one when he was little, one when he was three, and one of his last Christmas. We also put a table in front of the chapel with his favorite toys and his baseball trophies on it. Ricky’s whole team came to the service in their Cardinal uniforms. We found a tape to play “It’s a Small World,” since Ricky enjoyed that so much at Disneyland.<br /><br />I had told the airman at the chapel to pick out a bulletin cover to use. When I saw the picture on the cover at the service, I was amazed—it was my dream! A boy running through a field of tall grass. I had dreamed that while we were visiting Disneyland. One night I saw Ricky running away from me, through a field of tall grass, and his dog was running toward him. He stopped to pick him up and, laughing, ran on.<br /><br />I didn’t know what it meant. He was to have had the operation to fuse the vertebrae in his neck. Maybe it meant he would be running without the brace and be well and healthy. Only I had the feeling that God was telling me something, getting me ready. When I saw that bulletin cover—I knew this was the meaning of my dream. <br /><br />The poem on the following page was read at the memorial service, and expresses some of our feelings:<br /><br /><br /><i>Understanding</i><br /><br />“I’ll lend you for a little time a child of Mine,” He said,<br /> “For you to love while he lives, and mourn for when he’s dead.<br />It may be six or seven years, or twenty-two or three,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /> But will you, till I call him back, take care of him for Me?<br />He’ll bring you his charms to gladden you, and should his stay be brief,<br /> You’ll have his lovely memories as solace for your grief.<br /><br />I cannot promise he will stay, since all from earth return,<br /> But there are lessons taught them there I want this child to learn.<br />I’ve looked this wide world over in my search for teachers true,<br /> And from the throngs that crowd life’s land, I have selected you.<br />Now will you give him all your love, nor think the labor vain,<br /> Nor hate Me when I come to call to give him back again?”<br /><br />I fancied that I heard them say, “Dear Lord, Thy will be done,<br /> For all the joy the child shall bring, the risk of grief we’ll run.<br />We’ll shelter him with tenderness, we’ll love him while we may,<br /> And for the happiness we’ve known, forever grateful stay;<br />But should the Lord call for him much sooner than we’ve planned,<br /> We’ll brave the bitter grief that comes and try to understand.”<div>
<br />~[although Mom attributed this to “author unknown,” I just discovered that it was written by Edgar Albert Guest in 1930, the year Mom was born.]</div>
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<i>Epilogue to follow</i></div>
Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-15733126565526691892019-07-15T04:30:00.000-05:002019-07-15T04:30:05.826-05:00Chapter 20: The Last Days at HomeFrom <i>Take Care of My Child…for a While</i> by Joyce Sawyer<br />
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More and more it hurt for Ricky to be moved, so he spent more and more time in bed and less in the living room.<br />
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I called Dan to see if he would like to spend some time with Ricky. He came and slept on the floor in Ricky’s room. He played games and talked and rubbed Ricky’s head, which seems to ease some pain.<br />
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One afternoon Ricky was on the futon in the living room and he started to scream that he was being choked and he couldn’t get his breath. The doctor just lived one block over and was home at the time. He came right over. He increased the pain medication.<br />
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After that, Ricky got quiet. But in a little while he was crying again. I asked him what was the matter. “I’m not going to make it, am I?” I told him we had done everything we could; the doctors had done everything they could, and there just wasn’t any way to kill the cancer. But he would go and live with God and be strong and healthy again, and be able to play baseball and football.<br />
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He said, “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you.”<br />
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We both cried.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5iVFZwmr7lBsFY1AKd0Wiq_Huppfugmag4rh59yo5KlnVFaJ1WkbSBUxkacI1ryhrLOK6j20AGox-N9oIoGMyTeqOhBWv7W7N6PMXKHg2F0i0pNTjVMFb_Rotu3B28Jap-EyqSw/s1600/fullsizeoutput_14b70.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="1600" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5iVFZwmr7lBsFY1AKd0Wiq_Huppfugmag4rh59yo5KlnVFaJ1WkbSBUxkacI1ryhrLOK6j20AGox-N9oIoGMyTeqOhBWv7W7N6PMXKHg2F0i0pNTjVMFb_Rotu3B28Jap-EyqSw/s320/fullsizeoutput_14b70.jpeg" width="320" /></a>As the pain increased and the paralysis progressed, Ricky came to the place where he was ready to die. I told him I would hold his hand and then Jesus would hold his hand. It would be that easy.<br />
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Now he needed pain pills every two hours day and night. I set the alarm. I barely went to sleep and it was time to get up again. He would call “Mama!” and sometimes it would only be an hour.<br />
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It is terrible to watch your child die.<br />
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<i>Chapter 21 to follow</i>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-63729448335492220342019-07-14T04:00:00.000-05:002019-07-14T08:18:24.741-05:00Chapter 19: The Miracle DogFrom <i>Take Care of My Child…for a While</i> by Joyce Sawyer<br />
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Ever since Brandon had been killed, Ricky had been asking for a dog. Since he was back and forth in the hospital, we didn’t see how we could manage it, but we finally promised that when he came home after the operation he could have his dog.<br />
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As soon as we came home this time, he began asking again, so we started the search in earnest. I didn’t see how I could take care of a puppy and Ricky, too, so the dog had to be housebroken already.<br />
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Ricky thought he wanted a beagle like Snoopy. One of the teachers at school had some beagle pups, but they weren’t indoor dogs. I said I would call her back. Several other people offered dogs and we said we would check them out.<br />
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Then Dale walked in at suppertime with the cutest, softest six-month-old Terrier-poo in his arms. Ricky cried, “Benji!” And that’s just who he looked like. I asked Dale where he had found the dog. He said he walked in to the Highlands Pet shop and explained our situation and what we needed. The owner said he had a dog that had just been returned. He was housebroken, well trained, gentle and loving—just what we needed. He gave the dog to Dale free of charge for Ricky.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPPKmzWQjveXPNBbCL2ExkBHYTcpqo05j_4so_9NvJ4StZrDapmSgC1BsmemFAGt8XiKTRpi8yP9z9a4Qblv3Rdf9CLviIL2Sj3sBW2IPH_dwxIzXqeeBd9YBeFRs7p9LSLuVEaw/s1600/IMG_6956.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPPKmzWQjveXPNBbCL2ExkBHYTcpqo05j_4so_9NvJ4StZrDapmSgC1BsmemFAGt8XiKTRpi8yP9z9a4Qblv3Rdf9CLviIL2Sj3sBW2IPH_dwxIzXqeeBd9YBeFRs7p9LSLuVEaw/s320/IMG_6956.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diane with “miracle dog” Benji</td></tr>
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Ricky just loved his new dog, and it was everything he wanted or needed. It slept on his bed and lay where Ricky could pet him. He seemed to sense when Ricky was in pain or his skin was sensitive and he would move down on the bed a ways. He came when Ricky called him and he lay quietly all night. He was one of those miracles we all needed so badly.<br />
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<i>Chapter 20 to follow</i>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-31176290467118652622019-07-14T03:30:00.000-05:002019-07-14T03:30:03.720-05:00Chapter 18: Back to the Hospital<br />
From <i>Take Care of My Child…for a While</i> by Joyce Sawyer<div>
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Too soon it was time to go home and get ready for the next trip to the hospital. I had to pack the trailer again. This was to be a longer trip because of the operation and recovery.</div>
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Ricky began complaining of his neck hurting. I thought it might be because of the long trip and being tired, but it seemed I could see a lump developing.</div>
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Ricky continued to complain of the pain. I gave him Tylenol, but it didn’t seem to help. Then on Tuesday, he asked to go back to the hospital. I knew he must really feel desperate if he was asking to go back. He was supposed to go on Thursday anyway, so I called to see if we could come a couple of days early. They said yes, to bring him right in.</div>
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Of course, there is no “right in.” It takes three or four hours. Anyway, we put Ricky in the back seat and fixed him as well as we could and went to Stanford Children’s.</div>
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They started an IV and started medication to ease the pain. The lump had doubled by now and was evident at a glance.</div>
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The doctor examined, X-rays were taken, and soon it was determined that the cancer was back and more of the vertebrae were missing or crumbling. The surgeon said he could not chance an operation through the cancer and there was no bone to fuse.</div>
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Ricky was relieved at not having to go through another surgery, but he didn’t grasp at the time what that meant.</div>
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In the meantime, Dale had gone home and pulled the trailer down, thinking we would be staying for a long time.</div>
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Now Dr. Wilbur called us in to his office. “There is nothing more we can do. We have used everything available to us. Any further radiation would be fatal. All we can do from now on is make Ricky as comfortable as possible and his life as full as it can be. You are welcome to stay here or you may take Ricky home. It is yours and Ricky’s decision. Of course, he will have to stay here until we can control the pain and the lack of bladder function.”</div>
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We talked about staying or going home. Ricky wanted to go home. I said I would manage at home as long as I could. The doctor said the disease was unpredictable, but at the rate of growth, he figured Ricky had a week or ten days.</div>
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I was stunned. That short? I knew he felt he was being strangled and he was frightened and panicky at times. He also was in pain—but a week?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqP3hYPERc9yUc3MNOpZeRg9YC4NT40EyJ7PlZustPZUttJr9vNfDokIo5AXIIfGL6iJj147sFuBPU-hUtTNdD-VJ_Fr8IwudEZmZ8CuBu4S_ArgFqOYfZjalAzxiZj5fbeIZGhw/s1600/jeep_j20_us_air_force_ambulance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqP3hYPERc9yUc3MNOpZeRg9YC4NT40EyJ7PlZustPZUttJr9vNfDokIo5AXIIfGL6iJj147sFuBPU-hUtTNdD-VJ_Fr8IwudEZmZ8CuBu4S_ArgFqOYfZjalAzxiZj5fbeIZGhw/s320/jeep_j20_us_air_force_ambulance.jpg" width="320" /></a>We packed our things for another long ambulance ride. We said goodbye to everybody. I knew Ricky would not be back.</div>
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When we arrived at home, we put the futon on the living room floor so Ricky could watch color TV and be where the family was.</div>
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Dale had also gotten him his own black and white TV to be near his bed. He could still work it with his good hand. Already he was losing control of his bladder and, at times, he couldn’t move his legs. The lump was half the size of his neck now and, when the medicine wore off, he felt choked.</div>
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<i>Chapter 19 to follow</i></div>
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Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-40652556913857805742019-07-14T03:00:00.000-05:002019-07-14T03:00:06.396-05:00Chapter 17: On to DisneylandFrom <i>Take Care of My Child…for a While</i> by Joyce Sawyer<br />
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The counts were starting to drop, but nothing drastic. Ricky showed no signs of infection, so we prepared for the big trip south.<br />
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The first night we stayed with relatives in Fresno. It was an easy four hour run. The next day we arrived at our trailer park in Orange. The next morning I called Stanford Children’s Hospital to see about the results of the latest blood work. The news was not good. He had no white cells at all; the hemoglobin was low, and the platelet count was less than 12,000 (50,000 is normal). Just a bump and he could bleed.<br />
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Now Ricky’s temperature was 102. What to do? Here we were. Ricky was so eager to go to Disneyland. All the arrangements were made. OK, I’ll give him some aspirin. We will be careful and WE WILL GO.<br />
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No one knows with what fear and trembling we made that decision. A wheelchair was provided at the gate and one of the guides gave Ricky a stuffed Mickey Mouse with a Mouseketeer hat. We went everywhere a wheelchair could go.<br />
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Ricky laughed at the bears in Country Bear Jamboree, especially the old hound bear singing, “Blood on the Saddle.”<br />
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But the best of all was “It’s a Small World.” We went down the exit ramp and they held the boat while Dale carefully lifted Ricky in. It was a beautiful, delightful ride we will always remember.<br />
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Ricky was beginning to get tired so we went back to the trailer to rest. Ricky’s temperature was back to normal.<br />
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That night I dreamed I saw Ricky running through a field of tall grass.<br />
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The next day we went to African Safari. Ricky could see all the animals from the car window by sitting in the tilted front seat.<br />
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Then we had to go to March Air Force Base for more blood work. The cells were building back.<br />
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After looking at a lot of brochures, we decided that the Hollywood Wax Museum would be the best place for a wheelchair. Universal Studios would be fun, but there was too much “on and off” traveling there, and the tour was too long. The wax museum was interesting. Ricky liked the Star Trek best of all.<br />
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On to Edwards Air Force Base and more blood work. The cell counts were looking good now.<br />
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Ricky loved seeing Dan again and Jason, our two-year-old grandson. Dan was stationed at Edwards AFB. Jason didn’t know what to make of Ricky in that cast and brace. We went on a picnic and Ricky lay on a blanket on the grass.<br />
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Life was fine.<br />
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<i>Chapter 18 to follow</i></div>
<br />Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-80644732702592891232019-07-13T04:00:00.000-05:002019-07-13T04:00:02.379-05:00Chapter 16: A Trial Run<br />
From <i>Take Care of My Child…for a While</i> by Joyce Sawyer<div>
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First we had to see if this was really feasible, so we decided to take the trailer out on Memorial Day for a trial run. </div>
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Ricky’s blood counts hadn’t started to drop yet from the chemotherapy, so he was healthy and feeling fine. He was even using his crutches some.</div>
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We loaded up the trailer, only this time we included a wheelchair, urinal, bedpan, thermometer, Tylenol, and the medicine (Beta-dine) for cleaning around the pins in his head.</div>
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Dale carefully lifted Ricky into the front seat of the car, with the seat tilted way back. Ricky was comfortable that way for a while, and then he needed to change and lie on his side on a sheepskin in the back seat. Of course, that way someone had to sit clear to the side and hold his feet. He thought that was a good joke.</div>
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Well, we traveled half a day in the mountains looking for a place to camp, but, of course, everything was filled up that weekend. We finally found a trailer park in Grass Valley. There was a little stream among some trees and an outdoor shuffleboard court. We set up camp and then played some shuffleboard.</div>
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Ricky did amazingly well, and we considered the whole trip a success.</div>
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Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-4621253651864621502019-07-13T03:30:00.000-05:002019-07-13T03:30:01.752-05:00Chapter 15: No Evidence of DiseaseFrom <i>Take Care of My Child…for a While</i> by Joyce Sawyer<br />
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After the April chemotherapy, Dr. Long called us into his office and told us that Ricky’s X-rays and tests had all been gone over carefully and, as far as they could tell, there was no evidence of disease.<br />
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Now it was possible to think about a fusion of the vertebrae in the neck and eventually, maybe at Christmas, Ricky could be out of the brace and walking around like a normal ten-year-old boy.<br />
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We were all overjoyed. Ricky began talking about his bionic neck and how he would be playing football.<br />
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He had one more course of chemotherapy, just to make sure, and then he could go home and get ready for his marvelous operation. The first seven vertebrae would be fused, using good bone from the upper thigh, and then he would be in a striker frame. It would be worth the long, hard recovery.<br />
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We talked it all over with Ricky. He wanted to go to Disneyland before his operation. We knew that after the fusion there would be months in bed and very little movement, so we went ahead with plans for a trip to Disneyland.<br />
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The hospital wrote letters and made arrangements with the special tour people at Disneyland. We would be able to drive right up to the gate and would be given a wheel chair there.<br />
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<i>Chapter 16 to follow</i></div>
Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-37888687486397621202019-07-13T03:00:00.000-05:002019-07-11T11:31:57.478-05:00Chapter 14: Games and SuchFrom <i>Take Care of My Child…for a While</i> by Joyce Sawyer<br />
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Ricky loved to play games when he was feeling well. In fact, that was a good indication of his health. He would say, “Let’s play a game.” Usually it was Aggravation. He won almost every game.<br />
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He kept a little blue notebook with scores in it, such as “Mother- 0, Ricky-50,” indicating the number of games lost and won. If a game was set up, the nurse would say, “I see Ricky is feeling better; he’s going to beat his mother again.”<br />
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Sometimes we played Rummy or Crazy Eights. I learned to carry a deck of cards in my purse so we could play when he was waiting his turn for a treatment or to see a doctor.<br />
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When the movie <i>Jaws</i> came out, Ricky had to have a <i>Jaws</i> game. I looked everywhere for that game. It took weeks, but I finally found it. Any member of the hospital staff that happened by was roped into playing <i>Jaws</i>…even the doctors on rounds took a turn.<br />
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Ricky was also a good artist. His favorite subjects were football and Snoopy. He drew or painted the Steelers and the Cowboys in various plays. They were very realistic. Sometimes he had trouble getting the feet just right. Once he did a mural for his hospital room of Lynn Swann and Terry Bradshaw. He had use of only one hand at the time, but he used large bold strokes.<br />
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Drawing Snoopy was good therapy for him. He had Snoopy in an ambulance, Snoopy getting IVs, and Snoopy in surgery. Every so often, Woodstock appeared in a picture, too.<br />
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Somehow Ricky accumulated a stuffed dog collection. It really didn’t start out that way.<br />
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In April, when we were home from the hospital, Dale took Ricky for a walk in his wheel chair and Brandon, his dog, was running along beside him. Suddenly Brandon dashed across the street and at that moment a car hit him. Ricky saw the whole thing, and it was a terrible emotional experience for him.<br />
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It was after that that he wanted a stuffed dog that looked like Brandon to take to the hospital and to sit on his bed, or to cuddle up under his chin. I was able to find just the right one for him with big floppy ears and a soft body.<br />
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Of course, he wanted a Snoopy dog and a dog like the one across the street that was licorice colored. Anyway, all these animals turned into quite a collection.<br />
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Ricky also had a whole bedroom full of plastic people or dolls. Dale didn’t like the idea of a boy having dolls, but Ricky enjoyed using his imagination and moving these characters around.<br />
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He had the Six Million Dollar Man and the Atomic Man, plus all the people from Batman. Then he had the Johnny West set, adding an Indian or a horse at every birthday or holiday. He finally got the covered wagon for the set the last time he was at Stanford Children’s Hospital. We had said he could have it when he came out of surgery the last time. When he learned he wasn’t going to have the operation, he said, “Can I still have my covered wagon?” Dale bought it for him and set it up on the stand next to his bed with tape on the wheels so it wouldn’t keep rolling off. The wagon was the envy of everyone around.<br />
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Because Ricky loved football so much, Dale mentioned him to Bill Reid of the San Francisco 49ers at a banquet for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Bill said he would be glad to visit Ricky at the hospital. I hadn’t been told anything about this, so when he and his wife arrived at the hospital, I asked everyone, “Who’s Bill Reid?”<br />
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He was very nice about my not knowing him. He said he had a football to present to Ricky signed by all the players of the 49ers. It turned out that Bill and his wife had been exposed to the measles so they could not come in to the hospital. They had to give Ricky the football through the window. Ricky thought that was funny, but he treasured the football. He would take it out of the plastic covering to show it to the doctors and nurses and the other children. They weren’t allowed to touch it though. Then it had to go back into the plastic bag and into its box.<br />
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Every time Ricky was home from the hospital, he insisted on going to the Little League games in his wheel chair. This year he had been put on the Cardinals team. He had a red baseball cap and red uniform pants. He couldn’t get the T-shirt on over his cast. He wore the hat and pants to the games.<br />
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Even though he didn’t play in one game, he was given a trophy at the end of the season.<br />
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<i>Chapter 15 to follow</i>Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8282082.post-63448240879483641292019-07-12T04:00:00.000-05:002019-07-11T11:31:27.849-05:00Chapter 13: A Dream<br />
From <i>Take Care of My Child…for a While</i> by Joyce Sawyer<br />
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A flashing red light. The machine is malfunctioning! I awoke with a start. What a terrible dream. </div>
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Then I jumped out of bed. The machine was hidden from my bed but the light WAS flashing. The alarm had been turned off at some earlier time. I turned off the machine and ran for the nurse. The fluids had run dry and blood was being pumped out of Ricky. He had been on an electric IV machine for days.</div>
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I rescued my boy. No, the dream had done it. Thank you, God, for a dream.</div>
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I was often asked by the other mothers staying at the hospital how I could sleep at night and be awake instantly; how I managed without alcohol or drugs or even aspirin. I always said that it was because I believe in God and He is with us and He cares for us.</div>
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He helped me through the long hours—Ricky’s torturous treatments and drug therapy, and the constant emotional strain. </div>
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<i>Chapter 14 to follow</i></div>
Rhondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02076280430660270080noreply@blogger.com