Kidney Party Weekend!

This is a very special weekend for me, for those of you who don't know our story.  My sister Carol was diagnosed with Lupus, an auto immune disorder, when she was 16.  Her body attacked itself for 9 long years, and she almost died multiple times.  After attacks on nearly every major body system, the lupus attacked her kidneys in 1991 and they failed.  We knew about transplants and that the best chance for a working kidney was from a  sibling or close relative.  We were all tested.  During the long wait for the tests to return, Carol had to endure dialysis for hours several times a week.  The dialysis would make her weak and nauseous but it kept her alive.

Unfortunately, Greg and I were trying to have a 2nd baby while we were waiting for the tests, and on the day we learned we were a match, we also learned we were pregnant with Jared.  So Carol endured more waiting and dialysis, while I carried and delivered Jared.  But we had learned that I was a "perfect" six-antigen match for Carol--the best you could get, and that my kidney was healthy as a horse, in fact, both were.

Doctors assured us that the other kidney would increase in both size and capacity to cover the load of the donated one, and that I was just as much at risk for kidney disease or failure later in life with one as with two.  I was also assured that I would still be able to have another baby (as evidenced by Danica) later.

Two months after Jared was born
, the amazing transplant team at Sierra Medical in El Paso wheeled us into adjoining rooms.  They knocked me out, flipped me onto my side and sliced an 8 inch incision into my side.  They had to partially remove a rib to reach the kidney.  The kidney was then rushed to her bed next door (she only got a tiny incision near her bikini line because they leave the old ones in) and doctors came out and hugged our family when the kidney immediately started making pee!

Although we were challenged multiple times by potential rejection, we continued to pray and have faith and eventually it settled in for the long haul.  Her lupus seemed to give up at that point and she never had another major flare up.

All this happened 20 years ago, on August 4, 1993.  Since then, Carol gave birth to a son, sent him to
heaven a month later, married her wonderful husband, who came with her 2nd son, Rene, went to college and obtained a nursing degree, and bought the beautiful home in the foothills of the Franklin Mountains where we will gather with friends and family and celebrate together this Saturday.  We are wearing white to represent her new life and green ribbons which are the color of Organ Donor Awareness.

Please continue to pray for her health, and that of all kidney patients.  And consider becoming a living donor.  I am LIVING PROOF that you can lead a healthy, full life with only one kidney.  As of today, there are over 118,000 people waiting for an organ transplant.  Of those, 96,000 are waiting for a kidney.  I'm sure there are more than 96,000 Americans who would be willing to share theirs and donate the gift of LIFE to someone.  Contact http://www.kidney.org/transplantation/livingdonors/ to find out more.

Church camp chatter

Yesterday I talked to a woman I knew from church.  She has been ill for several years with the same chronic auto-immune disorder my sister has.  (we'd rarely said much more than hello at church, but I knew of her situation because of my sister)The disease has taken its toll on her body and she has been in and out of hospitals, poked and pricked everywhere and is now confined to a wheelchair.

She was  kind of stuck in the area where I was helping with our church camp registration and so we got to talking a little bit.  We talked about all the meds and surgeries and side effects and I could tell that she is just TIRED...

Add to that the fact that she has a son with a brain disorder and ADHD and she was sending him off to a week-long church camp under the care of a (trustworthy and smart) teenager, and I could tell that she was just about at her breaking point and it was not even 8:30 a.m.  

We started talking about her son and I shared some of my story and she began to chatter excitedly about behaviors and treatments and such.  It was as if a switch had been flipped and she was now "on."  I realized it had probably been a long time, if ever, that she had talked to someone in the same situations.  

I asked her if she had any support from people who were going through what she was.  Not a church to pray for you, not friends and neighbors to bring you casseroles, but someone to say, "Oh, yeah, my son does that too and here's what works for me."   Someone for when you are pulling your hair out that can say, "Now, c'mon, you know it'll be better tomorrow."  Someone that when you start spouting off acronyms and slang terms and side effects, knows what you mean.  

She said, "No, and I wish I did."  

I told her about a support group I'd found online for parents going through what I've been through with my kids, how refreshing it was to have someone to talk to who KNOWS. 

I've even been thinking of looking online for some local support groups.  Maybe I can make a friend who'll meet me for nachos and talk.  And will understand if I cancel at the last minute or show up crying.  

I'll continue my newfound friendship with this woman.  But our situations, though similar, are still vastly different, and I know there will come a point where I have no idea what she is dealing with.  But I know there is someone out there who does, and I know that if she seeks them, she will find them.  And she won't be alone any longer.  

Just as I'm not anymore.  

Church camp, a road trip, and a little drop in the bucket

If you are reading this on Monday, you are probably reading this while I am on my way to a place that has been a huge part of my summers for several years.  It's a Christian camp, located in the plains just in between San Antonio and Houston, off a country road and a town long forgotten by developers and megastores.

For nearly the past five years, I have gone to this camp every summer as a counselor for 4th through 6th graders. I have made dear friendships at this camp that have lasted me for years.  One of the fellow counselors and one of the camp nurses I'd call two of my best friends-- the ones I call when I'm the snotty lump, or when I am shaking with fear not knowing if my kids are okay when one is back in a crisis.

Starting with long evenings sitting out in this open area between cabins, telling our stories of how we had come to faith in Christ and the challenges our faith had gotten us through, I came to know and love these women.  Every year, we'd chatter excitedly over Facebook about our departure.  I'm sure we were more excited than the kids.  And every year, we'd come home singing the songs that had been burned in our heads at worship (yes, some were silly and you wanted them out of your head) and marveling over the God moments of this year.

I also came to know and love all the little corners of the rustic, beautiful 150 acre campground.  Each counselor and their cabin-- six to eight eager, squirrelly, innocent young ladies who sometimes floored me with their descriptions of how God had moved in their lives-- would find an isolated spot to have their daily
Bible study and reflection time each day.  Lucky  you if you got this spot over near the lake or one of the swings in the breezeway!  Someone would always dash to claim the abandoned church that is original to the property and then realize that it is the only non-air conditioned places there!


Last year, I didn't get to go.  I had started my wickless candle business and our huge national convention was that week.  I didn't want to miss it, but my heart ached for camp.

This year, I wasn't asked to go.  I guess since I had left Children's Ministry for a while and wasn't in the loop I just wasn't on the list.  I was sad, but accepting.  At the last minute, I was approached to see if I was available because they had had a last minute rush of registrations.  Unfortunately, I knew I needed to be home with my son, who was still struggling to get on his feet, and I also had a big family obligation 500 miles away the following weekend.  Filled with regret, I said no.

So when my friend, the fellow counselor, who also wasn't able to go this year, asked if I wanted to tag along with her, just for an overnight-- to drive 3 hours each way to spend just about 24 hours in this little corner of heaven, I jumped at the chance, despite a laundry list of things that had to be done before our family weekend trip.  (That includes making 24 centerpieces that I just started Sunday night, but that's a whole 'nother post--- see keyword procrastination).  Her daughter was a little mom-sick as they had gone together the previous 3 years, and her son was serving as a junior counselor, and she had promised them she'd come just for a day on her day off.

From what I was told, we will stay in an empty cabin in this lake house.  We should get there right before dinner and get to fill our buckets with amazing worship.  We'll talk until the wee hours, and the next morning after being energized with the morning message and more amazing worship, maybe we will get to do some of the camp activities, like laze in the amazing pool with a lazy river (not exactly relaxing when it's filled with 3rd graders jumping in in 3 foot tubes, but it's still water), or maybe even get to go on the 5-story zipline, one of the first places I really learned to trust God.

But I know that when I come home, I will have at least filled a tiny bit of my bucket and have something to draw from on the days I feel bone-dry.  I will remember the days when my kids still smiled and laughed at camp.  I will remember the deep, deep friendships born of that camp.  And I'll be a little more healed.

Lessons from my Journey

Wow... 5 years have just disappeared into a pit of depression.  Twice, I have tried to recover this blog and share my thoughts on the world wide web for anyone, anywhere who maybe has gone through this journey to see that there is light at the end of the tunnel.  But then I just get stuck in the tunnel.

I'm recovering-- I really am.  I've come to terms with living in a family plagued by mental illness and all that entails.  I've been to the dark side of near suicide more times than I can imagine and my love for my family has been the one thing that has kept me alive at times.  I'll freely admit that I am in a place now that without those wonderful drugs we call antidepressants, I could probably not function without dissolving into a wet mass of snotty tears, often in public, several times a month.

My pit has taken its toll though.  Once a promising teacher, I left a campus where I was two steps away from getting booted out because I could not admit my failures and learn from my mistakes.  I've thought about going back-- financially we are struggling-- but the stakes are just so high, I can't handle the pressure.  Of course, pinching pennies is its own type of pressure.  My home, once welcoming and unique with its Southwest style and custom ragged walls, now seems dark and dingy and even more depressing.  But the task of repainting or the expense of repairs is even more daunting than I can handle, so I live with it and tackle a little each day-- at least cleaner, if not lighter.

So many times, I have just felt so ALONE but yet I am realizing as I am becoming more vocal about my struggles, that so many of my friends have struggled with depression, ARE struggling with depression, and I've decided that my voice, my story, just might help.

My problems are nowhere near gone.  I'm the mother of two children with very real, very debilitating illnesses and it just wears you down, mentally, physically, financially.  I won't go into detail on this blog about my kids and their battle, because they are very private and I have to respect that, but if you ever want to meet for coffee, I can share a little and what it's meant for us as a family.  Because of these illnesses, we decided to take a fledgling direct-sales business in home fragrance and jump in completely full time, so that I could have the time and flexibility to be with my kids in crisis as needed.  Unfortunately, this year, it's been so often that the business has not taken off like we planned and money is very, very tight.

But writing, sharing, opening up to my bare soul, will help me pull out of the pit and I hope it helps you or someone you know.  My hope is to write a new blog post at least 2-3 times a week.  My reality is you'll be lucky to hear from me once a week or even once a month, and if you do, you will know that at least I am getting better.