The Sideways Life

The Sideways Life
Dorcas Annette Walker

I got another tick bite so I am back on antibiotics again. Rats!!!!!!!!!!!!! And just when I was starting to feel normal. I was outside on a warm sunny day hanging up some wash and puttering around in my flowerbeds a little. I didn’t soak in the tub like I usually do after being outside as early that morning (around 3 am) I had taken a hot bath after waking up in pain to try and get my body relaxed enough to go back to sleep. Instead I took a shower.

The next morning as soon as I woke up I felt something on my back. It was a seed tick. I couldn’t reach it so I woke up my son, who tried to get the tick out, but the tick was embedded deep in my skin. I ended up at the doctor’s office where my doctor had a time trying to get the tick out. He said it was the worst he had seen. Like usual the nasty critter had bitten me three times instead of once. So my doctor put me on antibiotics for a month to make sure that my Lyme’s stays in remission.

I know I should be thankful for the dear pills, but they make you so sick. Instead I am feeling grouchy and out of sorts. My back is sore from where my doctor dug around to get the tick out and each of my bites have spread out in a rash that are hot and itchy. I’ve made a paste of oatmeal, which I keep putting on my bites that helps some. I’m wearing loose light PJ’s as anything that keeps in my body heat aggravates the tick bites and wouldn’t you know it my bites are located at the back of my waist.

I have to keep moving around as I can’t sit up against anything for long. At night I have to sleep mostly on my stomach, which throws my back out and aggravates my spine as my hips bother me (thanks to arthritis) if I sleep sideways very long. What fun! So my nights are spent rotating my body all night long. I feel more like a roasted rotisserie chicken by morning than a rested human being. I stagger through the day feeling tired and sick. When I get too overwhelmed I collapse and take a nap. Ever try reading a book or watching a DVD sitting sideways? Maybe I should write a book on how to live sideways?

The Clock of Life

The Clock of Life
Dorcas Annette Walker

My life is measured by the clock
Tick tock, tick tock.
Beating out the time
Tick tock, tick tock.

Sounds in the stillness of life
Tick tock, tick tock.
As time marches on
Tick tock, tick tock.

The mantle clock measures each moment
Tick tock, tick tock.
Each second, minute, and hour
Tick tock, tick tock.

While the Cuckoo Coo clock echoes my life
Tick tock, tick tock.
Like the bird held captive
Tick tock, tick tock.

Freedom for a tantalizing moment
Tick tock, tick tock
Then shut back into the box
Tick tock, tick tock.

I want to stop the clock
Tick tock, tick tock
And capture the fleeing seconds
Tick tock, tick tock.

Hold back the time that races past
Tick tock, tick tock
While I sit on the sidelines of life
Tick tock, tick tock.

The grandfather clock sounds out
Tick tock, tick tock
Ponderous tones that grab attention
Tick tock, tick tock.

Reminding me that I am not alone
Tick tock, tick tock
As majestic music surrounds me
Tick tock, tick tock.

Though my life is inactive
Tick tock, tick tock
I too have worth
Tick tock, tick tock.

As long as I am faithful to do my best
Tick tock, tick tock
And make each minute count
Tick tock, tick tock.

Running With the Runs

Running With the Runs
Dorcas Annette Walker

I suffer with an irritable bowel syndrome (IBS) that can wreck havoc on your life. Thankfully by watching what I eat most of the time I do okay. But… if I get lulled into a false sense of security thinking that troubles with my bowels are a thing of the past or forget that IBS lurks within my system it will hit unexpectedly with a great force and drain precious energy. I know I sound like some old lady in a nursing home or someone from the group of ancient tottery folk where life revolves only around their bowels. Being a minister’s wife you have interaction with a lot of senior citizens so over the years I’ve heard oodles of details about bowel problems. Now horror of horrors here is my story of the bowels.

I realized that something I ate didn’t agree with me when a couple of hours later I hit the toilet and had diarrhea. Usually one occurrence is all that I have. So when I had a run for the toilet one evening I wasn’t too alarmed. Then I kept cramping and hit the toilet a second time. Dummy me. I didn’t take anything figuring that by morning I’d be okay. The next morning guess what? I paid another visit to the porcelain throne. This time I dosed myself with Kaopectate. Even though I watched what I ate (not much since I was feeling bloated and having annoying cramps) I made another visit to the bathroom. By now I felt quite drained. I only drank clear liquids and nibbled on toast or dry crackers thinking that surely the next day I’d be back to normal again without life revolving around the toilet. I do have better things to do and I was tired of living in the bathroom. Still to stay on the safe side I kept up my meager diet. Then I had another episode- you don’t want the details, trust me- and dosed myself again. That night I was cramping and miserable enough that I had trouble falling to sleep. It finally registered that from previous incidents I could drink the entire bottle of Kaopectate, but it wouldn’t stop the diarrhea. The only thing that worked effectively was coke. So my loving long-suffering husband around midnight went to Wal-Mart and got me some coke. It was a long night between sipping coke and trying to get comfortable enough to sleep.

The fourth day I was quite weak, but at least the run to the toilet had finally stopped. I kept up my dry diet and drank coke all day. By the fifth day I was able to slowly start eating more foods without repercussion of my bowels, although I still drank coke, which to me is like medicine. I know the younger generation won’t understand, but I was raised without having soft drinks around and all through my married life we didn’t keep soft drinks on hand. I really don’t care for them. I’m a tea drinker. So to me drinking coke is the same as taking medicine. But when I get desperate I gladly drink the stuff to stop the diarrhea. By day six I declared myself normal and cautiously left off drinking coke. So when I find myself running with the runs I hit the coke. Nothing like having to keep a bottle of coke nearby for security, huh?

Bureaucracy Blues

Bureaucracy Blues
Dorcas Annette Walker

I finally got the official letter from the judge I had been waiting for six months. It was supposed to have arrived in six weeks. I carefully opened up the envelope knowing it contained either hope or despair. The words jumped out off the page at me. I had been denied disability. I tried to concentrate reading through three pages of explanation why I had been denied. Stunned I sat in my recliner as tears ran down my face. Almost four years have passed since I first applied. Anger at all the humiliation I have endured just to get to this point overwhelmed me. My faith in democracy and governmental fairness bottomed out.

It was a stressful step for me to finally acknowledge that my body wasn’t going to return to normalcy any time soon where I would be able to work. Every day I kept hoping, thinking that surely I’d be better the next day or the next week. But reality finally stared me the face. No matter how hard I struggle, most days I can’t get dressed or do simple household chores. My husband had to resign his pastorate due to my health and scramble around to find work for us to live on in our remote area of the Tennessee Mountains. As bills began piling up I realized I needed to see about getting medical coverage. Thus began my personal education with governmental bureaucracy.

I was informed at the local office in order to be eligible for any medical help I had to be single, pregnant, have under-age children at home, be a senior citizen, or declared disabled. I’ve been married almost thirty years so I wasn’t planning to divorce my husband. Being a grandmother with adult children I didn’t consider pregnancy an option either. And even though my body feels like I am in the senior citizen bracket my age doesn’t match so the only option left open for me was to apply for disability. I was sent several papers to fill out and had to send in proof that I existed, was an American citizen, and that I had no oil wells or off shore accounts in my name. I also signed several medical release forms and had my local doctor fill out a form saying that I was disabled. I was informed I’d hear back within thirty days. After six months I received a letter telling me that the state needed their doctor to evaluate me and was given a date and told if I didn’t show up I’d automatically be dropped. This involved traveling an hour away. I fervently prayed that I would have the strength to get dressed that day and popped extra pain pills as any traveling increases my pain.

Now I’m the kind of person who has spent my life hiding any signs of sickness or discomfort especially when I am out in public. As a minister’s wife I’ve learned to keep smiling no matter how I feel. To me it was embarrassing enough that I limped and had to concentrate to keep my balance. In a spirit of independence I had put away my walker. The state doctor told me (off the record) to put off having any surgery on my foot during my evaluation and I was informed I‘d hear back within thirty days. Three months later I received an official letter in the mail telling me that I had been denied. Even though it was obvious that I couldn’t do any hard manual labor they felt that I could do sedentary work.

I tried to figure out how I could work part time when I didn’t know from one day to the next if I was going to be able to get out of bed. I appealed and was told that my case was sent to Knoxville where it might be nine months until my case came up before a judge. Nine months later I found out that my case was still hung up as the court was two years behind on disability cases. After hearing from several sources that the only way to get a favorable decision was to have a lawyer represent me, I contacted our local lawyer’s office. An appointment was made to being paperwork. It was quite embarrassing to admit to our lawyer and staff how finically desperate we were. I had become an expert over the years at stretching our limited resources and hiding any signs of poverty. Even though they were kind and tactful, I still broke down under the stress of embarrassment wishing desperately that I could just forget about trying to get disability and be able to work.

I had been raised with the motto that hard work never hurt anybody and if a person didn’t work they shouldn’t eat never dreaming that I would get to the place where I would have to ask for government assistance. I always enjoyed the satisfaction of doing work whether it was physical or mental and living a very active lifestyle. Now suddenly I was struggling to accomplish basic things like get a shower, brush my teeth, or get dressed. My local doctor was frustrated as without any medical coverage I am quite limited in what medicine I could afford. I was already on a couple of low income pharmaceutical plans that sent me free medicine through the mail involving more paper work for my doctor and me, but am unable to have more specialized testing done. To add to my stress I was being bombarded with bills from the doctors I had already seen, lab work that had been done, and the local hospital where I had undergone testing. It didn’t alter the fact that I was working on trying to get the disability coverage that would pay my bills, they wanted their money now. I couldn’t blame them. We had always paid our bills on time and had good credit, but at this point we were barely surviving. Even so I started sending a small check to each creditor - money we could ill afford to spare and that wouldn’t get reimbursed. Despite faithful monthly payments, I began getting threatening letters through the mail. Then a couple of the accounts were turned over to credit agencies and evening and weekend phone calls. I quickly discovered that I couldn’t reason with these people. They flatly refused to believe that I couldn’t work and kept demanding payment, which only stressed me out and put me back into bed every time I talked with a creditor. My lawyer finally told me not to answer any more phone calls and tell them to contact him.

As another year went by I begin to wonder if the government hoped that I’d die before my case came up or I’d suddenly get better and be able to work so they wouldn’t have to bother with my case. After another year I received an official letter telling me that my court date had finally been set. It all seems like a bad memory to me now. I only remember that I was in a lot of pain from traveling, had to hold onto someone’s arm in order to walk, fought to stay awake to think, and couldn’t remember simple things that I should have known. Dana said that the police women, who searched me, told him that she hoped I’d get approved as I needed to be on disability. In other words I’d have been mortified if I had been in my right mind. My lawyer was convinced that I would be approved. The denial in my hand stated otherwise. The judge felt that there wasn’t enough medical evidence to support my claim of disability as my doctor failed to note the times I came to his office on a walker, when I had fallen at home, and the office visits of intense pain. The judge felt that if I was as bad as was claimed I’d be on more medication and would the doctor and specialists more often. Due to lack of medical evidence the judge ruled that there was no reason why I couldn’t do manual labor or work full time.

The irony of it all hit me. I am only able to get a shower every three days and dressed once a week, yet I am considered fit for fulltime work. My lawyer’s office called me to let me know that they are re-appealing my case. I was also informed that I can open up a new case and was encouraged to see my doctor more regularly. But why? What else can my local doctor do for me without medical coverage? And why keep running up medical bills considering I already have medical bills that my house is being threatened over. My husband is also angry at the system. Every day he drives people to the doctor and hospital, which are on disability, people who can get around without any problem. Some are known to be using the system having to shop around for a doctor to give them a prescription or find a drug store that will fill their prescription as they are black listed, yet they still remain on disability. Meanwhile I remain housebound rotating from my bed to the recliner. On good days I shuffle outside in my PJ’s hoping and praying that one day I will get back to normal where I can once again work. I try to remain focused on my blessings. Thinking about governmental bureaucracy only makes me blue.

The Mocking Bird

The Mocking Bird
Dorcas Annette Walker

I have a mocking bird that sings in my ear all year long. Each day I hear its song. Sometimes the song is cheerful giving me hope while other times the song mocks me. When I wake up feeling normal I love to hear the mocking bird’s song. I feel that never again will my body betray me. The pain and overwhelming fatigue is just a past nightmare. I am getting better. I feel stronger. There is nothing wrong with me. Who cares if I am going slower? At least I feel normal again. Sure I can get dressed each day. Hope soars high within me.

The next day I wake up with the awful sick feeling again. Now the birdsong has turned into a noisy harsh sound that makes my head hurt. My body refuses to move when I command it and simple tasks overwhelm me. It is hard for me to concentrate and I feel dizzy. If only the mocking bird would stop. I cover my ears but the song resounds in my head. I can’t get away from it. I try to ignore it thinking positive thoughts. What can I wear that doesn’t need ironed? Who cares if I can’t comb my hair? At least I have changed my clothes. But all I hear is the mocking echo of the dratted bird. Why doesn’t it go away and pester somebody else? Tomorrow will be better.

The next day I feel worse instead of better. The mocking bird’s song is now a taunt. I am slower not faster. I feel angry. I will not let this dictate my life. My heart sinks when I see my face in the mirror. That old looking worn-out woman with uncombed hair is not me! I will comb my hair today no matter what. If I get dressed I will not have enough energy to comb my hair. So I compromise. I choose to comb my hair instead of getting dressed. When at last my hair is combed I feel civilized. I am normal no matter what the crazy bird says. I lie exhausted in my recliner for the rest of the day. Tomorrow will be better.

Tomorrow comes and I force myself to get dressed by noon. I will not give in. Forget about combing my hair. I will not listen to the mocking bird’s taunt. In two hours I can no longer stay awake. I change back into my PJ’s and barely am able to crawl back into bed. Who cares what the crazy bird says? I was able to get dressed three days in a row before breaking my record. I will just start over again. I refuse to give up. The mocking bird is still singing outside my window as I drop off to sleep. I cannot compare myself to others or to what I used to be. Instead I have to find what is normal for me.

New Year's Resolution

New Year’s Resolution
Dorcas Annette Walker

It’s that time of the year again when I evaluate where I’ve been, what past goals have been accomplished, and what new goals I want to set for the coming year. Before Lyme disease it always was a challenging and exciting time. Now I use this time to try and measure whatever progress I’ve made in the past year.

Living in the slow lane of life it is easy to miss what I’ve accomplished overall so I check out where I was a year ago compared to now. Then I discover what I have gained. Oh not the speedy trips of before by any stretch of the imagination, but even one mile now-a-days is an accomplishment. I’ve discovered that I actually take more satisfaction in my one mile than all the past racked up miles of goals finished that were taken for granted in years past. Because now I have had to work hard for each inch gained whereas in yesteryears I took my top speed as a matter of fact. Before when I got behind in my schedule all I had to do was push down harder on the accelerator and presto my speed would pick up. But now even though I keep the pedal jammed to the floor I am lucky to hit five mph. Bumps and pot holes slow me down not to mention the cross winds of other vehicles whizzing past me without the courtesy of slowing down or giving me a wide berth. I can’t say that I blame them. After all I do look like a broken down piece of junk that needs to be towed. I try to keep close to the edge and often pull over out of everybody’s way to avoid causing traffic jams. Sometimes I have to stop and give my steaming engine a much needed rest. Nightmares are when I hit a working zone. That’s when I really get bogged down. But hey I made twelve miles this past year. Not bad considering I only did six or less some other years.

So I’ve decided, uh… fasten your seat belts that this year’s New Year resolution is to try and get dressed each day. I know. I know. Whoever heard of getting dressed for a New Year’s resolution? I used to take getting dressed every day for granted too. But maybe if I push another inch I can get dressed, stay up on my feet, and if there are any downgrades I might even be able to get some much needed chores done too while I’m on the roll. Now that’s what I talk about speeding. I’ll be happy to cheer for your many cross country trips; just don’t smirk at my simple goal. It wasn’t that long ago that I was hung up in a garage at a complete standstill. So compared to that I am really moving.

One Little Froggie In A Milk Pail

One Little Froggie in a Milk Pail
Dorcas Annette Walker

My life resembles the story of two frogs that jumped into milk pails. One little frog gave up and drowned. The other frog kept kicking until he churned the milk into butter and was able to hop out. I feel like a mixture of the two. Somehow, not of my doing, I’ve landed in a milk pail. Some days all I can manage to do is float and keep my head above the surface as I grasp for a solid surface to rest on. I wonder how on earth I will ever manage to get out of the milk pail with constant fatigue and pain overwhelming me. Other days I kick in rebellion not willing to let this crazy Lyme disease get the better of me. I manage to churn up particles of butter resembling tiny steps taken towards normalcy or any small goal that I’ve managed to accomplish. Every so often I find a solid lump of butter, claw my way to the top, and take inventory of where I am. I keep telling myself that all those swirls of yellow floating around me are positive proof that I have gained ground from where I was when I landed in the milk pail to start with. Even the milk looks a bit thicker. Just as I get confident to make a great leap for freedom, I slip back down into the milk. As the milk sloshes around my face I am taunted by the fact that I am still imprisoned in my milk pail of life. It’s then I’m tempted to give into despair. How much longer can I keep kicking? Churning milk into butter is lots harder than it looks, especially when you are the only one that is doing the kicking. Friends and family cheer me on. Every so often one peers down at me to ask how I am doing. I tell myself that I am not alone, even if it is just me in this cold metal milk pail. But the stark reality hits me in the face. I realize that no matter how much others want to help it really is up to me to keep kicking… keep hoping that the milk in life I’ve been given will soon turn into golden butter.