Any Way I Slice It

I am a master at slicing my fingers while cooking or cleaning in the kitchen. And not only with knives. They are too obvious, left for the amateurs. No, I absentmindedly procure ways to manipulate egg shells or sink drains, even spoons or potato peelers, to draw unspecified amounts of blood from my silly hands. Inevitably, a drop of lemon juice will be lurking in the backsplash to strike a sting in the aftermath...

The Be Twitching Hour

My muscles reached high alert, just on the brink of taking flight, as I crawled under the bed covers last night. Relaxing exacerbates the condition, so I remained tense and held tight for a bumpy ride.

As usual, involuntary spasms--accompanied by deep cramping in the joints--subtly began preparing the way for sporadic electrical currents to rapidly shoot from point A to point B, which normally route from lower legs, up through the spine, and into the neck region. An episodic flailing of arms and jerking of legs then ensued for several minutes--just long enough to make fluent breathing difficult. This particular incident, however, drastically veered from the path of normalcy and landed an unexpected bang.

The twitching came to its halt as one final, sharp bolt pierced my left hip, richoceted off the shoulder blade, and struck the inside corner of my right eye. Instantly, my head bowed as I tightly cradled it in the crook of my arm and loudly gasped, "Ouch!"

With a slight giggle, I eventually sighed a breath of spasmodic relief. Every twitch of this mysterious MS adventure is unpredictable, unforgiving, and teaching me to fly by the seat of my pants.

The Quilt

Big squishies and loves go out to my Aunt Edna and her daughter, Jane, for sharing their amazing skills and talents. Today, I received this gorgeous MS Awareness quilt they created.

I am truly blessed. Happy Birthday to me! :)

More Than a Brain Cramp

Between the giggles of random conversation and the expressions of serious inquiries, as I sat across from my oldest son during our KFC lunch date, a reminiscence of birthplaces surfaced. Bradan commented on this and discussed that, but my thoughts could no longer grip the conversation and quickly slipped into oblivion. My memory blanked like a stark canvas. Completely. With a deep gaze fixated on Bradan's face--for about 30 seconds--I struggled to recollect the events surrounding Gavan's birth. The memories seemed buried beyond retrieval. "I can't remember where Gavan was born," my panic briskly told Bradan. With a slight hesitation, he gently grinned, "Merced, Mom."

Yes! He was correct. Finally, it came to me: Gavan is my five-year-old son, the youngest of four children. He was uniquely delivered by my good friend, Miranda, amidst a whirlwind of utter chaos in the passenger seat of her minivan--alongside the hospital loading docks. The vehicle was still running in Park setting, Bon Jovi was blasting from the CD player, and hospital sirens were alerting all available medical staff while Miranda quickly ministered aid to me. Hundreds of on-lookers witnessed from their dock ramps or hospital room windows Gavan's grand entrance into this world--with his deep purple coloring and an immediate swaddling in a tablecloth. The only available cutter for the embilical was the cell phone charger cord. The sign above the docks read, "Deliveries Only." That made me giggle. It still does.

I remember all the details of that event. Now. During the conversation with my son, however, my brain did more than cramp, it temporarily arrested cogitative processes.

Orange Embers of MS Awareness

March is Multiple Sclerosis Awareness Month. It is represented by the color orange. Personally, I hate orange. It is the color of burning embers, the glowing remains of a raging, wild flame which uncontrollably consumes an unsuspecting mountain-side: blistering, mysterious, often unpredictable, and waiting for the next spark to fly. But then, so am I.

Orange is a true representation of MS.