I thought this was worth posting. I wrote this on Day 2 of Hospital stay #1
My beloved teachers and professors,(the not so beloved will get a different email)
Contrary to rumors I'm not dying of kidney failure or even experiencing "failure" @ all. I will be in the hospital until they can figure out what is wrong, but I'm praying that's only a few more hours because the infomercials on tv are starting to make sense. The nurses call me the funny young one (I'm right next to leisure world, the place old people go to drive) and despite all the complications I have a good attitude and trust the doctors and surgeons.
If you haven't heard any tidbits about me languishing away in a southern Cali hospital, consider this a quick update on my life. If you have heard silly rumors you get to be the one to nip it in the bud.
Audience of one,
Katrina
The funniest thing to me is not the fact that my kidneys actually were failing that day, the "few hours" was actually a few days, and I said Leisure world is where old people go to drive. If you don't live near Leisure World this isn't funny--but the common phrase around here is that LW is where old people go to die. They do drive there, albeit poorly.
I was on very, very strong painkillers at the time, and in my defense, it took a good month or two for me to recognize the severity of the situation. It also took me several months to realize how incredibly loopy I was in the hospital and how much nicer that shot of happiness was than the months of pain killers and muscle relaxants...
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Hymns
I took a class my final semester of undergrad called “History of Christian Worship.” We learned about various liturgies, creeds, and movements in the church, but what I wanted to learn was hymnology.
I want to know why I hummed “How Great Thou Art” as I was curled up with a rather large needle in my back to get a kidney biopsy and MRI. I want to know what it is about “Amazing Grace” that makes lots of people cry at funerals, but stand a little taller at baptisms. I want to know why my high school youth leader felt it was of the utmost importance for us to learn all the words of “Come thou fount” and why we don’t sing the “battleshield” verse in “Be Thou My Vision.”
I know that I come from an unusual church background. I feel very blessed that I grew up reciting the Apostle’s Creed every week, and that my first response to “What do you believe?” is “I believe in God the Father, Maker of Heaven and Earth and in Jesus Christ…” We sang hymns and there were times in my childhood that we rocked out to 80’s and early 90’s praise choruses. I learned the gamut of children’s praise and bible verse songs and, due to my tenure at rather hip churches and a school that desired to prepare us for worship in the real world, I’ve learned the latest praise songs.
But what is it about the hymnists? I want to meet Fanny Crosby someday (not just because Adventures in Odyssey made her sound awesome) and I’d like to spend an afternoon or seven with the Wesleys. I want to thank Martin Luther for all of his contributions to theology, but mostly for “Almighty Fortress is our God.”
I want to know why I hummed “How Great Thou Art” as I was curled up with a rather large needle in my back to get a kidney biopsy and MRI. I want to know what it is about “Amazing Grace” that makes lots of people cry at funerals, but stand a little taller at baptisms. I want to know why my high school youth leader felt it was of the utmost importance for us to learn all the words of “Come thou fount” and why we don’t sing the “battleshield” verse in “Be Thou My Vision.”
I know that I come from an unusual church background. I feel very blessed that I grew up reciting the Apostle’s Creed every week, and that my first response to “What do you believe?” is “I believe in God the Father, Maker of Heaven and Earth and in Jesus Christ…” We sang hymns and there were times in my childhood that we rocked out to 80’s and early 90’s praise choruses. I learned the gamut of children’s praise and bible verse songs and, due to my tenure at rather hip churches and a school that desired to prepare us for worship in the real world, I’ve learned the latest praise songs.
But what is it about the hymnists? I want to meet Fanny Crosby someday (not just because Adventures in Odyssey made her sound awesome) and I’d like to spend an afternoon or seven with the Wesleys. I want to thank Martin Luther for all of his contributions to theology, but mostly for “Almighty Fortress is our God.”
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Why I have this Blog
I recently read about a contest to win a $10,000 scholarship for university students with blogs. My immediate response was "How do I get me some of that?" I promptly realized that I not only think in bad grammar, but I don't update my blog enough to win an award.
And then I wondered why I don't update this blog very often. I have a Word document with over 600 pages of content copied from the LiveJournal that I updated several times a week through undergrad, but I'm doing well if I update this once a month.
What's sad about that is that I have a folder of documents called "Blog Thoughts." I write out full length blog entries and then decide not to post them. Usually because they reek of the angst that marks my old LiveJournal...but still. I was really, really sick this year. I'm still not doing great. I think maybe it's time that I allow the friends and family that started to read this blog to find out what was and is going on into my head a little bit.
I named this blog Thistle Theology because, back in undergrad, I grew very frustrated with the acronym 'TULIP" used to describe the main tenets of Calvinism. Mostly, I was frustrated that the semantics of the phrases were debated until they meant nothing, but then I spent some time (that I ought to have been writing a paper or working or some other such nonsense) thinking about how fragile Tulips are, and how very short their life is in the grand scheme of things.
So I decided I liked thistles better. I wrote out a very well-thought out acronym that could probably make me millions if I could publish it, but I happened to write it on the back of a page of theology notes. And as much as I'd like to share my brilliance with the rest of the world, I'm not willing to spend a week sorting through old boxes of notes.
But think about it--thistles are hardy, often difficult to get to, and beautiful in their own unique way. Ironically, I came to the conclusion that I'd rather be more like a thistle than a tulip long before I got sick. My illness has made me more like a thistle. I'm stronger than I was, because, well, I've had to learn to be. I'm wary of sharing my feelings and opinions, because my meds reduced my inhibitions just enough for me to say cruel things to my friends. And I really do think I've come into my own kind of beauty--it's just different than what I had planned.
I'm going to try and post something---whether it's backdated or new, every day until the contest. If I get the courage, I'll submit an entry, but if not, at least I spent a little more time letting people in.
And then I wondered why I don't update this blog very often. I have a Word document with over 600 pages of content copied from the LiveJournal that I updated several times a week through undergrad, but I'm doing well if I update this once a month.
What's sad about that is that I have a folder of documents called "Blog Thoughts." I write out full length blog entries and then decide not to post them. Usually because they reek of the angst that marks my old LiveJournal...but still. I was really, really sick this year. I'm still not doing great. I think maybe it's time that I allow the friends and family that started to read this blog to find out what was and is going on into my head a little bit.
I named this blog Thistle Theology because, back in undergrad, I grew very frustrated with the acronym 'TULIP" used to describe the main tenets of Calvinism. Mostly, I was frustrated that the semantics of the phrases were debated until they meant nothing, but then I spent some time (that I ought to have been writing a paper or working or some other such nonsense) thinking about how fragile Tulips are, and how very short their life is in the grand scheme of things.
So I decided I liked thistles better. I wrote out a very well-thought out acronym that could probably make me millions if I could publish it, but I happened to write it on the back of a page of theology notes. And as much as I'd like to share my brilliance with the rest of the world, I'm not willing to spend a week sorting through old boxes of notes.
But think about it--thistles are hardy, often difficult to get to, and beautiful in their own unique way. Ironically, I came to the conclusion that I'd rather be more like a thistle than a tulip long before I got sick. My illness has made me more like a thistle. I'm stronger than I was, because, well, I've had to learn to be. I'm wary of sharing my feelings and opinions, because my meds reduced my inhibitions just enough for me to say cruel things to my friends. And I really do think I've come into my own kind of beauty--it's just different than what I had planned.
I'm going to try and post something---whether it's backdated or new, every day until the contest. If I get the courage, I'll submit an entry, but if not, at least I spent a little more time letting people in.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Jealousy
I hung out with the other Young Life leaders last night. Talking to a friend today, I admitted that I’m jealous of everyone who has gotten to do fun things or, well, anything the last 7 months. Jealousy is a new emotion for me. I’m really, really good at talking myself out of feelings. In the past, when I felt a twinge of envy over someone else’s relationship, stuff, experience, looks etc., I was always able to convince myself that I was okay because I had x, y, or z going for me. Those excuses don’t fly anymore. I find it almost impossible to tell an amusing story from the last 7 months because, well, unless you like medical stories, you won’t be amused. You might be interested, fascinated, even, but it’s not amusing. I’m the example of what everyone in their 20’s wants to avoid.
Sure, friends can get in motorcycle or skateboarding accidents and spend some time with medical personnel, but a weird, rare, difficult to explain yet debilitating illness is just scary. I’m sure I can be used as a reason why 20-somethings who don’t do extreme sports should have health insurance. But my friends don’t want to be reminded of that every time they see me. They have good, funny stories about houseboating, camp, dating, church and just, life. I have a scary knowledge of my favorite tv shows and the healthcare system.
I’d like to be pretty again
And self confident
I just want to be a different person than I am right now. 30 lbs lighter. 10x happier, twice as energetic, in 1/10th the pain. I’m just not I a place where I can figure anything out. I know it’s the right call to not be an active YL leader, but it’s hard. I feel purposeless. I’m having a hard time getting up in the morning because I can’t remember what I should be doing. I’m down, I’m tired, and I’m confused
Sure, friends can get in motorcycle or skateboarding accidents and spend some time with medical personnel, but a weird, rare, difficult to explain yet debilitating illness is just scary. I’m sure I can be used as a reason why 20-somethings who don’t do extreme sports should have health insurance. But my friends don’t want to be reminded of that every time they see me. They have good, funny stories about houseboating, camp, dating, church and just, life. I have a scary knowledge of my favorite tv shows and the healthcare system.
I’d like to be pretty again
And self confident
I just want to be a different person than I am right now. 30 lbs lighter. 10x happier, twice as energetic, in 1/10th the pain. I’m just not I a place where I can figure anything out. I know it’s the right call to not be an active YL leader, but it’s hard. I feel purposeless. I’m having a hard time getting up in the morning because I can’t remember what I should be doing. I’m down, I’m tired, and I’m confused
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Forgetting
7 years ago my life changed. On September 8, 2001, my friend Andrew committed suicide. It still seems odd to type those words, to say the phrase "suicide," and realize how much his death changed me. I found out the following Monday, September 10th, and, along with the rest of my friends, mourned him as we tried to muddle through the first Monday of school. The next day my dad followed me to school, wanting to ensure I didn't freak out or pull over to cry as I headed off to first period. Kevin & Bean on KROQ were serious for once, talking about things that made no sense, so I switched to a news station.
The news was surreal. The knowledge that my sister lived a few blocks away from the towers was in the back of my mind, but I was still overwhelmed with grief about my friend, still focused on the fact that he wouldn't be sitting next to me during our AP US test that morning. When I got to school and my dad told me he'd call if he heard something about my sister, it sunk in a bit further. But, like the rest of my friends, I was still focused on Andy's death--searching for a reason.
The AP US test was unremarkable, but about 40 minutes in my cell phone rang, loud and clear in the silent classroom. The teacher came over to yell at me as I answered and hung up.
"You can't have cell phones in school!" She hissed as she motioned to take my phone away.
"You don't understand. My sister is okay."
My teacher staggered back and whispered "Calee is in New York..."
Her words trailed off as understanding passed over her face. Suddenly, the news that she had refused to acknowledge due to our test became personal. It wasn't just nameless New Yorkers being affected, it was one of her former students.
Selfishly, I stuck with the knowledge that my sister was okay, assumed she was fine because she hadn't been struck by debris. I chose not to think about national tragedy because there was something far more concrete in my world---the first funeral for a friend, a peer. Nearly a month passed before it sunk in that thousands of people had died.
The day I found out Andy died I wrote a pithy free form poem about the loss of innocence. It is true that my friends and I lost our rose-colored glasses that day. Suddenly, being a good kid, a smart kid, an athletic kid, a ______ kid, wasn't enough to keep us safe from death. Even now it's so easy to focus on my self-centered high school self instead of on the fact that thousands of people around the country experienced a loss of innocence, the first large attack on American soil in years. People cried together, prayed together, clung together. It's what we do when things get scary.
I'm not very close to the friends I clung to during those weeks and months after Andy died. We're facebook friends, smile at each other in the grocery store, and might get together for a cup of coffee. Many Americans don't know the people they stood next to at memorials or church services in those days, but everyone who was old enough to watch the images on the screen will always have a few surrounding memories to fall back on.
A year ago, my Master Teacher spoke to her class after the school-wide moment of silence and briefly, succinctly, beautifully described why we paused to children who were in diapers when the planes crashed. She talked about how we don't need to be afraid, but it's good to remember hard things and see where we were. Thinking about the "never forget" banners posted around the city helped me remember, but also makes me wonder what people did on December 7, 1948. We remember 7 years later, for many reasons, but I can't help but wonder, at what point do we stop remembering, relegate tragedy-whether personal or national- to history and, well, move on?
The news was surreal. The knowledge that my sister lived a few blocks away from the towers was in the back of my mind, but I was still overwhelmed with grief about my friend, still focused on the fact that he wouldn't be sitting next to me during our AP US test that morning. When I got to school and my dad told me he'd call if he heard something about my sister, it sunk in a bit further. But, like the rest of my friends, I was still focused on Andy's death--searching for a reason.
The AP US test was unremarkable, but about 40 minutes in my cell phone rang, loud and clear in the silent classroom. The teacher came over to yell at me as I answered and hung up.
"You can't have cell phones in school!" She hissed as she motioned to take my phone away.
"You don't understand. My sister is okay."
My teacher staggered back and whispered "Calee is in New York..."
Her words trailed off as understanding passed over her face. Suddenly, the news that she had refused to acknowledge due to our test became personal. It wasn't just nameless New Yorkers being affected, it was one of her former students.
Selfishly, I stuck with the knowledge that my sister was okay, assumed she was fine because she hadn't been struck by debris. I chose not to think about national tragedy because there was something far more concrete in my world---the first funeral for a friend, a peer. Nearly a month passed before it sunk in that thousands of people had died.
The day I found out Andy died I wrote a pithy free form poem about the loss of innocence. It is true that my friends and I lost our rose-colored glasses that day. Suddenly, being a good kid, a smart kid, an athletic kid, a ______ kid, wasn't enough to keep us safe from death. Even now it's so easy to focus on my self-centered high school self instead of on the fact that thousands of people around the country experienced a loss of innocence, the first large attack on American soil in years. People cried together, prayed together, clung together. It's what we do when things get scary.
I'm not very close to the friends I clung to during those weeks and months after Andy died. We're facebook friends, smile at each other in the grocery store, and might get together for a cup of coffee. Many Americans don't know the people they stood next to at memorials or church services in those days, but everyone who was old enough to watch the images on the screen will always have a few surrounding memories to fall back on.
A year ago, my Master Teacher spoke to her class after the school-wide moment of silence and briefly, succinctly, beautifully described why we paused to children who were in diapers when the planes crashed. She talked about how we don't need to be afraid, but it's good to remember hard things and see where we were. Thinking about the "never forget" banners posted around the city helped me remember, but also makes me wonder what people did on December 7, 1948. We remember 7 years later, for many reasons, but I can't help but wonder, at what point do we stop remembering, relegate tragedy-whether personal or national- to history and, well, move on?
Monday, September 8, 2008
My Dilemma
I think I should adopt a method of titling blogs like Scrubs or Friends episodes: I could begin every title with "my" or "the one with." Or I could stop watching so much tv.
Today is the first day of National Invisible Chronic Illness Awareness Week 2008. The NICIA website says "It is sometimes a dilemma whether to make a point of "showing" your illness. You want to appear "normal" and to fit in, not stand out and be noticed. You also want people to recognize and understand your problems. Some people struggle with this. Should they use a cane and be noticed as sick, or avoid it and be misunderstood? How much do you let people know?"
Up to this point, anyone who has seen me has known that I've been ill. The cane and wheelchair made the point for me. I didn't get dirty looks for parking in a blue spot, and I didn't really have to discuss it. Most people seemed very uncomfortable asking what had happened, and I chose to believe that the people rudely staring in the grocery store assumed I was recovering from an extreme rock climbing or snow-shoeing accident.
But now, thankfully, I'm able to be up and about for anywhere between 2 and 8 hours a day.... without the cane. I went to a movie on Saturday and walked slowly up and down the stairs. Instead of encouraging "you can do it!" looks, I heard frustrated sighs as I clung to the railing. It's not PC to make fun of the disabled, but our hurried culture does not look kindly on those who move slowly. It seemed odd to leave my cane in the car at church on Sunday night, and I imagined people around me wondering why a seemingly healthy person needed to park up front, needed to sit down during the songs, needed to lean heavily on steady things in order to remain upright.
It finally happened. I'm invisible. I really do love it, because even though I'm still in pain, the good moments make me believe that the day will soon come when I don't have to worry about falling or getting too tired that I'm not sure I can drive home. I can't wait until I can go months or years without a Tylenol, much less the heavier stuff I've been on recently. It will be awesome to sleep through the night without medication. I have hope that someday I'll be back to "normal," but for millions of people around the world, the hope of "normal" lies in the hands of researchers for drug companies that have little motivation of finding a cure for the many invisible illnesses.
I've adopted a method of disclosure through facebook and my blog that, I hope, may help people communicate with those around them that struggle with disease, disorders, and chronic pain. I'll admit it, I used to be one of those impatient people who grew upset when people walked slow, and I can't remember if I shot dirty looks at seemingly healthy people leaving handicapped spaces, but due to my comparatively brief experiences in the world of illness, I don't think I'll ever look at people the same again.
Today is the first day of National Invisible Chronic Illness Awareness Week 2008. The NICIA website says "It is sometimes a dilemma whether to make a point of "showing" your illness. You want to appear "normal" and to fit in, not stand out and be noticed. You also want people to recognize and understand your problems. Some people struggle with this. Should they use a cane and be noticed as sick, or avoid it and be misunderstood? How much do you let people know?"
Up to this point, anyone who has seen me has known that I've been ill. The cane and wheelchair made the point for me. I didn't get dirty looks for parking in a blue spot, and I didn't really have to discuss it. Most people seemed very uncomfortable asking what had happened, and I chose to believe that the people rudely staring in the grocery store assumed I was recovering from an extreme rock climbing or snow-shoeing accident.
But now, thankfully, I'm able to be up and about for anywhere between 2 and 8 hours a day.... without the cane. I went to a movie on Saturday and walked slowly up and down the stairs. Instead of encouraging "you can do it!" looks, I heard frustrated sighs as I clung to the railing. It's not PC to make fun of the disabled, but our hurried culture does not look kindly on those who move slowly. It seemed odd to leave my cane in the car at church on Sunday night, and I imagined people around me wondering why a seemingly healthy person needed to park up front, needed to sit down during the songs, needed to lean heavily on steady things in order to remain upright.
It finally happened. I'm invisible. I really do love it, because even though I'm still in pain, the good moments make me believe that the day will soon come when I don't have to worry about falling or getting too tired that I'm not sure I can drive home. I can't wait until I can go months or years without a Tylenol, much less the heavier stuff I've been on recently. It will be awesome to sleep through the night without medication. I have hope that someday I'll be back to "normal," but for millions of people around the world, the hope of "normal" lies in the hands of researchers for drug companies that have little motivation of finding a cure for the many invisible illnesses.
I've adopted a method of disclosure through facebook and my blog that, I hope, may help people communicate with those around them that struggle with disease, disorders, and chronic pain. I'll admit it, I used to be one of those impatient people who grew upset when people walked slow, and I can't remember if I shot dirty looks at seemingly healthy people leaving handicapped spaces, but due to my comparatively brief experiences in the world of illness, I don't think I'll ever look at people the same again.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Fear
I'm the first to admit it. I'm scared of getting my results back from tests. I typically get a test the first of the week and see my doctor on Friday, so I spend at least a week worrying. The weekend prior to the test I try to eat "extra" good so my cholesterol and triglycerides are better. The actual blood/urine test is fine, I get along quite well with the people at my hospital's outpatient center. I genuinely like both my primary care doctor and my nephrologist. But it's the days waiting to see a doctor. Will he discover something else is wrong? Will she prescribe something new with another side effect? Will the proteins go up? down? Is that swelling or just my imagination?
Friday is my first visit post-Prednisone. 6 months was plenty, thank you very much, and I know statistically I'm due for a relapse of my MCD about now, but I'm just wondering if, after enough visits or enough months without a relapse anyone can reach the point where they can walk into that office or see the doctor's number on the caller ID without being afraid.
You see, my dad gave a sermon on fear this last Sunday. It sparked family discussions and caused me (and hopefully some others in the church) to think about what we're really afraid of.
Anyone I've spoken with in the last few months has heard me talk about my newfound love and appreciation for Doctor Who. But there were some episodes (namely Blink) that scared me so much that I went online and read the episode synopsis before finishing it. I still got to see the incredibly creepy moments, but because I knew how the story ended, I wasn't terrified anymore.
What a joy it is to live my life knowing how the story ends. Sure, I'm worried about test results and when I'm going to finish at Pepperdine and if I'm EVER going to get a job, but I know how my story ends. It's very easy for me to get caught up in the day to day---my frustrations with my former physical therapist, my fear of the future--but my Redeemer lives. My hope is built on something more tangible than my tenuous health, more firm than my relationships or credibility as teacher. I've seen the end of my episode--and just like every episode of Doctor Who--where the Doctor saves the day in an unexpected way--I'l be okay.
Friday is my first visit post-Prednisone. 6 months was plenty, thank you very much, and I know statistically I'm due for a relapse of my MCD about now, but I'm just wondering if, after enough visits or enough months without a relapse anyone can reach the point where they can walk into that office or see the doctor's number on the caller ID without being afraid.
You see, my dad gave a sermon on fear this last Sunday. It sparked family discussions and caused me (and hopefully some others in the church) to think about what we're really afraid of.
Anyone I've spoken with in the last few months has heard me talk about my newfound love and appreciation for Doctor Who. But there were some episodes (namely Blink) that scared me so much that I went online and read the episode synopsis before finishing it. I still got to see the incredibly creepy moments, but because I knew how the story ended, I wasn't terrified anymore.
What a joy it is to live my life knowing how the story ends. Sure, I'm worried about test results and when I'm going to finish at Pepperdine and if I'm EVER going to get a job, but I know how my story ends. It's very easy for me to get caught up in the day to day---my frustrations with my former physical therapist, my fear of the future--but my Redeemer lives. My hope is built on something more tangible than my tenuous health, more firm than my relationships or credibility as teacher. I've seen the end of my episode--and just like every episode of Doctor Who--where the Doctor saves the day in an unexpected way--I'l be okay.
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