My Experience with ADHD

I was gifted this amazing little boy from God.  His name is Fergus.  He has these amazing eyes, the color of almonds.  The sparkle with mischief and gleam with intelligence.  He is full of compassion for others and he’s curious about everything.  He doesn’t stop moving but he’s capable of slipping into super, super slow-motion when someone is waiting. 

For his first 4 1/2 years, it was just he and I.  Experiencing the world through his eyes with fresh curiosity and amazement was like a rebirth of sorts.  I didn’t have a radio in my car, so anytime we drove anywhere (which was often); we talked.  We talked like two adults.  Fergus had a very large vocabulary and an inquisitive mind when he started school. 

We didn’t have a lot of behavior problems prior to school.  He went through a biting phase and gave himself a concussion when he fell off the coat hook he was hanging on. 

His “behavior” problems started when he started school and my take on it is the schools had and have an expectation problem.  It is unreasonable to expect children as young as three years old to sit still, pay attention and behave perfectly for hours on end.  My opinion is that it’s unnatural.  Preschool was a nightmare. 

His Kindergarten teach was an amazing, loving and creative woman.  She called me to tell me he’d had a good day and I burst into tears of relief and joy.  She gave him a carpet square to use as an island and the classroom carpet was an ocean he couldn’t go into without drowning or being eaten by sharks.  It kept him from moving around her classroom and putting his hands on the other children. 

Fergus has always been a loyal person.  If you were his friend, he took that seriously and defended you if he deemed it necessary.  Which is how I got a phone call telling me he’d pushed another child off the top of the school’s playground slide.  That child had pushed his friend, so Fergus pushed him.  Off the slide.  Onto the ground, breaking the child’s backpack strap (when he tried and failed to catch him) but not injuring the child (thank God!).  I offered to pay for the backpack.

I took Fergus in to a mental health professional to be evaluated and he was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), which I’d never heard of previously.  I tend to question things and I seek out knowledge and proof.  I went to my local library and read everything they had on ADHD and ADD. 

As I read, I realized my son was being described and I was devastated that my perfect child wasn’t perfect.  Moreover, to my surprise, I realized that I fit the description even more readily than my child!  At the time, they believed there was a genetic component but it hadn’t been proved yet.  I’m convinced it’s genetic. 

Throughout the years, Fergus’ teachers would go on and on about how polite and likable he was.  Then, they started with the buts.  He can’t hold still.  He’s always touching others.  He doesn’t pay attention in class.  He doesn’t turn in his assignments.  He distracts the other students. 

Over the years, I’ve become convinced that ADHD and ADD run rampant in my family.  My mother and father both have associated behaviors.  Most of my siblings have characteristics of it.  Both of my sons have it.  Fergus has ADHD and Samson has Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), which is basically the thought problems without the hyperactive movements. 

I’ve never been diagnosed and I learned some great coping skills as a child.  Fergus had to be medicated before he was able to realize any kind of scholastic (behaviorally) success. 

All of the books I’d read told me not to expect a miracle pill, so I didn’t.  Imagine my surprise and sorrow when we switched medications and found a combination with dramatic results.  One after another, at the next parent-teacher conference; Fergus’ teachers remarked on what a difference there was in his behaviors.  It was PFM (Pure Fucking Magic).

At this point, I don’t think having ADHD is going to negatively affect my life. 

One Tough Soldier

It was 1983 and I was in Army Basic Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina for the Arizona National Guard.  It was end of winter, beginning of spring.  I was nearly done with my months of training. 

When I arrived, I had no athletic history and the physical part was very challenging for me.  I just kept persisting and over time, my physical stamina continued to improve.

My abusive step-father had more than adequately prepared me for the mental aspects of the challenges I faced. 

I had faced challenges with the weapons training as I’m right-handed but fire an M-16 and other rifles left-handed.  I’m unable to hit the target when firing right-handed but still have a tight grouping.  I earned “Expert” marksman firing left-handed. 

I was excited to participate in night exercises and remember crawling under barbed wire with my cradled M-16 while seeing tracer rounds fired from tanks fly over our heads.  After the exercise was over, I was sent to pick up expended rounds from around and on top of the tanks.  There were wooden ladders leaning against the tanks for easy access to the top.  I began to quickly ascend when the third rung from the bottom gave way the moment I stepped on it and I crashed to the ground hard on my left foot.  It hurt but I’m pretty tough and just powered through. 

I had to complete my final physical fitness test in order to complete my Basic Training.  Not finishing meant having to wait and start all over again with another group and that wasn’t something I wanted to do; it somehow seemed like failure. 

I began my 3 mile run and soon the pain in my foot was causing tears to stream down my face unchecked.  Pretty soon, my first sergeant joined me on the track and asked what was wrong.  I told him I had intense pain in my foot.  He suggested I stop and I explained I wanted to finish so I could graduate.  When I was done, he came over and took a look at my foot.  He told me it appears it was broken (he was a trained EMT) and sent me to sick call. 

I went to sick call, waited my turn, and when asked for the reason for my visit I explained my pain and my first sergeant’s suspicion about it being broken.  The young man gave me over the counter pain medication and sent me back to my company.  I hobbled through the last of Basic and the graduating ceremony. 

I went on to Advanced Individual Training in Fort Gordon, Georgia and that’s where I was seen my an Army doctor who x-rayed my foot, explained it had been broken and healed but it healed improperly.  He explained the only way to fix it would be to rebreak it.  I passed on that. 

That was decades ago and the foot still hurts from time to time.  In fact, with age it seems to hurt more frequently but most often when the weather is changing (atmospheric pressures and all that). 

I’m quite proud of the fact that I ran my final 3 miles for my Army Basic Training Physical Training test on a broken foot and that was my fastest time ever! 

Our New Breadmaker

I used to have a breadmaker.  My mother sent it to me (with recipes) when I was a stay-at-home mom of two growing boys.  I made a lot of bread over the years. 

Eventually my sons moved out and I didn’t have a need to bake a lot of bread, so I gave my machine and the books to my oldest son’s girlfriend (she’s no longer among the sane so I have no access to the books I gave her).

Recently, my husband told me someone he knows was buying a group of breadmakers and was going to give us one. 

I felt put out.

I had no need for it.  I had no time for it.  I had no money for expensive ingredients and I had no room to store the machine. 

Sorry for the negativity, but I’m just keeping it real.

The machine arrived and I put it in a pile of other things I don’t have a place to store.  Weeks went by.  The box started to gather dust. 

A few things changed.  We currently cannot use Walmart grocery to purchase our groceries.  My sister-in-law is shopping for us once a month.  My two nephews spend four days a week at my house and both have good appetites.  I’m using a lot more bread. 

I ran out of bread, so I pulled the machine out.  A few things are different.  The loaves are now rectangular instead of round.  The instructions state the liquids go first, then the dry ingredients with the yeast last.  My last machine recommended putting the yeast and sugar in first and the salt last. 

I’d been craving Crusty Hearth Bread, Oatmeal Dinner Rolls, potato bread, raisin bread and a bread which includes almond extract and butter flavoring in the ingredients. 

The first day I made Crusty Hearth Bread, ingredients in the machine for the dough stage, then transfer to a cookie sheet and bake in a circular shape.  Yummy!  The next day, I made Linda’s Easy Potato Bread.  Yummy even though it fell while baking.  The third day, I made Oatmeal Dinner Rolls.  Phenomenal!  Sixteen delicious, generous, slightly sweet rolls. 

Problem!  No more yeast (I only had 3 packets) and no more flour. 

We purchased a container of bread yeast and 10 pounds of flour as soon as we felt well enough to try to shop. 

I made a two pound loaf of raisin bread and I’ve made French toast with it.  It was okay but I’d prefer more raisins and a bread that’s not so dense.  My mother loves raisin bread, so I sent most of the loaf home with her. 

I made another loaf of Linda’s Easy Potato Bread and thought I’d solved the reason the first loaf fell (I peeked while it was rising or baking).  It still fell and I didn’t peek. 

For the life of me, I cannot find the recipe for the bread which includes almond extract and butter flavoring.  Okay, I figured out it was a poppy seed bread (most likely).  I also tracked down the recipe book I previously owned (it’s a series of six now with the first one updated and republished). 

I can’t wait to try making sweet rolls, hamburger buns, cranberry orange bread, banana bread, zucchini bread, pumpkin bread……. 

Many, many thanks to the generous donor of our breadmaker!   

How I Escaped His Attack

I had agreed to work overtime to speed up when I could afford my own place. I had just finished my early shift and was due to start my regular shift shortly when a coworker told me my husband was there looking for me and wanted to talk to me. I agreed to go out back to talk to The Rock. The store was the central retailer in a strip mall. The parking was in the front of the various stores, but there was also pavement in the back which was never occupied by anyone. At the time, I was a cigarette smoker and that’s where we took our smoke breaks.

I go out back and we’re talking. The Rock is accusing me of having sex with the person I’m rooming with. I’m denying it again. Suddenly, the light goes out of his eyes, and he says “Well, I just came here to do this.” He pulls out a brand-new switchblade and opens it to reveal the 6” blade. He makes a stabbing motion toward my stomach and I put up my hand in defense: he cuts the tips of three of my fingers and I begin to bleed quite a bit.

I was hopping mad! Literally.

I lost my mind and started hopping in a circle, screaming at him, “You cut me! I can’t believe you cut me!” I was thinking about the woman they’d recently found dead in a secluded pond, killed by her angry lover in a domestic violence attack. I was thinking about the fact that he had an open switchblade in his hand. I was thinking if I ran, he would catch me before I got to safety. I was thinking that I was losing blood and starting to feel woozy.

A couple in a VW pull up to ask for directions and I ask them to call for help. They sped off.

I told him I needed medical attention. He offered to take me to the hospital. I didn’t want to get in the car with him. (Never let them move you to a different location.) I told him I was woozy and there was a pharmacy in the mall where we could purchase hydrogen peroxide and bandages. He agreed. We walked in together, got the items, waited in line for them, and paid for them. I couldn’t believe no one noticed my distress, the blood, or my wounds.

I told him my regular shift was starting soon and I needed to eat before it began. He offered to treat me to fast food across the street. I suggested we eat inside Montgomery Ward at their little diner. He agreed. We went inside, ordered, and sat down in a booth with our food. I sat there picking at my food, trying to respond to him in a way that wouldn’t create suspicion, while I was trying to figure out how to get away from him.

My supervisor comes in and approaches us. I’m thinking she’s looking for me because I’m late for my shift. Yay! She kneels next to us and starts making small talk. I’m wearing white flats which are splattered with blood and am sporting new bandages on three fingers. She doesn’t notice. While she’s talking to him, I interrupt to ask him if it’s okay if I go to the restroom. He agrees. I leave the table and head upstairs to the employee only bathrooms. He can’t get past the locked door. I go straight to Security and tell them what’s going on. They go detain him until the Air Force Security Police arrive to take him back to base.

The Common Denominator

I was at another 12-step meeting.  I’d already been to one that day and now I was double-dipping. 

My husband had asked if he could use my car to go watch a soccer game his friends were playing in.  I agreed.  He didn’t come home for 3 days.  We only had one car between us, so I was stranded all weekend. 

He didn’t call me until he was out of money and had no gasoline to get back home from the casino, which was hours away. 

I sent him just enough cash by Western Union to get home (not like in the past when he had padded the amount he needed so he could go back in and gamble some more).  He had my car and I needed it to get to work. 

I was hurt.  I cried all weekend.  We’d been through this before and I was realizing I couldn’t trust him.  He’s a gambler and a liar. 

I didn’t know if I could be in a relationship with someone I couldn’t trust, (More on this later.) so I was freaking out. 

I didn’t really know the people at this second meeting but I was desperate.  I poured my heart out.  I cried.  I was distraught. 

Afterward, a woman asked me if I’d like to have coffee.  I did. 

We sat and talked.  I told her the sordid details of my three prior marriages and divorces.  I told her all about the issues my ex-husbands had.  She asked me, “What’s the common denominator?” 

I kept on telling her about the shortcomings of my exes.  I’d heard her question but only in the edges of my conscience because it didn’t make sense.  They had problems.  I didn’t. 

She asked again, just as quietly, “What’s the common denominator?”

I stopped.  Dumbstruck.  I sheepishly responded, “I am.”

For the first time in my life, I looked at my marriages objectively and realized I was the common denominator.  I chose each of those partners. 

This was a pivotal point in my recovery because I started taking accountability for my part, the part I can change. 

I realized that each of my chosen partners had addiction issues of some kind:  alcohol, drugs and gambling. 

I loved addicts.  I hated addicts.  I was comfortable with these relationships as I’d lived them my entire life.  I was miserable and wanted something different and better. 

I kept going back and as a result I’m no longer the person I used to be.  I make better choices.  . 

Referrals Clerk Incompetent

Over the last year, my husband and I have needed a lot of referrals.  I now have major frustrations over the process.  Every time I call the doctor’s office, they tell me it’s “in process” or they’re waiting on the insurance company.  Most recently, the insurance company told me the doctor’s office simply needs to fax the referral to the clinic they’re referring to as the insurance company only needs to pre-approve procedures.  The specialists consistently tell me they didn’t receive the referral so they can’t make an appointment. 

My husband has had multiple ER trips since March 2018 for kidney infections and he’s been on antibiotics numerous times.  It took months before our “doctor” put in a referral to a urologist even though my husband has a rebuilt bladder and was complaining about feeling like he had an infection.  The local hospital urology clinic had two providers, both claim his case is too complex for them.  My husband got a referral to a doctor in the next town who said he could handle my husband’s case then won’t because he doesn’t take his new insurance. I called the doctor’s office and advised we would prefer a urologist in the next state over as it is less than 2 hours away from our home and a straight, easy drive.  The doctor’s office sent his referral to a doctor who is 3 hours away from our home and in the mountains where it’s snowing. 

Early January my husband was having another bout with a bladder infection.  He was miserable: puking, clammy, unable to eat or drink or keep his pain medications down.  He was in tears.  I was enraged.  I called his doctor’s office and explained he needs a referral to a urologist, podiatrist, and some kind of referral for the pain in his shoulder and back.  I explained to the person who answered the phone that this is becoming a mental health crisis because Miss Melissa is not doing her job correctly and my husband is not receiving the care he needs.  I explained he DOES NOT need a referral for pain management as he’s already being seen by a doctor for that.  (Twice I’ve explained he needs a referral for diagnostics for the new pain in his shoulders and back.  I explained the metal rods in his back have shifted.  I explained if he’s referred to another pain management doctor he can be fired-TWICE they ignored me and sent pain management referrals.)

Miss Melissa hadn’t returned my calls but when I called and she was there, the receptionist patched me through.  Miss Melissa told me she was confused and had left a message-true.  She also claimed to have left a message advising a referral had been processed and my husband just needed to call to schedule an appointment.  That was a lie. 

Miss Melissa argued with me about what the insurance company said and told me the referral has to be approved by the insurer.  I asked her why they would lie to me.  She finally agreed to fax the referrals to the specialists the same day, then she didn’t do it. 

I called and left a message for Miss Melissa’s boss advising she either needs to be fired or retrained (I’ve never done this before in my life).  I’ve also left 3 messages for her boss asking for a call back and not once has she called back. 

My husband has an appointment with a podiatrist coming up but he went through his pain management doctor to get x-rays ordered to diagnose what’s going on with his shoulder and back. 

After an ER visit, I called my doctor’s office and requested a referral to a urologist and a gastroenterologist.  The referral for the urologist was sent to a clinic 3 hours away.  Apparently Miss Melissa thinks my husband and I have interchangeable health needs.  I’m still trying to make contact with the gastroenterologist as they didn’t have my referral from my doctor’s office the first time I called. 

Yesterday, my husband received a letter from the “referral clerk” at the offices of our primary care physician reporting that his referral for Neurosurgery had been sent.  My husband has not been advised by any doctor that he needs a referral for Neurosurgery, so this letter is unexpected.  I have been seeing a neurologist since November of last year, so more than 3 months.  It would seem Miss Melissa has erred again and I needed the referral more than 3 months ago. 

We’re considering switching doctors but what we’re hearing again and again is it’s like this in most doctor’s offices in this community. 

Shame on you for treating people as if you don’t care if they suffer or survive!

Journaling for Answers and Insight

One of the most beneficial things I learned to do in 12-step programs has been journaling.  When I first started attending 12-step meetings I was really sick emotionally, spiritually and intellectually. 

As I started learning a new way of thinking and behaving, I realized I had some really big decisions in front of me and I didn’t know how to make the decisions I needed to make.  I’d always believed I was a decisive person.  I was immobilized by fear.  I didn’t want to make the wrong decisions.

My sponsor had me journal through it.  Now, I’d heard of journal-writing before, and I loved to read and write.  However, I always thought there were more important things pressing for my time.  Writing was a luxury. 

I wanted to improve my life and what I’d done previously hadn’t turned out well.  So, I followed my sponsor’s advice and wrote about the topic until my last line was “I have nothing more to say about this subject.” 

She told me the answers to my questions were inside my head, I just needed to sort through all the thoughts and information to get to it.  She was right. 

I started making decisions with confidence and didn’t look back. 

I completed an inventory and shared it with someone I trusted.  I asked God to remove my character defects.  I made amends to people I’d harmed, as appropriate. 

I’ve continued to journal each day.  I reflect on the last 24 hours and write down a few things of note, so that later I can review my entries to determine if there are any new areas I need to ask God to help me with; and if I’ve harmed anyone, I can make immediate amends instead of waiting for my next inventory.   

I’ve realized that this blog is a type of journaling.  The big difference is that I’m sharing some very intimate thoughts with whoever decides to read this.

Do you journal?  Have you ever used journaling to work through a problem to find your solution?  

My Firstborn

I went to the doctor on base because I kept having stomach pains.  He asked if I could be pregnant.  I said I could but it’s not likely.  He diagnosed an ulcer and prescribed a liquid.  The pain got worse so I went back.  The female doctor asked if I could be pregnant.  I said I could but it’s not likely.  She did a pregnancy test and called me with the results. 

Doctor:  “You’re pregnant.”

Me:  “No, I’m not.”

Doctor:  “Yes, you are.”

Me:  “No, I’m not.”

Doctor:  “Yes, you are.”

Me: 

I was not expecting to be pregnant.  I’d had sex once recently.  I was at a place where I disliked men and believed I was so broken from past abuse that I’d be a horrible mother.  I’d been reading and knew that victims of child abuse often become abusers themselves.  I didn’t want to hurt an innocent child.  So, I scheduled an appointment for an abortion and that clinic is the only place that offered me a military discount. 

My brother Adam argued that I’d be a good mom.  He said I’d been a great older sister and I could use those same tools with my own child.  He assured me I’d be nothing like my step-father Dick. 

I decided to carry the baby full-term and once I’d made that decision, I knew I’d raise the child myself.

I had morning sickness bad!  Bananas made me hurl.  I’d be sick, sick, sick and then a window of opportunity would open.

I ate and ate and ate and ate.  I would go to the chow hall for breakfast and load my plate with a little bit of everything:  pancakes, eggs, grits, bacon, sausage, and potatoes.  Then, I’d pour a little catsup on the potatoes and pour syrup over everything.  Salt and pepper to top it off.  I ate every morsel. 

For most of my pregnancy I referred to my baby as she.  I had the name Jewel Sue picked out.  About a month prior to my due date, I started referring to the baby as he and I didn’t even notice; a coworker pointed it out.  I said, yeah, it’s a boy. 

It was two weeks prior to my due date: my neighbor invited me over for dinner.  She had made steak, potatoes, and carrots.  Yum!  I ate it all.  We decided to go get ice cream for dessert.  I ordered a banana split and finished every drop. 

We went home and my contractions began.  My neighbor took me to the hospital.  They tried to send me home because I was early and it was my first.  I refused to leave.  I walked the halls.  My labor kept progressing.  I began vomiting one layer of food at a time, in reverse order:  ice cream, potatoes, carrots and meat.

I had previously stated I wanted to have my baby naturally, without painkillers.  Whoo boy!  The pain was intense and I begged for drugs but the nurse wouldn’t give me any. 

I was terrified I was going to die (my mom had a kidney issue and didn’t come home right away when my brother was born) and blurted out I hadn’t signed my will. 

The doctor finally arrived and asked the nurse if my waters had broke.  The nurse asked me, I told her they didn’t before they put me on the bed but after that, I didn’t know.  They checked, not broken.  The doctor put a hook like device inside, twisted and pulled, whoosh! 

My baby immediately dropped into the birth canal and began to make his appearance.  The doctor ordered painkillers.  Out popped my baby boy and he was beautiful.  They said he had baby pneumonia from breathing in the meconium.  I thought meconium had potential for a name.  Then they had me push out the placenta.  It was gorgeous with all these iridescent colors shot through it. 

I slept.  I slept for 5 hours.  I woke up and was a bit panicked:  where was my baby?

He was asleep too.  He woke up a little bit later and I nursed him.  He was perfect:  ten incredibly skinny and long fingers and toes, big feet, a full head of big, brown curls on his head.

He was in the hospital for 5 days because he had aspirated his meconium and was jaundiced.  I learned to swaddle him and change his diaper.  He latched on and ate with an appetite. 

I named him Fergus Anthony Reed and we began a lifelong relationship which I have NEVER regretted.

A year after I gave birth, I weighed 97 pounds and was 18 pounds less than when I got pregnant with him.  I should weigh at least 115:  I ate and ate and ate but he ate more than I could take in.   

No Wonder Older People Are Cranky!

My husband and I were in reasonably good health up until March 2018.  We’re both in our 50s.  My husband has been a paraplegic since he was 19 when his spine was crushed and he has been on pain management for many years. 

March of last year, my husband began having some really scary health issues.  He would wake in the middle of the night, short of breath, with chest pains, clammy and vomiting.  We’ve taken him to the local emergency room on multiple occasions and we’ve taken him to the Mayo Clinic.  No one has given us a diagnosis and he continues to have these attacks. 

He had a tooth infection.  He has a hiatal hernia.  He has metal rods in his back which aren’t in the correct place anymore.  His left shoulder has been hurting for years.  He’s frequently in pain despite being on pain medication for chronic pain.  His right hip hurts.  His low back hurts.  He continues to have bladder infections.  He has high blood pressure and diabetes.  He’s overweight.  He has complained of foot pain for years and his feet are frequently cold and almost always discolored to the point of being nearly black at times. 

August of last year, I suddenly had vertigo and have had it virtually daily since.  I desperately tried to identify a cause and solution so I could keep my job.  Four months after onset, I had to resign my position as I no longer could afford my health insurance premiums and still didn’t have a cause.  I still have no idea how to resolve the problem. 

We’ve had to wait months to get referrals to specialists.  We’ve gone through all the testing our Nurse Practitioner ordered.  I’ve done a lot of research online and have come to appointments well prepared with details about symptoms.  I even came with a list of possible medications to share with her. 

It almost seems like our “Primary Care Physician” who’s a nurse practitioner is clueless about what’s causing our symptoms and either doesn’t care enough or doesn’t have the time to try to figure it out and is waiting for it to resolve itself or for us to find a solution. 

It almost seems like the insurance companies are waiting as long as possible to give authorization for referrals, in the hope that we won’t need them when it resolves itself, we’ll give up on getting the medical help we need, or we’ll die.  Any of those scenarios means they don’t have to pay for diagnostic testing. 

I know my husband and I are at our wits’ end some days.  We are hurting, scared, tired, depressed and unhappy. 

No wonder older people are cranky!

“Mending the Soul” Book Review

An important part of my relationship with God is connecting with Him each morning. I read out of a daily 12-step inspirational book, and out of whatever book I’m studying (either the Bible, a bible study book, or a topical book by a Christian author), and I pray. If I don’t start my day on this solid grounding, I’ve pretty much screwed myself. I’ll end up behaving in a way I’m not proud of or I’ll have to endure something alone when I could’ve had help from my Father.

Anyway.

I’ve been reading “Mending the Soul: Understanding and Healing Abuse” by Steven R. Tracy. He and his wife are the founders of Mending the Soul Ministries.

This is an excellent book. I recommend it to anyone who has survived abuse or works with people who are abuse survivors.

I don’t remember how the book came to be on my radar. I may have read about it in another book or I may have had friends who were reading it and talked about it on Facebook. Either way, the book made it into my bible study material.

I’m a survivor of childhood abuse at the hands of my step-father Dick. I spent decades trying to heal myself. I didn’t trust God because I thought he was like Dick. My life was a hot mess when an atheist friend suggested a 12-step program. God used that program to begin healing me and our relationship. He continues to improve me.

I know a lot of people at various stages in their healing process and I have a lot of compassion for them. This book seemed like a good fit for me.

The book outlines what abuse is and how it colors our perception of God. It describes abusers and their families. It discusses the extent of abuse and the origins. The author also talks about how abuse affects the lives of abuse survivors. He also goes into detail about how to seek healing and how to help others on their journey to recovery.

I’ve read a lot of self-help books over the years and received a substantial amount of counseling. This is the first book I’ve read that discusses abuse within the Christian community honestly. He doesn’t dismiss counseling, he explains how to help abuse survivors in a spiritually sound way that will help rather than further traumatize them.

There were some specific areas of interest for me, including: guilt versus shame, feeling like it was my fault, minimization, repressed memories, learning from the past, wrestling with God, how God feels about abusers, and forgiveness.

I plan to discuss this in greater detail and would love to hear your thoughts on the subject.

Snow Day

Well, this is almost unheard of.  The forecast snow storm actually arrived.  My mother doesn’t like to drive in snow, so she had forewarned me there was impending inclement weather.   

Early this morning, she sent me a link to local traffic information which showed many road closures due to snow.  The city had already closed its offices for the day.  My brother works for the state and they hadn’t closed.  I let my brother know his boys could spend the day with me and was trying to decide whether or not they were going to have school at my house.  (The youngest has been doing his school at my mom’s for the last week and a half due to behavior issues which meant they needed to be kept apart.)  I began getting ready for their arrival.

An hour later, my mom sent a group text to my brother and I and our out-of-state sisters of her yard with five inches of snow and still falling.  I followed up with a photo from my front door.  My fun sister Tammi suggested we make snow angels.  I advised I do not want to touch the snow: I only like the way it looks.  My brother reported his boys were up at 6 am playing in the snow in his yard.  They did make snow angels.  He announced his office was closed for the day. 

Yay!  Now the boys get a real snow day to play!  I notified their online charter school.  Ours is an odd situation since they’re attending class online but not at my brother’s home.  We’ll have to catch up, but it’s worth it to have a rare day to play in this white stuff we almost never get. 

My brother added photos of his yard to the group message. 

I’m thinking I get a snow day too!  Hopefully.  My husband is horking (the sound he makes when he’s puking and nothing is coming up).  I’m thinking I’ll work on writing my blog and watch some scary flicks, maybe catch a few episodes of “Designated Survivor”. 

Three hours later, my mom reports her power is out.  Yikes!  We’ve already had two brown-outs, so I turn off what I don’t need.  I play nurse to my husband (I’m not very good at it): made him peppermint tea and oatmeal but he can’t hold anything down, brought him things he asked for and checked in on him while he slept.

I did watch two episodes of my series and two scary movies. I worked on my blog and actually enjoyed it instead of feeling like it was a chore.  I haven’t gotten dressed.  I ate homemade tuna salad on homemade bread for lunch (both made earlier in the week).  I snacked a bit here and there.  Our power never went out.  Yay!

I saw two cars drive past during the morning.  A little before noon, two more vehicles drove past.  The pickup stopped at a stop sign, then tried to turn right, couldn’t do it without sliding and skidding until he got some traction again.  Heard sirens approach and stop about a block away around mid-afternoon.  Have seen a few more vehicles drive past late in the afternoon.  It has stopped snowing.  The air temperature has increased to the point that it’s melting now. 

My mom reported their power was back on about five hours after it went out.  Mom and Dad had breakfast in their camper and listened to the news on their radio.  They’re fine and grateful. 

My family prayed for my husband and he got a good two hour nap.  He’s still not feeling well but at least he’s rested for the moment. 

I fed our little dog and she began whining because she wanted to be let into the side yard.  I let her out but she wouldn’t step off the covered concrete into the snow.  Pansy!  

My Pity Pot

I’m feeling so overwhelmed by my emotions right now.  I’m exhausted.  I cry at the drop of the hat.  I become frustrated in the blink of an eye.  I’m distraught. 

I want to curl up in a ball under a thick, warm blanket and cry until I have no tears left.  I’m so sad about the current state of my life.

Vertigo has stolen my ability to work, my income, my independence, my ability to get my own groceries, my ability to get in my car and drive myself to the library, the bank, or to lunch with a friend. 

I’m worn out from the symptoms.  I’m tired of fighting with my primary care “physician” to get the referrals my husband and I need.  I’m tired of hearing “it’s normal” in regards to tests when nothing in my life is normal any more.  I’m bored to tears but too tired to figure out something to do. 

Wah, wah, wah.  I need to just cry this out.  

I want to feel good again.  I don’t have any bread or pizza that my nephews like left in the house.  I can’t go to the grocery store myself to purchase more.  I can’t bake any more homemade bread because I don’t have any yeast and can’t drive myself to the store.  I could order grocery pickup but can’t use my SNAP card for that and don’t have any income right now.  I want to read a good book but can’t get to the library and the daily headaches make reading and concentrating difficult.  I would love to scrapbook some photos but don’t have anywhere to do it in my home.  I’d love to spend a day hunting but by the time I’ve loaded us up, I’m so dizzy I need to take medication but the medication knocks me out for 24 hours and it’s really hard to look for game when you’re asleep.

I’d love to have lunch out with a friend but I’m unable to drive myself and I hate asking because what if they say yes when they really want to say no?  I’d love to invite a friend over for coffee but what if I’m too dizzy to concentrate well enough to engage in a conversation? 

I don’t want to cry, really I don’t.  I can’t stand pessimistic people who can’t see the positive in life, but at the moment.  I got nothing nice to say and I’m just going to sit here on my pity pot and cry awhile. 

I’ll write when I’m capable but I’m no longer promising to try to do it daily.  I can’t meet that goal. 

This Too Shall Pass

Worn out.

I’m worn out from a month of being a Learning Coach to two young men who don’t seem to care about anything but having fun in the moment. 

They started the week out with no overdue lessons.  Both wasted so much time this week arguing with me and cutting up with each other that they now have overdue lessons and have homework this weekend. 

I’m at a loss for words. 

I was supposed to ride around the desert mountains looking for javalina yesterday.  By the time the truck was loaded up, I was dizzy and nauseous.  I took a promethazine for the nausea; first time I’d taken the full dose.  Ugh!

I couldn’t keep my eyes opened and ended up crawling into the back seat to nap while my husband and brother-in-law looked for them. 

I thought I’d be okay by noon.  I woke up just long enough to eat a portion of Lemon Pepper tuna and a half dozen crackers. 

I slept all day on a too narrow seat with no support for my head or back.  I was cold all day because I had no blanket and the windows weren’t rolled up. 

I had some Ruffles for dinner. 

I told my husband I wasn’t joining him today and went back to sleep. 

I woke up to say goodbye this morning, rolled over and went back to sleep. 

I got up a little before noon today. 

I watched a couple of documentaries about food. 

I decided I’m sick of feeling sick after I eat and I’m, going vegan. 

I spent hours looking for vegan recipes to try on myself and my husband. 

Recipes are tucked away now and I’m planning to have fast food for dinner, when my husband returns. 

The Princess and the Pea

I woke up Saturday morning feeling like I needed to pee right now! So, I did. 30 seconds later, I felt the urge again. So, I did. (I’m getting older.) And again. I realize something is off and I’ve had urinary tract infections (UTIs) before and even two kidney stones over the years. I ask my husband to pick me up some cranberry juice before he heads out on his adventures for the day.

I’m thinking if I’ve got a UTI and I’ve caught it early, the juice will do the trick to eradicate it. However, I remember the urologist told me to avoid masking my symptoms with juice like I did with my second kidney stone (nasty infection).

I go about the day with minimal discomfort.

I was sick as a dog that night. I didn’t want to go to the emergency room because I wasn’t dressed, my hair was dirty, and it’s the emergency room. Oh yeah, and I was on my belly, on the floor, fighting my way through and praying for the urge to push to stop. I was terrified I was going to push my insides out! I threw up. Eeeeew!

I woke up Sunday morning feeling okay. Just sore in every muscle in my body from the tension from the night before. The feeling I needed to pee was back. I drank more cranberry juice and water. I talked to my husband about my indecision about whether I should go to the ER or not. I showered. We both got ready, just in case. I felt a pain on the left side of my stomach area and was starting to feel pain in my left flank. I knew tests would be needed to confirm if it’s a stone and that can’t be done at Urgent Care. I knew I’d have to call early the next morning and wait on hold for more than an hour to find out if my doctor had a same day appointment and she wouldn’t be able to do the tests needed to confirm if it’s a stone. I definitely remember the pain I experienced with the first two stones and would rather not repeat. I’d rather give birth to another child. I opted to go to the emergency room.

The admitting nurse was so thoughtful when she arranged a room where I wouldn’t be seeing people pass through the hall, as that could have triggered my vertigo. While waiting, I drank 16 ounces of water so I could produce about 3 ounces of urine for testing. I was wheeled into radiology for a CT scan of my abdomen and gave me a warm blanket before returning me to the ER. The doctor came in and did an examination and asked quite a few questions. He asked if I’ve been diagnosed with diverticulitis (I have but am asymptomatic). He asked if I’ve had a colonoscopy (3 years ago when they told me about the diverticulitis). He asked if I have high blood pressure (no). High cholesterol (I take fish oil and niacin)? He left and returned a bit later to tell me there’s a lot of blood in my urine, I have a 4mm kidney stone in the ureter just above the bladder, there’s a cyst on my kidney, and the juncture of my small and large intestines appears to be thickening. He prescribed Flomax and Ibuprofen. The Flomax is to loosen things up in there so the stone can hopefully pass. He told me to follow up with the urologist.

A baby green pea is approximately 5mm. This stone is 4mm and covered in pointy spikes like a goathead thorn.

I’m taking the Flomax and I picked up some over-the-counter Azo for the urgency. The Azo made my urine very, very, very yellow! Cheerful.

I will be calling my doctor to request referrals for the urologist and gastroenterologist later today. Experience tells me to expect it to be months before I’ll be seen by either.

I’ll keep you updated.

Sold to the Highest Bidder

We met at the Enlisted Member’s Club in Georgia.  I was in the Army National Guard. He was active duty Air Force. I was upstairs where the Top 40 was playing. He was downstairs where the rock was blasting. The upstairs bar had a line around the building! I went downstairs where the line wasn’t as long. Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” came on and the next thing I knew we were dancing and talking while we waited in line.

His name was John O’Rourke but everyone called him “The Rock”. He was a fine-looking man with a gorgeous smile. His eyes were the color of Hershey’s kisses. We talked and danced and laughed. He walked me home.  He wanted to get intimate that first night, I declined.  We dated.

We married a few months later.  That afternoon, he sucked on my lip so hard it swelled and bruised. He got drunk in the living room with his friends while I cried myself to sleep in the bedroom on our wedding night.

We lived in a single wide in the sweltering heat of Georgia. We had one vehicle and no phone. I had no idea how to cook; so we ate macaroni and cheese with every possible addition: peas, hot dogs, carrots, hamburger, you name it. We read together. He went to work every day, leaving me in the trailer alone. When he was mad at me, he’d walk me over to a pay phone and call my mom to tell on me. Then he’d stand next to me while I talked to her, not able to tell the truth.

We spent an afternoon movie hopping, then roller skating with his friends. I fell and broke my wrist in two places, the hospital wasn’t able to give me anything for the pain because I was pregnant. I began to spot, the doctor told me they wouldn’t give me anything to prevent the miscarriage because this was a natural way for my body to get rid of a baby that was unwell. We were out to dinner at a steakhouse with friends. I went into the bathroom and miscarried in the toilet. I waited quite a while, but the bleeding didn’t stop. I went back to the table and told my husband what happened. I asked him to take me to the hospital, he said they’d just ordered. I explained, without treatment, I’d die. He took me, but you could tell he was angry about it.

We went to visit his family in Chicago. His father lived on the first floor and his mother lived on the second of the same tenement. I don’t remember his father. We stayed with his mother. His brother came to visit at the same time. He had a sister and her kids who either came to visit Mama while we were there or lived with her; I don’t remember which. His mother hated me because I was Caucasian and she didn’t want her African-American son to marry a Caucasian. There was nothing I could have done to change her mind.

We went out with his best friend from high school. We went dancing at a reggae club. It was nice. The music was good, the drinks were tasty, club was packed. Nice ambiance. We’re out on the floor, moving our stuff when the man dancing next to us steps on my foot. He apologizes. I accept. My husband doesn’t accept and gets into a physical altercation with this stranger in a reggae club. Hello!

We were at a house party. I was drunk. I was flirting with his friend, when his friend hit on me. I agreed to meet him. To this day, I don’t know why! Stupid. Young. Depressed. Abandoned. Controlled. Ugh! I’m thinking, well he won’t show up. He was drunk and won’t remember. He showed up. He wanted sex. I had sex with him even though I didn’t want to. Why? I felt so guilty. I thought about it constantly. Everything my husband and I did together felt tainted. I finally told him. I truly believed it was more honorable to tell him.

I told The Rock because I thought it was the right thing to do.  In hindsight, I told him to lighten my guilt. I hoped he would tell me he loved me anyway and he was sorry for not being emotionally supportive and we’d work it out.

NOT what happened. He took off to go talk to his best friend. I was terrified he was going to beat him up. It was worse. He brought him back to our trailer and offered to sell me to him. He tormented us for weeks.

He got orders to Florida. We packed up and moved and left his “best” friend behind.

Disability Exam

Last Friday, my husband drove me an hour away to have a disability exam by a mental health professional.

I applied for disability when months had passed since the onset of vertigo without a diagnosis or treatment which will allow me to return to work.  One of the questions asks you to list all conditions which might interfere with your ability to work (or something along those lines).  I don’t want to get in trouble for lying, misrepresenting, or not providing full information, so although the big reason is vertigo, I included nausea (caused by the vertigo), migraines (because I’m having headaches virtually every day and migraines a couple times a month and one of the specialists said the vertigo may be caused by vestibular migraines), and anxiety (because I was under a great deal of stress when the vertigo came on and I believe the mind and body are inextricably linked; I’ve also experienced some pretty strong negative emotions since the vertigo began).  I was being seen by a mental health professional to address the stress prior to the vertigo.   

I’d had a rough week, with lots of vertigo attacks and I was feeling worn down. 

We stopped at McDonald’s on the way out of town and I ate a full meal.  This is the second time I left my town on a full stomach, with the same result.  I have nausea due to the vertigo and the effect is even worse when my stomach is full. 

On the way to my appointment, there is a significant change in altitude and sometimes it plays havoc with my ears.  I had an absurd amount of pressure in my ears and I couldn’t relieve it.  I tried holding my nose and blowing air with my mouth closed.  It didn’t work. 

I was overcome with nausea and discomfort and began to weep.  I desperately wanted to ask my husband to pull over, but how would that help?  We still needed to get to my appointment and it would only make matters worse to be late. 

We got to town and followed the doctor’s directions (down an alley) and arrived at my appointment. 

She asked me a lot of questions and I can’t remember them all but she did ask me the basics.  Name, date of birth, place of birth, state we were in, city we were in, current president and last.  She asked me to repeat three words and to remember them to tell them to her again later.  The words were house, boat and shoe.  We were in a town near water, so houseboat, and shoe.  I tapped my shoe through the rest of the interview.

She asked about my childhood, which was the first crying jag as I told her my step-father Dick was abusive physically, mentally, emotionally and sexually. 

She asked about my education:  three associate degrees and a bachelor’s degree. 

She asked me to explain what the idiom “strike while the iron’s hot” means.  For the life of me, I had no idea and I knew I should know and I was beyond frustrated.  It was one of the three times I started crying and couldn’t stop. 

She asked me if I’m worried about having vertigo.  No, worrying about it isn’t going to change a thing.  I want my old life back.  I want to drive and work and do normal things.  There was a brief period of time when I was really freaked out about not having any income, but we prayed about it, sold some things and covered our debts.  God has met all our needs. 

She asked about my military service and my work history.  The last place I worked was in child safety and it has left me traumatized.  I can’t talk about it without crying.  I cried when I told her I’d worked there a year and a half.  She didn’t ask any follow up questions. 

She asked about the feelings I’ve experienced since the onset of the vertigo.  I named a bunch:  confusion, frustration, worry, fear, dread, anger, embarrassment, depression, sorrow, hope, grief.  I could have gone on.   

At the end of the interview, she told me her husband had a three month bout of vertigo and it was definitely scary but he has since recovered. 

My husband and I got in our car and I started crying again.  He asked what was wrong.  I covered my face with my hands and tried to tell him through my tears.  I leaned over on his shoulder and just let it out.  He was just there.  Loving me.  Supporting me.  Not trying to fix anything, just reassuring me. 

The Destruction of a Family

Since Ariel’s birth, Fergus and Joanna’s relationship has deteriorated as Joanna realized Fergus is not going to marry her even though they share a child together. She’s always been a brusque woman. She’s emotionally damaged from a bad relationship with her mother. Her mother is very controlling. Joanna ran away from home as a young teen. Although she returned, their relationship is strained.

Joanna became verbally abusive to my son after she realized he was not going to marry her. Thanksgiving 2015, Fergus and Joanna brought the girls to Washington state to celebrate with myself and my other adult son Samson. Samson lived closest to the restaurant Joanna chose for our shared meal, so we all stayed with him. He didn’t have enough bedrooms, so most of us slept in the living room. Joanna was on the couch and I was in a sleeping bag on the floor. In the middle of the night, I was wakened by Joanna yelling at Fergus to come get Ariel to change her diaper and how she had been up all night changing diapers for the girls and taking kids to the bathroom while he did nothing. Fergus responded in a reasonable tone and reported there were no dirty diapers in the trash; so her claim was untrue and he was up and taking care of the dirty diaper. Joanna continued to loudly berate him; despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, the diaper was being changed, and there was a household of sleeping relatives and their four children she was disturbing with her tirade.

Joanna started attempting to control me through phone calls and texts demanding that I assist her in controlling Fergus and making him do what she wanted. I explained to her on many occasions she can only control herself and she needed to identify her part in the problems in their relationship and fix her part, because that’s what she could control. This frustrated her a great deal. At one point, she decided I was a horrible person and would not allow me to even talk to my granddaughters on the phone. She called me a drug pusher for following doctor’s recommendations when Fergus was a child to treat his ADHD, stating that I’d given him meth. She sent me unsolicited private details about their sex life. She sent random texts to Samson’s girlfriend telling her how to raise her child and to stay out of Joanna’s business.

In late 2016, Fergus informed me they were living in a travel trailer and Joanna had decided she wanted to have sex with other men in the trailer while Fergus watched their children. He was not agreeable to that plan. He also indicated she was using illegal drugs intravenously and hiding the needles in the woods around her parents’ home. She was shooting up in her legs and was telling people the bruising she was causing was because he was getting physical with her. Fergus became homeless when she moved the trailer to her parents’ property and kicked him out. He was very concerned about her erratic behaviors and the effects on the girls.

Joanna disappeared in 2017 while on a business trip for her parents in another state. Neither Fergus, nor her parents, nor her daughters knew how to get in touch with her. She was eventually found in a mental health hospital recovering from the effects of illegal drug use. During this time, Fergus went to court to get custody of his daughters back because Joanna’s parents had them and would not return them to Fergus or even allow visitation. Fergus was unable to get custody of Carmen because she is not his biological or legal child, despite parenting and loving her for years. He was awarded full custody of the other three girls: Amiya, Beatrice and Ariel. Fergus has made certain the girls have a relationship with their mother and their maternal grandparents and extended family.

Joanna returned to California but wasn’t mentally able to parent. She left the state a second time to go to rehabilitation in another state. For the second time in their young lives, the girls’ mother disappeared with no way for them to contact her. She returned the end of 2018 and told Fergus she was planning to marry someone she met during her last extended period away from her children.

She has no job, no home and limited mental functioning. Fergus made certain she spent time with the girls and was in the process of setting up supervised visitation when she filed a motion requesting an order of protection claiming he has stolen from her and raped her.

It’s safe to say this family has been destroyed by drugs and addictions.

An Aunt’s Love and Scrutiny

Imagine you’re 10 years old and failing all your 4^th grade classes. Imagine you’ve already been held back once. Imagine you have questions; but your teacher doesn’t have time to give you the one on one attention you need because they have 20 other students in class. Imagine you’re smart and often bored and distracted. Imagine you start having behavior problems and get sent to the office where it’s quieter than the classroom. Imagine you get sent home often, and your dad works full time so it’s your grandma who comes and gets you.

Imagine you’re 7 years old and struggling in school. Imagine you struggle to remain still for any amount of time at all. Imagine you spend eight hours a day at school where you’re expected to sit still. Imagine you’re intelligent and inquisitive. Imagine you have more questions than your teacher has time to answer. Imagine you start getting in trouble at school every day. Imagine you dread going to school and get physically ill almost every day just thinking about going to school.

Imagine the grownups in your life realize the current situation is not working well for either of you, so they sign you up for an online charter school.

I imagine you think this is going to be sweet. You’re 10 years old and you remember when mom was “home-schooling” you before you went to a brick and mortar school. She told everyone you were on the honor roll, but she was doing the work for you while you played video games. I imagine you think Aunt Maria is going to do your homework for you while you play video games. Au contraire my little chickadees.

I imagine the last week has been a difficult adjustment for you. Unexpected. You haven’t seen much of your Aunt Maria’s stern side, until now.

Aunt Maria loves you and she’s only responsible for watching you and your brother. She wants you to have a strong academic foundation so you can choose college if that’s your desire as an adult. She wants you to spend time around adults of good, strong, moral character so your core values have the opportunity to develop. Aunt Maria raised two intelligent, boisterous, inquisitive, difficult boys. She’s no pushover.

Welcome to your Aunt Maria’s love and scrutiny!

How Willie Became Disabled

Willie was 19. He had dropped out of high school. He had enlisted in the Army National Guard, but his start date had been delayed because he’d gotten a DUI and was on probation. He was working. He’d just gotten paid and paid his last probation payment. He ate dinner with his grandparents. He had one beer with dinner. He took off on his motorcycle. It was dark. He was on a dirt road headed North out of town. There was a panel truck in front of him, the kind people use to move. The truck was moving slower than he, so he’d started to pass the truck on the left. The driver of the truck, without using his turn signal, suddenly turned left while Willie was still passing. There was no time to react.

The truck and motorcycle collided; and Willie was thrown onto and over the hood of the truck and onto the ground. He had to be life flighted out of the smaller town he lived in to a larger city where there was more medical help available. His spine was crushed. He spent months in rehabilitation before returning home. His life was changed forever.

Here was a young man who was in tiptop physical shape. He’d been walking the hills and mountains since he was a preteen. He’d worked local cattle ranches. He worked on the side construction jobs with his father. He had done roofing and cement work. Now, he was in a wheelchair. Now, he’s in pain every single moment of every single day. The only thing that changes is the intensity of the pain. He has not given up.

In rehab, he told them he didn’t need Occupational Therapy because he was going to do what he was doing when he got injured. He tried to return to cement work but that didn’t work out. For years, he supported himself by welding. When he could no longer do that, he applied for disability. Turns out the amount a disabled person receives is tied to how much has been paid into Social Security for disability on their behalf. The younger the disabled person is when they become disabled, the less they’ve earned and paid in, so the smaller their disability payment. Willie’s payment is currently under $650 a month and he’s 57 years old now. Hardly enough to pay for rent, utilities, transportation, insurance and the sundries of life. He does receive food stamps that are adequate for his needs.

The man driving the truck lied about his actions that night, which caused the accident and put Willie in a wheelchair. There is no auto insurance payout for this man’s mistake.

As he’s aged, he’s gained weight so he’s no longer able to get down on the ground and back up into his wheelchair. When he was younger and weighed less, he was able to do more physical activity.

He’s still a force to be reckoned with. You don’t want to get into a physical altercation with him, as he can take down just about any opponent. He still hunts. He has a CHAMPS designation, and hunts from his vehicle. He has retained his knowledge of the terrain, the animals, and the weapons. He’s an excellent, patient, passionate teacher. He has friends who love him dearly and will come out to help him load up an animal. He has lots of memories from before and after the accident and he’s a great storyteller. He still knows a lot about roofing and cement work. He can share the information in a way that the hearer can use it to do things they don’t know how to do on their own. He can still weld but with a great deal of difficulty and pain.

He has had long term relationships and helped raise other people’s children. He still has his excellent sense of humor and people still love to be verbally abused by his witty remarks.

A Medical Monopoly

The town I live in has one hospital. For a while, there was another hospital in town which was built by a group of doctors. After construction was completed and patients were being seen, the other hospital bought the new hospital out. And the town is back to one hospital. This seems to have dramatically affected the quality of care. It is also a teaching hospital. It is supposed to be non-profit but seems to be quite expensive for the results received and some people feel like the hospital is all about making money and has no concern for patient’s health or ability to pay. Many of the doctors and the clinics in town are connected to the hospital.  The hospital is busy buying up property rather than working within a budget or providing affordable healthcare.

Here are some of my experiences.

My husband has been to the emergency room multiple times in the last year. He experiences vomiting, pain, clamminess, constipation, shortness of breath, chest pain, nausea, low potassium, and elevated white cell count. The emergency room has diagnosed him with tooth infection, bladder infection, and haven’t got a clue. The most frustrating visit was the one where my husband had repeatedly informed those treating him that he had vomited up his pain medications and was in a great deal of pain. A male doctor, when asked directly, told my husband he couldn’t prescribe pain medications without consulting with his supervisor and suggested he would be in trouble for administering pain medications to someone who is on pain management.

Another time, my husband and I were told his femoral artery was 70% blocked and he needed an angiogram. The cardiologist (affiliated with the hospital) started to do the procedure, then came back and told us he had no abnormal blockage. He claimed the emergency room “overread” the radiology report. Apparently, he didn’t notice it had been “overread” when he reviewed it?

When I experienced my first extreme vertigo attack, I drove myself to the hospital after trying to get into my primary care physician. I had at least three more attacks while at the hospital and at least two were while the doctor was “examining” me. The doctor checked my blood for electrolytes. He also tried to do a Dix-Hallpike test but did it incorrectly. He had me walk down the hallway about four steps while I grasped onto him. After being there for several hours, the doctor released me after suggesting I take meclizine, but he wasn’t sure it would help and I’m not typically a pill taker. I was unable to drive myself home from the emergency room and haven’t driven since.

My brother was in the emergency room. After hours of waiting, he was told his diabetes was out of control and he needed to be seen at a larger hospital and he was transported hours away in the middle of the night. He arrived at the bigger hospital and after running tests, they told him he didn’t need additional treatment. His diabetes was under control, and his heart function was good.

I’ve lived all over the United States, the only time I experienced worse care by a hospital was when I was living in Georgia, had a miscarriage and almost bled out in the emergency room waiting area of a military hospital. 

If you’re not happy with the care you receive here, you can travel a minimum of an hour away to go to a hospital in another small town. If you want to go to a larger hospital, you must travel at least two hours away and your insurance may not cover it as it’s in another state. I’m not saying all the doctors and nurses at this hospital are more interested in money than income, but my experiences lead me to the opinion that the hospital is more concerned about making money than its patients’ health.

Is anyone else experiencing this type of problem?