Her attacks hurt me.  But she is dissatisfied.  She has never gotten what she really wants.  She thinks that if she can just hurt me enough, she will get it.  So she increases her attacks.  And I bleed.

She does not understand.  She does not know what I know.  She will never get what she wants, no matter the spatter and gore.  She cannot break me from my love of the Devi.  She cannot eat my heart, though she may tear it from my breast, as she has done, and will likely do again.  If she forces me from this life, I will go undefeated to my better place.

I just wish she would go away.

Shortly after the previous post, some nine months ago, she began to have painful spasms in her throat.  Soon she could not eat normal gluten-free food.  She had to go to a soft food diet.  I took her for an EGD.  A few days before the procedure, she began having a different kind of chest pain.  We told the anesthesiologist, and he demanded a cardiac workup.

Off to find a cardiologist, who found low to moderate blockage of one cardiac artery, and prescribed a vasodialator that kicked off abdominal migraines (twelve to eighteen hours of non-stop, uncontrollable vomiting).  Then another med, and a third, all triggering abdominal migraines, before she dropped her as a patient.  The GP refused to prescribe her abdominal migraine meds, because of the heart condition.   She was having ten  to twenty episodes of cardiac pain a day, sometimes passing out, popping nitroglycerine pills and enduring the resultant headaches.  Off to find a second heart doc.  Insurance refused to pay for an arteriogram, we waited to get one done as part of a research project.

By this time she was barely holding on, the cardiac pain and fatigue were so severe, she was unable to do anything:  write, read, watch TV.  Her depression worsened.  Her FTD was getting worse.  Before, she had a wall up to keep out the unwanted thoughts generated by the dying neurons in her brain.  She has practiced for fifteen years a Theravada Buddhist mental culture, anna-panna-sati, mindfulness of in-and-out breathing, the Burmese Forest School version, brought to the United States by G. V. Desani.  She has also her japam, and ishta as a bhakti yogini.  These kept up the wall for years.  Now the wall came crashing down.  Nightmares happened while awake as well as in sleep.  Hallucinations occurred, quickly recognized as such, but disturbing, nonetheless.  She sometimes feels abandoned by God, and has to fight through her own dark night of the soul.

She began falling, and re-injured her knee, repeatedly.  This kicked off pain crises involving her RSD.  Her pain  has been out of control for months.  She now must use a chair-side toilet, as the bathroom is too far away for her to walk.  Other, new pains appeared.  Intense, sharp, deep joint and bone pain; greatly worsened fibromyalgia-like pain.

Cardiologist number two had no clue about how to treat cardiac angiospasms.  I did the research and recommended a treatment plan for him, which he prescribed.  At least he finally gave the approval for the EGD.

The EGD found no pathology other than mild irritation of the lining of the esophagus and stomach.  Smooth muscle spasms again.  Again, GI had no clue of how to treat it.  Referred her to other, useless specialists (we could do some tests, but we couldn’t do anything to treat you, regardless of the outcome of the tests).  Twenty minutes on the internet yielded therapies apparently beyond their ken.  Now off to find a doctor smart enough to prescribe them.

Her heart pain is now fairly well controlled, using the beta-blocker, metoprolol.  This med also eased the nightmares that she has suffered for years.

Her throat spasms are worse, she cannot have even soft food.  She’s on a liquid diet, and sometimes has problems even with that.  Cooking was a way to show her love, now that is gone, too.

Typing is more difficult for her, neurologically.  So we adapt.  She will tell me what she wants to write.  I draft, she comments, and we repeat until she’s ready.  This is the first product.

I am so happy to be able to post in my blog today.  As many of you know, I am having difficulty writing, but today I am blessed with the ability to write to you.

I read an article written during the holiday season named  Less Later, More Now! by a blind woman named Marcia Morrissey.

She talks about the stress of the things that we think we have to do for holiday preparations ” which often keep us “too busy” to light a candle and say a prayer, or read a bit of scripture, or that make us tell family members “later” when they need us “now.”

I think this happens in every day life, not just during the holiday period.  I go back once again to one of my favorite authors, C.S. Lewis, who talked about getting trapped in the “noise of humanity” and not stopping to listen to the silence of the spirit and learn what nourishes and feeds our soul and the souls of others.

I have seen a tragic pattern as I have read the countless stories of people in chronic pain or frontal temporal degeneration (FTD).  So many people who are carergivers and people who have chronic and terminal illnesses find the support of family members, friends, even fellow church members slip away.  These people gradually disappear from their sick friend or sick relatives life. They consider themselves well meaning but they are too busy, caught up in the “noise of humanity”. While living their daily lives, they feel burdened down as it is.  I understand these are hard times.

There is work that has to be done then there is “busy” work. Busy work I consider those things we do to distract ourselves.  Or maybe you are out of work right now, you’ve put in all the resumes you are able. You are feeling down so you veg out in front of the television. I know about feeling down and vegging in front of the TV.  We don’t have good cable where we are living now and I am still suffering from Turner Classic Movie channel withdrawal.

When you aren’t doing anything purposeful could you drive over and spend a little time with a caregiver or your relative or friend who is ill?  I can tell you this, one visit from you can make their day a good day and the bright spot in their week.

A little attention goes a long way. Perhaps you could do something, even the smallest thing would help.  If you can’t spend any time going to see them or you live too far away, then call them, send an email or a message on Facebook.

(To my friends, I’m not trying to guilt you into sending a message to me. I know you are there.)

Try for a minute to look at it from their point of view.  You have gone for many years thinking you had a close relationship with your family and friends. Many times you have talked about how you would be there for each other if anything happened.

Then you find out you have a terminal illness.  You expect those dearest to you will come to you and say, “What can I do?”  And what happens?  Your mother cries, “Why does this have to happen to me?”.  Your father shuffles back and forth for awhile, claps his hand on your shoulder then walks off to another room.  Your children stare at you with disbelief, run upstairs to google your illness then come back downstairs and confront you with the news that they found a site that says your disease is not terminal. Your sister is in total denial and your brother, who is a doctor, treats you like a difficult patient instead of the best friend who always understood you.

This unfortunately is not an unusual response. It is quite common.

But then you have to make the choice, do I exit now out of life or choose to go on?  I have chosen to go on.

Understanding that my spiritual self is my true self that journeys on through eternity has helped me to live with the horrible maladies that I face. What we are afflicted with in human terms may be blessings and opportunities in spiritual terms. We have to go on with what we have — like the blind woman or like the guy typing with his toes because he has no use of his arms or me using Dragon speak to dictate — and do what we can in the world.  I think to get through adversity you have to look at this world in more than merely human terms.

There is a difference between the human worldly goods and gifts and things we desire and the spiritual values. What on a human level is a disaster — to be afflicted with a fatal disease — spiritually may be a blessing.  It is terrible to suffer pain and loss, and to suffer from compassion for others that are suffering.  Spiritually those sufferings can have a spiritual purpose, to make us stronger, more compassionate, to have more understanding, and to grow spiritually.  Here in this world, now, with the afflictions and burdens we have to carry.

In my own life one of the major burdens that I have no one can see:  I continually have to keep the dam up against the flood of unruly thoughts that the death of the neurons in my brain is causing.  Unruly is a mild word.  The voices, the thoughts, are not mild.  It can be exhausting just to sit, to all outward appearances, quietly.

As I may have written before, I have spent some time reading the writings of the Saints. Two that I feel are my companions in suffering are Julian of Norwich and St. John of the Cross.   I did not ask for three wounds from God as did Julian of Norwich. Her words of suffering have been a companion in my suffering. I share with her the one of the gifts — wounds — that God bestowed upon her, which is compassion.

I also have found comfort reading the poem, Dark Night of the Soul. Like St. John, I have sought a personal relationship with God. God is the Beloved and I have a place within “where no one else can come.”  Although when I was growing up, I went to a fundamental Christian church every Sunday, I had an amazing experience when I was 13.

I was vacationing with my family in Red River, New Mexico.  We were staying in a lodge in the mountains.  I was reading a romance novel, sitting on a log. I closed the book ad exclaimed to a squirrel, “I am totally bored.”  I decided to go for a short walk.  I followed a path and about after 15 minutes, I looked around me and noticed the forest had changed.  All of the trees had brilliant colored leaves. The brook I noticed was wider and many beautiful fish swam in a pond nearby.

I looked around and saw a beautiful man in a yellow robe sitting not to far away from me.  I knew he was Jesus because he was my conception of Jesus.  He motioned and I laid my head on his lap. He stroked my hair and said words to me that I don’t remember. I felt as if I had come home.  All worries left my mind.  I fell asleep and when I awoke he was gone.

I ran down to tell my brother and he believed because he always use to believe me.  I took him back up the path but we could not find the place. My brother still believed me.  I knew this was not something I could share with my family. They would tell me it was a fantasy and it was pagan for me to say that I saw Jesus that way. Jesus just did not come to individual people in visions anymore.

But I kept this experience inside my heart and after I met my spiritual teacher, I realized I could have a personal relationship with God that needed no intercession.  God is my “Divine Beloved.”

There is a story from the East of a famous saint to whom God appeared as a beautiful girl of sixteen.  He was so tormented by the absence of his beloved when she did not appear, that he felt he had to abase himself to get her to return, to the point of licking dog droppings in the street.

I also have taken much comfort from reading the words from Rumi about his divine Beloved.

The reason I am sharing these personal relationships with God is that this relationship has kept me strong. I have lost just about everything that people lose at one time or another.

In her article Mary quoted the Scripture readings of the third Sunday of Advent, Isaiah 35:1-10:

“…They will see the glory of the lord, the splendor of our God.  Strengthen the hands that are feeble, make firm the knees that are weak.  Say to those whose hearts are frightened: be strong fear not!  Here is your God; with divined recompense he comes to save you.  Then will the eyes of the blind be opened, the ears of the deaf be cleared; then will the lame leap like a stag.  Then will the tongue of the mute sing.  Those the Lord has ransomed will return and enter Zion singing crowned with everlasting joy; they will be with joy and gladness.  Sorrow and mourning will flee.”

It is wonderful to read these words promising what will happen after we have shed this mortal suit.

Many of you are familiar with the passage that Mary quoted in her article, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?”  Jesus said to them in reply, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind regain their sight, the lame walk…the dead are raised, the poor have the good news proclaimed to them, and blessed is the one who takes no offense in me.”

Many take this passage to mean that Jesus is saying he is “The One.”  I don’t discount this meaning

For me, this passage has an additional meaning, now and for everyone with ears to hear.  The one who is blessed is anyone who realizes that their true self is their spiritual self and who acts accordingly:  walk their spiritual path and nourish their spiritual needs. The truth is good news to the poor, to understand that all material gains are not real, that they will pass away in a short time, but you can gather what makes you spiritually rich, and that can last for an eternity.  The dead are raised are those who were dead to their spiritual self.  For the lame, no legs are required to walk with your true body — your spiritual self.  The blind can come to see the spiritual truth.

It is hard for people to understand about blessings.  A huge loss, psychological and physical pain, such things are not blessings within themselves.  But if you can understand that what we see around us, this mortal world is only a fraction or perhaps a distorted perception of the real world.  We are all spiritual beings, connected in ways that are hard for us to conceive. We are busy ants carrying crumbs. Any good or bad intention you have starts crafting a design that you do not see until it comes back into this world and affects you and others in ways you may or may not expect.

A friend of mine sent me an article by Tony Judt.  He wrote about the importance of words in this family when he was growing up, about the times in the beginning of the 1950s when speaking proper English was very important.  In college he was a master with words, but he didn’t really understand the importance of silence.

Over many years and during my illness I have learned the importance of silence.

A few weeks ago I went to see a play based on The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis.  C. S. Lewis is one of my favorite authors and I will be talking more about his work in future.   In one passage Screwtape is advising his nephew Wormwood, a fledgling demonic tempter on Earth.  He suggests that Wormwood try to fill the human’s head that he is trying to corrupt with noise.  For if our heads are constantly filled with noise of people speaking, trains running, babies crying and dogs barking, we will never know the peace of silence and the knowledge that may come from within.

Tony says for him rhetorical flexibility allows for a certain feigned closeness, conveying proximity while maintaining distance. I see this in people who don’t walk the talk. I also agree in matters of language, outsiders are frequently deceived.

I remember that when I was the director of a health information department in a hospital, the director of human relations often sent down recruits who he believed were just right for the position I had requested.  He often based his decision on the person’s flair for words, what we call in Texas a bullshit artist.

I have always thought of language as a gift. When I was young I was too shy to speak so I wrote down my thoughts.   As I became older, I realized that many times people only listened to part of what I was saying to them because they felt like they needed to think about what they were going to say in reply. First to test this theory, then out of frustration that I was not being listened to, I would often stop in mid sentence.  Most people did not notice.  Has a pause/silence become so uncomfortable?

When Selch and I started dating, I would stop in mid-sentence and he would say “Yes, continue?”  I was somewhat flabbergasted realizing I had fallen into this rather lazy way of speaking.  Fortunately, I received enough prompting from him and was even able to finish my sentence even though it might mean talking over someone’s premature response.

As Tony wrote in his article many people talk the abbreviated language of Facebook and Twitter and texting.  It is still confusing to me because words used different ways can have so many ambiguous meanings.  I communicate on Second Life quite a bit.  Everyone has forgotten how to spell or they just don’t care about spelling anymore.  I will be texting with someone and am later shocked that I am talking to a philosophy teacher with a PhD.

We have voice on Second Life now which adds an interesting depth to conversations on Second Life.  If a person is speaking in text, it is easy to hide whether you are male or female.  Voice morphing software is available but they do sound like a male trying to impersonate a female or a female trying to impersonate a male

What I love about voice on Second Life is I have the opportunity to really speak with people from other countries.  Yes, there are some language barriers perhaps made worse by not being able to actually see the person but we usually seem to work it out and are for the better for having the experience.

I, like Tony when he wrote this article, am in the grip of a neurological disorder.  He says what I think so well that “the view from inside is as rich as ever.”  Fortunately, I am still able to speak fluently at times.  What you do not know is often it is a struggle to capture the words in my head and speak them out of my mouth or type them onto paper.

So many of my characters are suffering from locked-in syndrome.  For awhile they were all yelling at me, wanting me to tell their stories.  That is the way it has always worked.  I dictate the drama they play in my head.

In most people there is a control mechanism in their heads that they take for granted.  It is like a gate you walk through to get to the subway.  It helps order tasks and projects so that you aren’t constantly overwhelmed.

The reason it is hard for me to say or write my stories is the same reason I am unable to do activities of daily living even though I appear to be capable of doing these tasks which I’ve done all of my life.

I feel like there are so many tasks and I can’t do all of them at once, so I become paralyzed with fear and eventually I just give up.  The doctors term this apathy because that is what appears to be to them.  It is a much more complicated than that.

Now, my characters and ideas aren’t screaming at me.  They haven’t left me.  I spend much more time in silence now, contemplating, using Theeravada Buddhist mindfulness practices and saying  prayers.  This has opened up a world to me that many people cannot see because they are so busy living their lives and caught up in mortality, and noise.

I am not through using my words.  Selch is by my side, my life partner, helping me to pull expressions out that use to flow freely.

As Tony wrote, especially now in this world today, good honest communication is how we sustain and grow and solve the problems we are having in this country and in the world.  We were given the freedom of speech by God.  It is a gift that can be taken away.  Please use it wisely for ourselves and our future generations.

Unfortunately I have been unable to do even a little writing because of health problems.  First, I had a deep venous thrombosis (DVT) in my left leg. I was admitted to the hospital and put on a higher dose of anticoagulant medication.  I am still having pain sometimes and that leg.  We’ve switched insurance companies lately (my husband had to change his job to get better insurance that would pay for my meds) and it is been a struggle to get them to pay for some of my expensive medications.  I will talk more about that in an upcoming blog.

The most difficult thing that I’ve had to deal with is that my FTD is becoming worse and is affecting my ability to write.  I have so many stories in my head and so much that I want to share with people. My characters are screaming to have their stories told.  In the literature for FTD and one of the symptoms that doctors explain that may happen with FTD is apathy.

Before we knew I was diagnosed with FTD, Selch began to notice that I would not take my pain medicine even though I was in a tremendous amount of pain.  I did not seem to care about bathing even though I used to take two  showers a day, and that I would no longer pay the bills.

I think for me being labeled apathetic is not exactly the right term.  The problem is that when I am faced with the task, I become overwhelmed.  My mind becomes flooded with each detail of the task that I must do and I become paralyzed with fear to the point I am unable to take any action.  Then as a coping mechanism, I try to put out of my mind doing the task at all.

Now I am devastated that my FTD has started affecting my writing again.  I have so much information and so many stories that I want to share with everyone, but right now I feel like most of it is locked in my brain.  It is as if there were a large crowd of people who are trapped in a room but the control mechanism that used to be there to let them  file out in an orderly fashion is not working anymore.

Selch, as always my knight in shining armor, is working with me to help me to be able to write again.  Right now I’m using Dragon Naturally Speaking.  It is hard for the thoughts that come from my brain to go to my mouth instead of my fingers on the keyboard.

In the near future, I hope to once again be sharing my thoughts and feelings with you. Take care everyone, until you hear from me again.

Soulfulsilkee

I have talked before about gifts that come from illness, such as strength and compassion, but these two gifts that I want to mention are not happenings usually associated with FTD.

The first is unexpectedly increased creativity in some people who have FTD.  A passage from a University of California website says “In our clinic at the Memory and Aging Center, we see people who lose certain abilities, like language, while gaining new ones, like musicality and artistic expression. We have met individuals, particularly those with semantic dementia, who never created art before becoming ill and are now making wonderful, intriguing artwork. One explanation for this phenomenon is that healthier parts of the brain compensate for the areas that are no longer working. Therefore, visual expressions such as a drawing, painting or sculpture bloom as the person loses their capability for verbal language.”

I am a writer and I had a big problem with writer’s block that lasted for years.  A few years ago the dam burst and my mind was filled with many stories.  My characters have always “talked” to me since then.   I am the person who dictates what they tell me, and I do a bit of maintenance work on their pages.

Now, my characters constantly cut in line to try to be the first to tell their story.  They are a rowdy crowd and sometimes I have to blow the whistle and say, “Let’s have some order here. I will get to all of you eventually.”  I don’t think they believe me.  They know my time is limited so they continue their bad behavior.  When I am able, I try to dictate some of their words and I also have a “talk box” for each character who wants to tell me their story.  I can type or use Dragon Speak to get their words out.  Of course, it is only a temporary measure.  When I am too ill to keep up the system, the mob is back.  As of late, I think they have become more understanding.  During this last spell of illness, they entertained me by telling stories one by one.

The other gift  that I have recently received from FTD  I discovered recently.  I have no idea if others with FTD have experienced this with the illness.  Recently, we went to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History.

Selch wheeled me into the room of stones and quartz.  I began to feel vibrations on different levels.  I told him about my experiences and he positioned me so I could touch different stones.  Each stone had different vibrations and the vibrations sounded like music.  As he pushed my chair further into the rooms, I could hear a symphony of different vibrations.  The colors, the “music” and the vibrations together were an amazing experience.

I wished that I could  touch all the different stones that were behind the glass.  Of all the stones I believe Amethyst was most pleasing to my senses.

Unfortunately, when we came into the room where diamonds were exhibited, there was a crowd of people.  My experience was somewhat muted.  Perhaps too many people block the flow of energy.  This experience is so new to me.

The last stones I encountered were meteors from space, mars, etc.  They also had their own vibrations and tones.  Generally their vibrations had a deeper resonance.

I had read about the power of stones and crystals but never really paid much attention to it.  We have a friend who is a jeweler and the last time I went to his house and he brought out different stones and gems, I did notice an attraction to some of them and I was also delighted to spend a few hours digging through different pieces of gold looking for real treasure (meaning higher quality gold.)  By the end of the day, I found myself really interested in gemology and he gave me a book to take home.

I tried to read the book but after I was away from the stones I lost interest.  Also my spiritual teacher had a collection of different stones and gems.  He talked about their life force and healing properties.

If any of you that have FTD (or another neurodegenerative disorder) and you have experienced an experience of increased creativity or this phenomena with stones and gems, please share your story with me.   Or if you are a loved one of someone with these disorders and have witnessed it.

Also maybe you or your caregiver might want to try or assist you with many creative activities to see if they appeal to you.  I read about a man who had no creative talent who has FTD.  He is now creating beautiful sculptures.  I am not saying that we all will be able to do that but perhaps you or your loved one might gain some pleasure by trying different creative things.

I wrote in a past note that I had lost my ability to play the piano with my left hand or recognize notes on the bass cleft.  We went to the music store recently and I did remember where to place my left hand on the keys.  It is a start and after we are more settled, I am going to purchase a keyboard and see if I am able to resurrect some of my musical ability.

Never give up. We are traveling through the dark woods right now, but on the other side we will continue our journey to a better place.

Loss is something everyone experiences at some time in their life.   All will experience losing someone or something, and the greater the value, the keener the sense of loss.

When I talk about loss with people I often bring up a very famous figure, Job.  Here is a good, happy and wealthy man who  lost almost everything in this world — wealth, family, then health.  Whether you believe Job actually existed or not, the biblical story of Job is a very good account of how a person deals with loss.  Even Jung devoted a small book to the problems implied by Job’s losses, titled, Answer to Job.

I’m not going to debate in this post whether there is a God and why God lets things happen to good people.  I may have some further comments on this after re-reading C. S. Lewis’s The Problem of Pain.  ( Or rather listening to it as an audio book, as I can no longer read the paper pages of books and magazines.)

I want to point out Job as an example of a man who lost everything that he could possibly lose — save only his life — and still had faith that there was a higher power, that he was not alone in his suffering and that as long he lived there was some purpose for his life.

I have lost so much in my life. Those of you who know me understand that my life has been full of suffering and loss.  I have a PhD in loss (Pain, Hardship and Disaster).  Even my life is being taken.

When we suffer loss we may have some forewarning or we may not.

Even if we know the loss is coming, as much as we try to prepare ourselves, we are often surprised at the effects on our lives.

For me, there came a time when I could no longer drive.  Selch and I had talked about some problems I was having with loss of attention while driving.   I scraped a toll booth, and a guard post in a filling station.  When my son was with me, he warned me a couple of times that I was swerving off the road, but I didn’t recall it, so I thought he was exaggerating.  One day, Selch followed me to get the car fixed and told me that I was swerving in and out of my lane on the road and it was too much of a danger for me to drive.

I imagined when I was younger that if I ever wasn’t able to drive, I would be totally devastated.   I think because I had already had so many other losses and I had been driving gradually less and less, I was better able to cope with the loss than someone who was still working or who had small children.

Still, I had regrets. We lived on the East Coast and I wished I had taken more of the driving trips I loved to do.

From the time I got my license as a teenager, the ability to drive has meant freedom.  My mother would take away my car keys to punish me because she knew that it really tortured me, to not have the freedom to get out of the house, get into the car and go somewhere, or nowhere, just so long as I was driving.

For many years, even after I had children, if I was troubled, depressed or mad, I would jump in the car and drive down the highway for several miles and drive back.   I imagined if I had been born a few hundred years ago, I would have gotten up in the middle of the night and run through the forest or the fields.  (Also,  I probably would have had a shorter life span, because even Little Red Riding Hood knows it is dangerous to walk through the forest at night!)

Now, that I am confined to my recliner most of the time and getting out is a major production — with a wheel chair and making sure that I bring a bag with all my medications — I rarely think of driving.  Still, some nights I wake up at night searching for my keys until I realize I can no longer get up and go.

For me, there have been losses I haven’t expected.  I had been having abdominal pain that had been ongoing since the last trimester of my last pregnancy and had been getting progressively worse.  I saw an OB/GYN who told me I probably had abdominal adhesions.  They could be pulling on sensitive tissues internally, causing the pain, without any abnormal lab results.

She told me that she would do a laproscopy of the abdomen, a fairly simple day surgery procedure in which she would make a small cut and insert a tube in my abdomen so she was able to see the adhesions and cut them out.  Selch took me to the hospital on Valentine’s Day in 1997.

I had worked in the medical field for several years and  had day surgery before.  I was first aware that something wasn’t right when I woke up and they were pulling a tube out through my mouth.  Even though I was very groggy, I knew that I must have had general anesthesia.  I panicked inside. What had gone wrong?

The doctor told us that there had been more adhesions than she thought so she had converted my surgery to a laparotomy.  I wondered why she did a laparotomy without having me consent to it first.  From the moment I came out of anesthesia, I had severe pain in the right side of my abdomen to my back and down to my thigh.  I didn’t know then that the pain would never go away.  She had damaged three major abdominal nerves, and surrounding soft tissue, causing Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy.

I couldn’t walk correctly for the first two weeks and the doctor told me it would resolve itself.  The walking got better but the pain was unbearable.  I had taken a two week leave of absence from my job.  I had just started a new job.  I tried to go back a few times to work but could not stay for more than a couple of hours.  My pain was too great.  I had to resign from work.  Selch, who was my boyfriend at the time, offered to let me stay at his house to recuperate.  I had to let my apartment go.  We thought it was temporary and that I would be able to get back up on my feet and get a job eventually.  I was never able to go back to work.

I had been employed full time since I was 21, and had been the primary bread winner after my children were born.  I worked my way up to being a director of a department at a young age.  After I gave birth to my daughter,  I worked for a company in which I assisted doctors in reviewing medical records for quality, then I became a consultant in a health information department.  I had been through a lot of hardships already and had had two failed marriages, but I always thought everything would be okay because I was able to support myself and my children.  Not having that security was a huge loss.  From then on, I was dependent on someone else.

I often  don’t realize on the last day that I am able to do something, that I will never do it again.

When I left my job the last day that I worked in March 1997, I did not know that I would never work outside my home again.  I had lost relationships and things before this happened, but I always believed that no matter what I would be able to support myself and my children. I did not make a great deal of money but I worked in the medical field and there was always a need for the type of work I did. Originally, I planned to stay with Selch for two weeks while I was recovering.  I never left.

I lost the sense of security and the independence that I would be able to take care of myself and my kids no matter what happened. And losses have a tendency to pile up on top of each other.   I had received a lot of emotional support over the years from a network of close friends at work. They continued on with their busy working lives.  We met a few more times for lunch and after work, but I would repeatedly have to cancel plans because I was not feeling well.  My friends stopped asking me to go out.

People started feeling uncomfortable around me. They didn’t know quite what to say about my pain and I didn’t want to talk about it much fearing that I was imposing on them. The other problem was that I wasn’t in the working world anymore. I wasn’t part of the team, I’d lost track of the players.

Finally, one of my last work friends flew the coop. I called her the Buzzard of Happiness, because when she talked about her life it all seemed so hopeless, but yet she had been a good solid friend who had a quirky sense of humor.

The last time I talked to her was when I had to cancel a movie date with her for the third time. She told me she could no longer be my friend, her life was depressed enough without having to think about my situation. Our outings had been one of the bright spots in her life and she didn’t want me to become another person she dreaded seeing.

My feelings were hurt but I appreciated her honesty. She was able to say what many are not able to.

We discovered that my pain would never go away.  My RSD might have been treated effectively, had it been diagnosed sooner.

Many of us have some losses that are so profound and hurt so badly that they are difficult to share. I have had a few losses that bring tears to my eyes when I even start to think of them.  You know these losses that leave you so brokenhearted that you build a grave someplace within yourself, a quiet dark space where you can go to mourn.

I spent most of my day today trying to explain the loss of my children to you.  When I started typing the words, I   remembered again the one normal weekend that became a catalyst of change for me and my children.  By the time I finished, tears were dripping down my cheeks and snot was flowing out of my nose.  I am not an attractive crier.  My eyes are red-ringed, my nose is as red the honker on my coach’s face after he had been on a bender, and  my head feels like the dead weight of my sorrow has crashed down upon it.

I can’t share that story with you today because someone with piercing words  recently sliced open the tough scab over my tender wound.  Yes, I am bleeding again, but I am not as raw as I once was.  I have developed tools over time to staunch the flow.  So I will save that story in draft for another day.

When one domino falls, the others behind it usually fall in an orderly fashion.  That isn’t how it is when you are riding the train of life.  One break in a relationship, a health crisis, even what might begin as a small lapse in judgement can cause a cascade of collisions on down the road.  Many continue on life’s journey but they are  riding a on a crooked rail.  The heart becomes a wounded member that limps between the strong beats of life.

About the Declaration there is a finality that is exceedingly restful. It is often asserted that the world has made a great deal of progress since 1776, that we have had new thoughts and new experiences which have given us a great advance over the people of that day, and that we may therefore very well discard their conclusions for something more modern. But that reasoning can not be applied to this great charter. If all men are created equal, that is final. If they are endowed with inalienable rights, that is final. If governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed, that is final. No advance, no progress can be made beyond these propositions. If anyone wishes to deny their truth or their soundness, the only direction in which he can proceed historically is not forward, but backward toward the time when there was no equality, no rights of the individual, no rule of the people. Those who wish to proceed in that direction can not lay claim to progress. They are reactionary. Their ideas are not more modern, but more ancient, than those of the Revolutionary fathers.

These are truly ideas of peace, upon which public lives and more nations than ours can be built.

There is still much unknown about FTD and related disorders.  It is only this year that the leading researchers are starting to agree on which signs to look at and the basic measurements that they need to take, to enable them to start sharing and comparing the knowledge and data that they have each been collecting separately.

Further down the research food chain, doctors grab the more common stereotypes, and apply those typical symptoms as inflexible requirements for a diagnosis.  Many people who have FTD do not show “typical symptoms”, and so these doctors refuse to order MRI’s and PET scans, or the neuropsychological testing, that could confirm these presenile neurodegenative diseases in the early stages.  I was told by one self-proclaimed expert that if you don’t have emotional blunting, you can’t have FTD, despite physical evidence on an MRI of unilateral frontotemporal atrophy.

There is no cure for FTD and related disorders but neuroprotective medications do help to slow the damage from these diseases.  There are certain medications that people with these disorders that should not be on, certain medications that make their symptoms worse.

I understand that doctors are taught to sound confident and authoritative in talking to patients.  The idea is that the patient will be comforted to feel that the doctor knows his stuff.  The problem is that a doctor’s confidence in his knowledge needs to be based on fact, not fancy.  Missing a diagnosis of FTD adds years of uncertainty and unnecessary misery to patients and their families, over and above the depredations of the diseases.  And there are few things as disheartening to me as the aggressive ignorance of a doctor confidently and authoritatively asserting falsehoods.

Would it really be so hard just to listen?  To preserve some modicum of scientific humility?

Or maybe this humility is the means by which we can distinguish between the truly knowledgeable researchers and the lesser lights.

My words about this disease that is taking my life — robbing me of my grandchildren, and the world of the art that I want to create — come straight from my heart.  But there are so few who have the heart to listen.

A long time ago in December, I went to a bar, to listen to the words of a poet who was blind and hard of hearing.  He had another poet recite his poems.  All of his friends had promised to be there to listen to him.  This was a major event in his life.  He had never before revealed his poetry, what was in his heart, to anyone.

So the lights were dimmed and a blue light enveloped an attractive woman who sat next to the poet.  Her voice was like velvet and his simple poems about love flowed out of her mouth.   I was drawn into the poetry, my heart beating with the rhythm of his verse.

Then I felt a cold breeze periodically slip past my shoulders.  I looked around the room.  People were quietly getting up from their seats, stealing out like thieves into the night, slowing robbing the room of its humanity.  Then I remembered that another friend of ours, a poet who read his poetry every week at this time was reading his work  just down the street.  This section of town was known for the bars where poets read and people listened to live music.

After fifteen minutes, there were only five people there, the audience was the manager of the bar, a new female friend of the poet’s and me.  The female poet kept reading his poems and occasionally, she would address “the crowd.”  My poet friend continued to grin from ear to ear.  I wondered if he had known that anyone had left.  Then I thought perhaps he was better off not knowing.

I knew that if I walked down the street, most of the missing audience would be there.  I imagined myself chiding them for their transgression.  But, I decided, why waste my time in a verbal attack on fools, when a man was sharing his soul with us here.

About ten minutes before the session ended, his “friends” began to file back in as quietly as they had left.  Then she of the velvet voice said, “Before I read a final poem, I want to thank all of Bill’s friends for coming here tonight to listen to Bill’s poetry.  She rattled off their names one by one and they each squirmed a little in their seats or made some facial gesture, to acknowledged in a social way that they had been caught.

Then the poem was over and they all gathered around him to tell him how his poetry had touched their hearts.  I parted quickly not wanting to hear their gushing lies.

Alas for us who suffer these deadly diseases, there is no narrator in this life to name the names of those who will not hear.

Her first epiphany came in response to a prayer.  She was called to be an ordinary Christian woman.  A bhakta.  [Note:  In ancient India, the followers of Vishu marked their foreheads with three vertical lines, and the followers of Shiva, with three horizontal lines.  The term bhakta means "one marked by striations", and came to be used as a collective term for those who devote their lives to God, of whatever persuasion, whichever direction the lines are drawn.]

Her second epiphany struck closer to home.  Her mother became ill, and the illness damaged her brain severely.  It left her “locked in” with no means of communication.

Her cerebellum–the center of coordination–had been destroyed. When this happens, there is no way to speak, no way to signal. Try to signal and your hands fly wildly like startled birds. Try to speak and a scream comes out.

Part of the second epiphany concerned her mother.  God told her, “…I need someone with the resourcefulness to reach this woman trapped in a body that doesn’t respond.”  Many would have said that her mother was gone, and put her into a home.  That way, she wouldn’t have to agonize about the effects on her two young boys and her toddler, Beth.  It would certainly be the easy way out.  Beth would stand for hours by the wheelchair, looking at her grandmother.

Instead, she persevered and worked with her mother, eventually finding a way that her mother could respond in ways that meant Yes or No.  Her mother was still there.  They found ways to communicate. Her mother was not gone.   Selch puts it in computer terms:  The problem was with the interface.

I can relate to little Beth because I was also called Beth when I was growing up.  I remember also standing by my grandmother’s chair.  She had severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but we were very close.  My doctor and I talked about how we had both been called Beth growing up.

Then it all became clear to me.  The little Beth in the story is my neurologist.

This story is important to all of us who are patients and caregivers.  We wonder sometimes, “Is my loved one still there?  Should I keep trying?  Maybe it is time to give up.”  I read many messages from caregivers who wonder if their loved one is still there, should they keep trying to communicate.  I always say, Yes.

Some people, frequently doctors or scientists, will try to “objectively” define a person as a collection of behaviors.  If the behaviors change drastically, they say the person is no longer there, that this is a different person, as they no longer act in the same way they used to.  They will frequently tell the family, “Do what you think is best for the remaining members of your family.  The person you loved is no longer there.”  What would have happened to little Beth’s grandmother, if her mother had taken this view?

I am more than a collection of behaviors.  Christians believe that there is an immortal soul, and that this physical body is only temporary.  Buddhists and Hindus also believe that this body is temporary, that we are not simply the body, but will be reborn or reincarnated.  There is a problem with my body, my brain has a disease that will cause my body to die.  It is not a problem with me.  It is a problem with my interface to this world.

When my disease progresses far enough, I will no longer be able to communicate in words.  Selch will find new ways.  He knows I will still be there, loving and caring and suffering, on the other side of a broken and deteriorating interface.