Sunday, December 23, 2012

IN TRANSIT by DeAnn Louise Daigle

I like small; I like small
Places, I like tiny figurines, I 
Like miniature paintings, small boxes,
Small jewelry, small uncomplicated
Life-style, small notebooks, small
Books, small computers.  I don’t know
Why I’m that way, I just am.

The more I think about Mom, the
More I wonder.  I never really knew
My mother.  She kept big secrets
From me, really big secrets, I would
Find out about and not have the courage
Or the know-how to ask her real questions
Or, was I afraid to find out that

What I’d heard was true?  And then,
What about Dad?  I loved him so
Much, then when, after Mom had told
Me he did not drink, I found that he
Disappeared periodically and this was in
Fact because he did drink.  He made Mom
Cry.  I was angry with him.  Why did he 
Not just stop drinking?

It did something to me as a young
Child to be getting half-truths, double
Talk, and protective untruths.  Somehow,
I had to muddle my way through this
Maze to find in life who I really
Was; and could that truth, would
That truth really be so bad, so incomprehensible
That I would rather die than go on
Living?  Why could Mom and Dad
Not just be honest with me?  Why

Did they feel so protective of me, so
Much so that it actually complicated
My life, making me timid, shy,
Reticent about what I was, who I
Was, and what if what I was
Told was true – about Mom – about
Dad – about me?  What if it were
True?  Could their love for me not
Hold me, shelter me, protect me?

Or were they so unfinished themselves
And so not quite grown-up yet
Themselves, that dealing with the 
Consequences of the truth-telling to a real
Other human being, another child apart
From themselves but part of them,
Be too, all too overwhelming?  Would
Having the truth come out be so
Awfully devastating that the unbearable
Would become the …? 

There were whispers in corners, in
Hallways, in the room at the bottom
Of the stairs.  I only heard portions
And I knew secrets were being
Kept from me, and I knew but
Didn’t know.  I always didn’t
Know until late in adult life
I just had to know – for sure,
For truth, for my own locked up
Inability to grow and become truly
Myself – to become myself.

And so, I justify the book.  My
Husband, my Jim, tells me I
Ought to embrace my book, be
Proud of my book – and it suddenly
Occurs to me that I treat my book
The way my mother treated me.

Thursday, December 20, 2012


I do not have the sanity required to deal with them/you right now or I truly do not have the sanity required to deal with or even think about any of this right now.

Words that I have either thought or said more times lately than I can count but still I am calm and patient with the kids, and the family, the federal government and holiday planning on how to make sure we can all survive having Mom and Dad under one roof and both sitting near enough to me but far enough away from each other to not cause more stress and strife. 

The required patience to make sure everyone is happy and calm is at best unlikely and at worst impossible.  Couple in with that a three-year –old, a teenager  and a husband who tried to make it through the holidays with the required calm and cooking to keep everyone happy and on their diets. As well as the growing sense of loss that I keep to myself from them over no longer having Nana here in Tennessee and knowing all the happy peaceful  holiday pictures that will flood Facebook from my family in Florida where they have Nana,  my sanity.

Then there is the new year and all it brings in: another court date with my ex and the continued parade of paper work and doctor visits with all the new checkups they want Dad to get.  Appointments for Brianna and my continued search for a doctor for my stress and depression.

I will make myself appear at least to have the required sanity, calm and patience to get through the holiday season and into the new year . I always do...

Well, kinda.

Monday, December 10, 2012


The Way taught the "law of believing." Believing was a "law," like gravity.
If I believed positively, I'd receive positive results.
If I believed negatively, I'd receive the consequences of my negative believing.
One of the believing formulas was "confession of receipt yields receipt of confession."

I sat in the hallway at the Catawba County building where the 4-H Department was housed. Like many home schoolers my children were involved with 4-H, the national youth organization that promotes hands-on learning. The four Hs stand for Head, Heart, Hands, and Health.

My children and I were at the agency for a meeting of some sort. I liked 4-H and what it provided for my children. One of my fondest 4-H memories is when my children and I incubated twenty-two chicken eggs and all but two hatched. My kids and I had fun going into a dark closet and "candling" the eggs. Candling is a process that shines light on an egg shell in such a way that a person can see the embryo developing inside the shell. It seems we used a shoe box or something to hold the egg and somehow direct the flashlight beam through a small hole that then allowed us to peer through the translucent shell and see the shadow of life in process.

I sat in the hallway at the 4-H building.
I sat in a chair leaning forward with my elbows propped on my knees; the forward-leaning position helped me inhale. I would often sleep in a similar fashion - sitting pretzel-legged while I leaned forward over a husband pillow.

I pulled out my albuterol inhaler, put the device to my mouth tightly wrapping my lips around the plastic mouthpiece that held the medicinal canister, pressed down on the aerosol canister, and inhaled deeply as I could between my wheezes.

It didn't help much. Nothing ever helped much.

So I sat, as I had countless times prior and as I did countless times afterward.

I sat.
I wheezed.
I silently spoke in tongues.
I inhaled my aerosol.
I trembled.
I sweat.

I sat.
I waited it out; we had to be at the building for awhile anyway.

As I sat wheezing, Lois, another home school mom whom I looked up to as a mentor and who was a nurse by occupation stated, "Carol, have you ever thought that maybe it's God's will that you have asthma? That there must be some purpose in it, that He is trying to teach you something?"

Lois was a Christian.
I was too, but I was a more like an alternative Christian; I was a Way believer.

The Way didn't believe Jesus was God, like most Christians.
The Way didn't believe the dead are alive, like most Christians.
The Way didn't believe abortion was murder, like most Christians.
The Way didn't believe there were two crucified with Jesus, like most Christians.
The Way didn't believe that Jesus died on Friday and got up on Sunday, like most Christians.
The Way didn't believe that Mary was a virgin when she gave birth do Jesus, like most Christians.
The Way didn't believe a lot of things that most Christians believed.

As a Way believer I knew that God's will was always to heal; it wasn't just a belief, but rather an absolute truth.

I never blamed God for my chronic illnesses.
I seldom even blamed the devil.
I blamed myself.

If I could just believe bigger, I'd be whole.
I would "build my believing" by "putting the Word on" in my mind.
I would "confess" until I died that God wanted me well.
No one could convince me otherwise.

Between gasps for breath, I adamantly answered Lois. "God wants me well, not sick. Even if I die wheezing, I will die confessing that God's will is my wholeness."

Like the countless prior wheezing bouts and the countless wheezing bouts that followed that mid-90s late morning, within an hour or so I was again able to breathe normally like other mammals whose lung sacks are not filled with fluid.

It would be January, 1999, before I had my last real bout with asthma attacks. Doctors had discovered high levels of mercury in my body and I began the process of ridding the poison from my system. The desired outcome was better than I expected - even though I had confessed my healing for almost two decades, I never really thought I'd experience this earth-life without constant inhalers and injections and pills and concoctions and surgeries and the continual carousel of physicians.

It was a two-edged sword, that law of believing.

On one side of the sword, that law kept me going; I clung to that law like it was my god, confessing my healing and awaiting my deliverance from this wretched body that crawled with hives, that was flooded with itchy blood and inflamed tissue and pain, whose oxygen sacs were filled with fluid instead of life-giving oxygen. I would confess myself into believing; what other choice did I have?

On the other side of the sword that law was my accuser; I berated myself for my unbelief. I must be a despicable human being to have so many physical problems. When I had those thoughts, I'd cling to another Bible confession, "There is no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus." I'd tell myself God loves me and doesn't want me beating myself, but what else could I do? The evidence of my unbelief was manifest for all to see.

Once I stepped outside Way doctrine, I began to heal.

What else could I do if I wanted freedom to live....