Potpourri

Potpourri,

a mixture,

a collection,

a mixed bag,

a rag bag.

A blog post

becomes a collection of thoughts and activities when one has been 

away from blogging for over a month.

Where to start?

I had a birthday while I've away from blogging.

Daughter Amy and granddaughter Hannah came to help me celebrate.
We also celebrated Amy's birthday which is usually five days after mine.
Every four years there are six days between our special days.
I was born on February 28.
I gave birth to Amy on March 5.


Amy and Hannah brightened my birthday by being with me to celebrate,
and Amy brightened the house by putting together this vibrant and colorful birthday bouquet
which I enjoyed for days.
My son-in-law had to touch the flowers to see if they were real.
Thanks again, Amy.



All the kids sent me a Mother's bracelet that came from Sheridan and Ryan's shop, Hip & Humble.
I just love it!

After Amy and Hannah left for home, Jim and I took advantage of the beautiful weather we were having by taking a walk under beautiful blue skies in the Garden of the Gods.



We had a lot of cake back at the house, so Jim's daughters, their husbands. and children came over to help me celebrate later in the evening.

The next day, Jim drove me to Denver for a doctor's appointment.
After the appointment, we drove out to tour Amy's place of employment, a data storage center.
Once we passed security, we had to go through this gate to get to the front door where Amy met us.

We were very impressed by the entire operation that happens at such a place.
It was all quite interesting.
Amy is the company's human resources generalist.
The girl actually gave in and let me take her picture.
Mom's have to brag on their kids once in a while.

*****************
March has been such a busy month.
It seemed I lived at National Jewish Health during March as I was having many tests done.
I won't bore you with details.  I just had a lot of GI testing for chronic problems.
I am doing well at the moment and feeling good.
That is the good news.

******************

I've attended way too many funerals this past month.
One was for the mother of a friend.
One was a heartbreaking one of a young man whom had been a student when my husband was principal.   He was the victim of a senseless act of violence.

I also serve on the funeral committee at our church.
This last month, we've unfortunately been hit by quite a few deaths in our church.
Our committee puts on a reception for the family and other attendees after the funeral service.
This means that we usually work five or six hours putting it together and cleaning up afterwards.
The ladies on the committee have become very close,
and we have a lot of fun together behind the scenes.
At one funeral earlier this month, I was in charge of making the coffee.
The coffee maker malfunctioned.
Actually, the coffee machine was fine,
but the maker of the coffee (that would be me) put the wrong size carafe under the machine.
I had a huge mess on my hands.
Let's just say coffee was going everywhere, and it kept on flowing before I figured out what to do: forget about cleaning  up the mess and get another pot under the machine.
Then I cleaned up the mess.

We serve because we have served by others when we lost loved ones.
Now, we are giving back.
It is good to serve others during their times of bereavement.

**************

Two weeks ago, I hosted for my high school girlfriend get together.
Thank heaven's EH co-hosts with me!
I get so scattered getting everything ready that I am useless.
EH comes in and helps me set things up, get the food served, and she even stays and helps clean up.
She keeps things together while I flit around losing my mind.

The time with the girls is a celebration of fun, friendship, and food.

This time we had fabulous Mexican food.

As is our tradition, we gathered to lift a Margarita toast to those dear friends that are now departed.

Then, we feasted on homemade tamales, green chili, enchilada casserole, and the most amazing flan cake.  There were veggies, and chips and dip, cheese cake, too.

Needless to say, we had quite a feast.

Before we ate, we took our group photo on my front porch.

I used the automatic self timer on my camera for the first time.

Note that I barely got to my spot in the group before the camera took the picture.  

I'm just glad I didn't knock over the tripod.

I love these girls!
We are all so blessed to have each other.
Our friendships become richer and more priceless with each passing year.

***********

Jim and I took a road trip to see my mother last week.
I hadn't been over to see Mother since September.
Since she lives on the other side of the Rocky Mountains, I no longer make the trip in winter.
After checking the weather forecast, we determined the best day to make the trek.
On the day we left, snow started falling in the mountains.
I suggested a more southern route which my husband thought seemed too far out of the way.
In the end, he took my suggestion.
Terrible snow storms that included wind, blizzard like conditions, caused road closures on the route we usually take.
Thankfully, no snow fell on us, and we had very little traffic.

I'd not told mother we were coming until we left home because I didn't want to disappoint her in case weather prevented us from making the trip.
She seemed so happy and quite surprised to learn we were coming.

The morning after our arrival, I snapped this photo of Mother.
This photo captures so much about her.
She is enjoying her coffee and the newspaper as she does every morning.
The coffee cup says CSHS on it and has a image of her high school on it:
Colorado Springs High School.
Her green thumb is evidenced by the gorgeous orchids on her table.
I gave her those orchids last year for her birthday.
She'd never grown orchids before, but that didn't stop her from keeping them blooming a year later.
The painting on the wall is one she painted.
The smile shows she is engaged and engaging.

She tells me all the time that she isn't going to let anyone one do for her what she can do for herself.
She often tells me she gets up and cooks herself an egg and bacon every morning.
"I cook a real meal. I don't just pour cereal in a bowl.  I make a meal."
"If I stopped doing for myself I'd be done."

I asked if she needed to go shopping.
She did.
She needed make-up.
So, she got her spring coat on and off we went to the mall.

This woman, my amazing mother, will be 100 years old in May.

She has a new walker that allows her to get around better than when she uses a cane.
She stood up straight and tall and pushed that walker through the mall.
In my mind, I heard her short quickly paced high heel clad steps walking down the sidewalk in front our home when I was child as she came home
from Wednesday evening choir practice at the church in the next block.

Straight and and tall, all 4'10" of her tiny frame stepped out at a pace that amazed me as she pushed that walker.
Again, an image came to my mind.
I saw her pushing a baby buggy down the street towards the bus stop, clad in high heels, walking at a fast clip, she was going to town to do some shopping with my baby sister in the buggy,
and myself at her side.


This day, all those years later, we had lunch at the mall where she commented on hair styles and clothing styles.  She notices such things.  She's up on all the styles.  She doesn't like some of them.  I wonder if anyone even knows what style is these days.

Then we went to buy her makeup.
She said she needed one more thing while we were there.
She was out of Chanel No. 5 perfume and needed to get a new bottle.

Yes, that is my amazing mother.

**************

Today is Good Friday.
It was warm this morning.
I went out dressed in a light sweater and slacks and flats with no stockings as I went to the store.
This evening when we went to dinner, I was dressed in winter pants,  a warm sweater, and boots.
I put on my long wool dress coat that I had not put on all winter to wear to Good Friday services.
It was snowing like crazy all through dinner.
We actually had thunder snow where it was thundering and snowing at the same time.

We missed Good Friday services because of the weather.
It just didn't make sense to go out for night services on a night like this.

On Wednesday, we were snowed in due to a blizzard.
Earlier today, before the snow hit, I went out to buy groceries.
I've leaned to get to the store early when snow is in forecast.
I'm not sure if my daughter and her family will make it down on Easter because of the forecasted storms, but I thought I'd better plan as if she were coming.

I picked up the last of the asparagus at the store.
I picked up one of the last six hams that were left in the store.
I got the last of the daffodils; there weren't even a dozen in the last few I grabbed.
They had plenty of eggs which I needed.
Thank heavens, they also had plenty of jelly beans.
I love jelly beans.
The store manager told me that he'd not gotten shipments in for the end of the week
due to storm early in the week.

As I left the store, the parking lot was filling up fast.
I was glad I made it there relatively early.

I don't think we will have an Easter egg hunt on Sunday.
It would be hard to find eggs in all this snow.

Happy Easter!

*************

Twenty Years Ago Today ~ A Tale of Teaching and Toxic Exposure

Fifty years of age may seem to be an advanced age to begin teaching.  It seemed reasonable to me when I took on my new teaching career at the half century mark of my life.  Teaching had been a lifelong dream of mine.  I began college right after high school with the goal of becoming an elementary teacher.  I quit college before I achieved my goal.  Soon I was married.  Then, I was a stay-at-home mother to five children.  After a divorce which left me unprepared for the work world, I took a secretarial job and in time began to work on finishing that college degree.   By the age of forty-five, I had nearly raised five children, and I had completed a bachelor of science degree in  business administration.

The dream to teach had not died as I worked as a secretary and as a bookkeeper.  So, at age forty-eight, I finally went to work on getting the education I needed to teach.  By the time my fiftieth birthday rolled around, I had nearly completed my B.A. In English and was doing my student teaching.  I would soon be endorsed to teach secondary Language Arts.  After graduating Summa Cum Laude in May, 1995, the next hurdle I faced was finding a job.

Feeling quite fit and very healthy, I began my first year of teaching in August, 1995.  I’d been hired to teach seventh grade language arts at Risley Middle School in Pueblo, Colorado.  Risley was in a rough neighborhood.  I was advised by veteran teachers not to smile until after Thanksgiving.  Smiling would label me as a softie.  I was also told never to cry in front of those tough kids.  Many of them were already involved in gangs or in gang behavior.

My classroom was a interior room.  It had no windows.  It had been abandoned for a few years as one of those rooms that was only used when there was a larger enrollment.  In other words, it was a typical room for a newbie teacher.  I hadn’t earned the room with a view yet.  It was stripped bare of teaching supplies.  I couldn’t find a paper clip or a piece of chalk in the place.  I set about setting up as my classroom.  Soon school started, and my students arrived.

In November of 1995, the weather had turned cool.  This meant that the heating and cooling system came on in the building.  I immediately began to develop symptoms of sinus congestion, fatigue, ear pain, and headaches.  I attributed the symptoms to exposure to all those new germs that a first year teacher gets to meet.

Over the Winter Break in December, my symptoms all went away.  They reappeared with a vengeance in January when school stared up again.  I had a terrible burning in my nasal passages, a raspy voice, and a dry, irritating, non-productive cough.  My symptoms always improved over the weekend.

I also had flat red rashes wherever skin was exposed: my arms, my face, my neck, my scalp.  At first, I thought it was a reaction to a new skin cream I was using.  I quit the cream, and my symptoms only got worse.  I applied cortisone cream.  The rash stayed.  It never went away until after I was no longer teaching in that building.  My students also seemed to be sick often and were out of school in droves.  They had bronchitis and pneumonia.

Interestingly, I would notice that every Monday morning when I came into the classroom, there would be yellow dust on the desks at the front of the room, the chalkboard, and on my desk and podium.  I would dust it off and wonder how the chalk dust was getting all over the place.  Then, it dawned on me that I didn't use yellow chalk.  The concentration of dust was greatest under a very large heating duct in the ceiling that was located just over where I would stand to teach.  I was becoming suspicious of the vent.

I was continually so fatigued that I could barely function.  I taught my classes each day, did as much planning and grading as I could, and then would leave the classroom about an hour after school because I could not tolerate the respiratory, and neurological symptoms I would feel as the day progressed.  I would go home, make my way to my bed where I would read until my husband or my daughter Julie would return home for the day.  Julie was in college.  She and Jim did all of the grocery shopping.  Julie did a lot of the cooking, or Jim would bring in dinner many nights because I didn’t have the energy to go out.

On February 12, 1996, I smelled a terrible sewer like smell.  I had actually been smelling this odor off and on since late fall of 1995, but on this day, it was worse.  I also thought the odor sometimes smelt like burnt hair.  The odors seemed to be coming from the heating duct at the front of the room.  On this particular day, my classroom was not fit for instruction, so I took my students from the room and went to the library.  When I returned to the room, a sulfur smell that reminded me of rotten eggs permeated the room.  I thought the air also seemed quite moist.  In fact, I noted that a fog like appearance was on the window of my classroom door when I returned to the room.

When I returned to the room, I felt very light in my head.  I thought I would vomit from the smell and began gagging.  I asked to leave work for the rest of the day.  I called my husband to tell him what had happened.  He told me to go directly to the workman compensation doctor and to file an accident report stating that I had become ill from the air quality in my room.  I did as he suggested.  The doctor noted in his notes, “Exposure to noxious fumes.”  He also stated in the report, “Have air quality checked at work.”

The room was investigated by school district safety staff officials.  No problem was identified

On February 15, 1996, three days after my room was declared safe, I was back teaching in the same classroom.   It was the day after Valentine’s Day.  I still remember the beautiful bouquet of a dozen red roses from my husband that greeted me when I returned to my classroom that Thursday morning.  My room was cheerfully decorated with red hearts, and other decorative touches.  A student had given me a paper rose that she had fashioned for me the day before.  It was attached to my podium.  I sat at my desk to prepare for the day.  On my desk was a photo of all five of my children that was framed in cloth and cardboard picture frame that had been a gift from a parent.

I had been in the first class period of the day for about twenty minutes when I became violently ill.  I rushed to the restroom which was located near the nurse’s office, a short distance from my room.  I hesitated to leave my class unattended, but I had no choice.  I had to get to the restroom - fast!  As I ran past the nurse, I told her I was so ill that I had left my classroom unattended.  I had barely made my way into the restroom when the electrical power to the building went down.  I rushed back to the classroom, pulled my students out into the hall where we had air and some light.  We were in the hall for a very long time.  More than an hour.  My students were complaining of being sick, of having headaches, of being intolerant of the light.

As we sat in the hallway, I began to make notes in my DayTimer.  I was already keeping notes on the fluctuations in the heat of the building.  At times, it was intolerably hot.  I had been noting my symptoms at work for several months.  As I sat on that hallway floor, still sick and dizzy, I was recording the day’s event when a man walked by.  He appeared to be a maintenance worker.  I’d never seen him before.  He was dressed in overalls and a work shirt.  He was carrying a beaker like container that had some murky looking liquid in it.  He had a towel-like rag draped over his arm. He said to me as he passed by, “The electrical power should be back on soon.”  I describe the man in my DayTimer, and wrote, “Who is that guy?  Why is he in the building?  What is that awful looking liquid in his beaker?”

When the power went back on, an announcement went over the P.A. saying, “Students we will now go to second period.”  My first class period students departed. I entered my classroom, and soon, my second period students arrived.  I noticed with shock that the dozen red roses on my desk were now all drooping and dying.  They had been beautiful a few hours before.  They had plenty of water.  The paper rose was also wilted looking and no longer standing upright.  The picture frame separated where the frame was glued to the backing.

I picked up my grade book and proceeded to my podium so I could take roll.  I couldn’t read the page.  Not only that, I couldn’t form words.  My tongue felt swollen and I had “cotton mouth.”  I was slurring my speech badly, was confused, and I thought I was going black out.  A student asked with alarm in her voice, “Mrs. Wessely, what is wrong with you?”

I answered with a question, “Are you students ok?  How do you feel?”  This same student answered with, “I have a headache.  I got it when I walked in your room.  My mouth feels funny.  I think I’m going to be sick.”  I responded with, “Do you have a metallic taste in your mouth?  Do you feel like you have cotton in your mouth.”  A resounding “yes” from the students came back to me.

I walked over to the phone on the wall and called the school nurse.  “Come and get me.  I’m going down.  I’m very sick and about to black out.  My students are also sick.”  She was there in just a few minutes.  She led us out of the room and took us to the gymnasium with instructions to “call the health department.”

Most in the school personnel  thought I was crazy, but other teachers were also having significant problems.  The custodian would make a show of telling me the room was just fine and not too hot.  I heard through the grapevine that I was a menopausal hysteric.

On February 15^th, just three days after my room had been declared “fine” the health department official came out to the school and entered my classroom.  She promptly got sick.  My room was closed down with a sign that said, “DO NOT ENTER.”  She and I would meet over the next months at the work comp office.  I still remember the union president saying to me in a somewhat mocking voice, “Sally, you have been vindicated.  The health department employee got sick in your classroom.” I never taught in that classroom again.

Another specialist from the health department was called in.  He interviewed me and noted I was confused and slurring my speech.  He asked a fellow teacher friend if I often drank on the job. 

One month later, the entire school was closed down.  We were not allowed to take our textbooks, our grade books, or any other item from our classrooms.  We completed the year in three different locations.  The school was gutted and the heating and cooling system was revamped.  I think it would be conservative to say that millions of dollars in law suits, doctor bills, and reconstruction cost to the school would be spent over years to follow.  I guess I wasn’t crazy after all.

As a teacher in the State of Colorado, I could not sue my employer no matter negligent their actions might have been.  There were lawsuits in this matter where I was a plaintiff and where I was a witness.  Many called me the “whistle blower.”  That title was bestowed upon me when I first went to the work comp doctor.  He told me he wouldn’t go back in the classroom without a canary on his shoulder.

What was I exposed to?  The doctor’s report reads:  

Documented exposures in the building include high level biocide and fungicide
exporters.  These include: Diamet, 2-mercapatobenzothiazole, (2-MBT), both of
which are known sensitizers, as well as polyacrylic acid copolymer, polyethylene
dichloride, and irritants potassium hydroxide, sodium hydroxide, and phosphoric
acid.  The other concern in this building is potential bioaerosol exposures related to
the use of evaporative cooling, and duct board duct work.  

My Medical Records
from the Chemical Exposure

My workman comp medical file is nearly six and one half inches thick.  I have another equally thick file from attorneys.  In the next fifteen years before my file was closed out, I would see nineteen different doctors that were related to the injury in one way or the other.  I went through three workman comp attorneys because they kept retiring.

  A handful of doctors, three to be exact, believed me when I first started linking symptoms with my environment.  They were my first work comp doctor whom I saw on February 12, 1996.  He told me to put a canary on my shoulder when I returned to my classroom.  He was serious.  The other was my internist.  He told me to get out of town to get a good evaluation.  He was right. I insisted and was finally able to be sent to my wonderful doctor at National Jewish Health.  She is still my doctor. 

**********

At the end of the school year, my contract was not renewed by the school district.  My passion to teach was not dampened by my first year of teaching when I suffered a terrible chemical exposure.  I finished the year as a very sick woman, but I was determined to find another teaching job. 

I am proud to note that I never cried.  The kids knew I was tough and that I would stand up for them and look out for their best interests.

The next school year, I was hired to teach English and English as a Second Language at the high school level.  I went on to earn a M.A. in Teaching English as a Second Language.  Eight years later, I left the classroom and ended my career by writing curriculum and developing a program where teachers could earn an endorsement in Teaching the Linguistically Different (ESL) at Colorado State University-Pueblo.  I also taught future teachers of ESL and Secondary English at CSU-P.  I learned a lot my first year of teaching.  Mostly, I learned that I love to teach and nothing would stop me from pursuing my chosen career.  

***********

I’ve needed to write this account for a very long time.*  Many of the details of the initial exposure are fresh in my mind.  It took me years to get over the emotional effects of learning I was teaching in a very unsafe environment.  I believe I carry the physical effects of the chemical exposure in my body today.  I’ve never again been healthy like I was twenty years ago.  The doctor’s notes, the legal papers, tell the tale.  If they weren’t in my possession, sometime I wonder if even I would believe this story of my first year of teaching.  

* I wrote about my journey to becoming a teacher here:  Time in the classroom: Becoming a teacher. I promised I would write about my memorable first year of teaching.  I finally did.

Valentine's Day

We didn't exchange cards this year.

I say to him,

"Have you seen the cost of a card?"

I heard a commentator on the radio say you could buy a paperback book for the cost of a card.

True that!

I suggested we go to the store, 

pick out a card for each other,

exchange the cards we pick in the card aisle,

then, put the card back and go to dinner on the money we saved.

Jim loved that idea.

I have files full of cards from my Valentine.

I think I've saved them all.

He saves his too.

Maybe we should pick out our favorites and re-exchange them.

There is no doubt that this man is my Valentine whether I give him a card or not.

A blog post is free, so this one is dedicated to one I love.  

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

My Valentine
2012

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

There was a day, a very long time ago, when we were in high school, when this guy was my date to the Sadie Hawkins Sock Hop.

He was crowned the King of the Hop.

I was the lucky girl that he took home from the dance.

I was smitten then.

I still am.

Those kind brown eyes are the eyes that belong to the man I adore.

How can we ever know when we first meet someone whether or not they are that special someone?

If my daughters or granddaughter's would ask me that question,

what would I say?

I think that special someone should be

solid as a rock.

Can you count on that one you have fallen for?

Is he the real deal?

Will he be there through thick or thin?

Is that special someone kind?

Does he say and do kind things?

Is his kindness authentic?

Or is he just trying to impress you?

The man I chose for my Valentine is always kind.

He's impressive, but he doesn't seek to impress.

Does the one you think you love have a giving nature,

or does he need to always receive?

As I think of all the traits that a Valentine should have, my list could go on and on.

Let me sum it up by saying,

look for:

kindness,

tenderness,

faithfulness,

loyalty,

wisdom,

flexibility,

acceptance,

persistence,

endurance,

dependability,

romance,

a sense of humor, and

a bit of orneriness.

Look for someone with:

stability,

and

spunkiness.

Look for someone with a strong character.

Is he the same person when no one is looking?

Look for someone without bad habits.

Look for someone who values:

faith,

family,

and education.

Trust me.

Someday, those things will matter.

Would your Valentine make a good parent?

Does he love kids?

Is he willing to invest in the future by working with the youth of today?

Does your Valentine, love you?

Really love you?

If you left your Valentine for thirty years and he suddenly came back into his life,

would he still love you?

My Valentine meets all of the criteria above.  

I remember when my girlfriends and I were in high school, we would ask each other what we wanted in our boyfriends, or in the guy we might marry.

We'd say things like,

He's a good dancer.

Do you remember saying that?

Actually, I love to dance with Jim.  He gets the most charming look in his eyes, and his smile is so darn cute when we dance, that I guess I can check off that box.

Somewhere down on the shelf, in a high school yearbook, 

there is a photo of Jim and me dancing at the East High Homecoming Dance in 1961.

When we went to our first prom together in 1961, we never could have imagined that

Jim & Sally
1961

 we would go to our last prom in 2012.

Jim & Sally 2012

Because he was a high school principal, I danced with my Valentine at many a prom over the years.

Along the way, this is what I learned:

It isn't about the 

dance,

it's about the

dance partner.

Choose wisely.

Our dance has not always been one we would want to display on the ballroom floor.

Sometimes, we have a power struggle over who is going to lead.

Sometimes, we are just plain out of step with each other.

Other times, the music seems all wrong.

Sometimes, it seems the evening has drug on way too long,

 and we just want to sit the next dance out.

Then, another year rolls around,

Valentine's Day brings up the subject of love and romance.

I look at that dear man across the room from me on an early Sunday morning, 

his eyes still sparkle even when he doesn't feel that well.

He is incredibly warm and loving towards me.

He is supportive and accepting of me.

He is still my funny Valentine.

He makes me smile.

He makes me laugh.

He makes my heart ping with love.

He brings a tear to my eye because I am so grateful to have this man as my husband.

Since I didn't buy him a card,

I promised to take him to a new coffee shop that has some great treats and a romantic atmosphere.

So, I will end this this Valentine's Day tribute by saying,

I love you more today than I did yesterday.

I hope to spend many tomorrows with you, the man I love. 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Jim & Sally
Brown Palace
Anniversary Trip 2013

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

XO,

Sally

The Writing Class

When I retired, I thought I would spend a lot of time writing.  I planned that finally get that memoir written. I had grandiose plans for myself whenever I thought about retirement.  Perhaps, the most grandiose idea of all was that I would spend a lot of time writing.

Since I retired, most of the writing I have done has consisted of writing in this blog.  I took up blogging in 2008 in order to have an outlet for all the writing I envisioned myself doing. It is hard to believe that I have published 372 posts over the past seven years. Blogging  has provided a great platform for writing.  Along the way, blogging gave me a bonus I never expected:  I made many friends through blogging. My life has also been so enriched by learning of so many new and different topics through reading blogs.  News around the world and nation has a new relevance to me because I  have blogging friends living in places where the news event is taking place.  My life has been broadened more than I imagined through my writing.

Even though I have written all those blog posts, I just never seem to get down to the real practice of writing that I envisioned I would do during my retirement years.  I write most days, but if I don't blog,  my writing mostly consists of journaling.  Journaling has become an important part of my writing journey as my journals have been the place where I worked through the grief I have experienced over the past five years after the death of my daughter Julie.

 Several of my dear friends are gifted writers and share a desire to get some serious writing done.  We have met on occasion over the years.  We always make promises to keep meeting to write, but then, life gets in the way and we cancel our next get together and don't meet to write.

In October, five of my blogging friends and I, the Vashionistas, as we call ourselves met for five days
 on Vashon Island in Washington to write.  It was dream come true for me.  I had often thought how wonderful it would be to spend a week writing with these great ladies, and it was great in many ways.  I guess you can say that the experience stimulated that desire to get serious about getting some serious writing done.

When I got home from my time with my blogging friends at the wonderful Lavender Hill on Vashon Island, I immediately began to search for a writing class.  I found that one was being offered through a local writing community that would be taught by Kathryn Eastburn.  I knew of Kathryn because of the writing that she had done as editor and co-founder of the Colorado Springs Independent, a local newspaper.  I also had taken a class several years ago with a woman who spoke highly of all she had learned from Kathryn when she had taken a class in creative nonfiction from her at Colorado College.
I knew that opportunities to take a class from such a great instructor are rare. so I paid my money and signed up for the class.

The timing for the class was not the best in that it would go from October 22 until December 17.  That is right during the holidays, I thought as I pondered whether or not I should sign up for the class that was limited to ten participants.  The timing of the class was difficult.  It certainly added to the stress of the season, but it is also good to have deadlines so that writing gets done.  We met once a week on Thursday nights from 6:30 to 8:30.  The class ended just before Christmas.  I felt a big hole in my life when I no longer had the mental stimulation and inspiration the class provided.

I so enjoyed the class.  Kathryn is the best.  She gave me so much insight into reading and writing creative non-fiction.  We had the best reading assignments that have given me great insight into how others have gone about writing memoir.  It was great being introduced to new authors I had never read before.  I wondered at times what rock I have been under that I have missed the work by these authors.  I most enjoyed reading selection from Truth and Beauty by Ann Patchett, and a selection by JoAnn Beard from her book, Cousins.  An essay that appeared in the New York Times by JoAnn Beard entitled, The Fourth State of Matter, blew me away.  Blogging friends, take the time to read this essay.  It is an amazing piece of work, and a story that won't be forgotten.

Not only did I enjoy some great reading time because of the selections that Kathryn assigned for the class, but I also greatly enjoyed, and learned much, from the discussions we had in class about what we had read.

Every week, we would receive two or three pieces of writing from our fellow classmates to read.  As we read, we were to annotate the piece of writing so that we could workshop the piece in class the following week.  Some of you readers may not be familiar with the term "workshop" as it is used in the context of writing.  Think of writing an essay and then submitting it to several readers for feedback.  The reader is not acting as the grammar police looking for mistakes.  The reader is instead reading to give the writer or author feedback that speaks to the strengths and weaknesses of the writing.  What works?  What doesn't work?  Where should the writer give more detail?

It may seem scary to submit writing to be workshopped, and to be honest, it is.  A very safe and supportive environment must be established in order for this type of writing experience to work for all of the participants.  It is really up to the instructor or facilitator to create this type of learning environment.  Kathryn is an excellent facilitator/instructor.  She creates a stimulating, welcoming, safe, and instructive place where I personally felt very free to create and learn.


Stephen Krashen, a linguist and professor emeritus at the University of Southern California, my hero when it comes to teaching and learning in the area of linguistics and second language learning,  teaches teachers about of the affective filter.  Many students in the literacy classroom come equipped with a well constructed affective filters through which they pass the instruction being delivered by the teacher.  This filter must be lowered by the teacher by creating a safe learning environment before the student is able to comprehend the input coming from the teacher.  This theory hold true for me as an adult learner.  If I don't feel safe in a writing community, or in the environment in which I write, I am not able to write if I don't feel safe and supported.  I am grateful that Kathryn created such a community and environment and restored my confidence in writing for others.
Over the course of the weeks I took the writing class, I was able to produce quite a bit of writing.  The feedback I received from the pieces I submitted was very positive.  As a writer, I am my own worst critic.  I think the things that just won't work in a piece of writing are surprisingly the things that my readers liked best.

After the class ended, and after the holidays were over, my fellow writing group ladies and I began to email each other about how much we missed our Thursday nights together.  After a bit of discussion on where and when to meet, we settled on a plan to continue to hold writing workshops on Thursday nights from 6:30 to 8:30.

Last night five of us met at the appointed time in the upstairs room of a wonderful coffee shop in Old Colorado City.  Each of us armed with a pot of tea, our notebooks, pens, and books, ascended the staircase to sit in an inviting private room around a large round oak table.  We are reserving the room for a month on Thursday nights at a rate of $25 a night which can be covered by our tea or food purchases and a bit more.

We will follow the same format as before.  Work will be submitted on Sunday nights for the others to read and annotate.  We will produce writings twice during our month together.  We shared the books we have been reading.  We share personal stories of the storytellers in our life.   We determined our plan and process.

The writing group continues.  Perhaps, this month I will actually get  a chapter written on my WIP (Work in Progress).  The group has really helped me find a focus and the work is seeming less scattered.  I am so looking forward to seeing what we all will produce.

Hair ~ A Journey of Loss

Today, after consulting with one of the specialists at the University of Colorado Anschutz Medical Campus,  I made a decision that I regret not making nearly two years ago.  Now that the decision has been made, I wonder why it took me so long to make it.  I think the main reason for not making the decision was denial and fear.  I am not one to take medicines.  I resist taking medicine until I know I have no other option.

I hardly know where to begin in telling you this story about a journey I have been on that started more than ten years ago.  I've never written about this journey.  Oh, I written many a blog post in my mind, but I've committed none of these posts to writing.  I've only written about this journey in my journal and in my writing group.  Now the time has come when I am finally ready to tell you about my journey into the world of hair loss.

I don't really know when the journey began because it was a completely innocuous journey in the beginning.  I noticed many years ago that I no longer had hair on my arms, but then, I never had a lot of hair, so I thought little of it.  Then, I noticed I didn't need to shave my legs because I didn't have hair on my legs.  Score!  That is a benefit that I get from going through menopause, was my first thought.

Next, as I innocently proceeded on this journey I didn't know I was on, I started noticing that I had a red inflamed spot on the left side of my hair line.  It didn't itch.  It just looked terrible.  I also noticed that hair would fall out when the spot seemed to heal and move to a new spot.  Finally, on April 6, 2006, nearly ten years ago, I consulted a dermatologist.  I told him it looked like I had an infection or inflammation of some type on my scalp.  I somewhat sheepishly told him I didn't know what to do about it so I was treating the area with Listerine.  Seriously, I did that!  My logic was that putting this antiseptic on the weird looking sore would be better than doing nothing.  I had also stopped using the hair product I was using because I thought my scalp was reacting to it.

I was already into a hair loss journey in this photo, but I didn't know it.

2011

Frankly, I was dismissed by the derm.  I think he thought I was a nut job.  I guess I can forgive him for that.  I'm sure he hadn't seen anyone else that was using Listerine on skin problems that day.  He asked me if I had tried Windex.  Funny.  He then said he didn't know what it was.  He'd never seen it before.  He thought it might be psoriasis, but it didn't really look like it.  I have a history of psoriasis, so I accepted his diagnosis.  He did not offer to biopsy the area.  He gave me a prescription for Protopic and sent me on my way.  The Protopic cleared up the worst of the inflammation, and I thought little about it again.

My hair continued to thin.  I fretted, but I also figured it was a part of aging.

I remember that during the summer of 2010, just months after my daughter Julie died, my hair started falling out enough to notice.  My clothes would be covered with fine silver hair.  When my friends or family would start picking it off of my clothes, I called it my tinsel.  The tinsel is falling of the tree, I'd say.  I was told by doctors that stress was causing my hair loss.  "It will come back."

In July of 2011, I was visiting my daughter in Utah during a time of great stress for her.  The morning after I arrived, as I was putting on my makeup, I noticed my eyebrows were completely gone.  They'd been there the day before.  I called to my daughter, "Keicha, come here.  Do you see any hair where my eyebrows should be?  Where have my eyebrows gone?"  She confirmed that the eyebrows were indeed gone.  She didn't know their whereabouts.  This seemed really odd.  Under my breath, I said "I rather liked my eyebrows."

Another doctor visit about the the loss of the eyebrows received this response, "Have you been plucking them?"  Seriously.  In the doctor's defense, I must say that it was actually a legitimate question.  Perhaps, she thought my stress had started manifesting itself with trichotillomania, otherwise known as hair-pulling disorder.

I saw a new dermatologist.  She was a personal friend and knew of my recent loss.  She was compassionate and supportive.  She thought I had a form of alopecia.  She said stress could have triggered it, but she thought we should take a wait and see approach. She said it wasn't really presenting like alopecia areata.

Alopecia

al·o·pe·ci·a

ˌaləˈpēSH(ē)ə/

noun

MEDICINE

1. the partial or complete absence of hair from areas of the body where it normally grows; baldness.

Alopecia, a word I couldn't even pronounce if I did remember the term when describing a person who suffered from the condition.

I remember coming home from the appointment and looking up the condition on Dr. Google.  I wrote the term down and practiced saying it.  I didn't want to forget what it was.  (Believe me there has been no forgetting!)  This doctor was the third doctor that I had seen for my hair loss.

I looked up the specialist for alopecia areata on Dr. Google.  I found it was Dr. Norris at UC Health.  I felt I was a bit premature to try to get an appoint with him.

The next time I saw my endocrinologist, I asked her what she thought was going on.  She said that my thyroid was not the problem.  She said that it could be stress that was causing the problem, but she wanted me to get the scalp biopsied.

Heaven only knows why it took me a year to get a scalp biopsy.  There are legitimate reasons:  I had a fall that resulted in a head injury.  I suffered from visual vestibular disorder and couldn't drive for a year.  I had heart problems I was chasing down.  I had digestive problems I was trying to solve.  We sold our house.  We moved.  I had a lot going on.  My hair continued to fall out.

Finally in March of 2013, I saw another new to me dermatologist in Colorado Springs. He immediately diagnosed me as having frontal fibrosing alopecia, but he said that he would have to biopsy my scalp for a solid diagnosis.  I had never heard of FFA before.  The biopsy came back confirming FFA and lichen planopliaris.  He sat me down and painted a grim future for me and my hair.  He showed me pictures from the internet.  I was in shock and disbelief.  "Surely this won't happen to me."   He said that there was really no treatment, and he said that the treatments that might help were dangerous.  Plaquenil was mentioned as something I could try, but he thought the risks out weighted the benefits.  He said nothing would bring my hair back.  The plaquenil just might stop the process of loss.  I chose not to take plaquenil.  He prescribed clobetasol as a topical to help with the itching, pain, and soreness.  Yes, FFA and LLP are quite painful.  The pain is physical and not just emotional.

I saw Dr. Norris at UC Health in early to mid 2014.  He wanted to give me plaquenil.  He also prescribed finasteride, using its non-generic name of Avodart.  He said, "Avodart is being seen as having success in fighting FFA in the literature coming from the research being done at Duke University.  It is given to men with enlarged prostate, but it seems to stop the progression of FFA."  I was in shock, and quite frankly, I thought to myself that the man was grasping at straws.  Well, I was too, but I wasn't quite ready to be a lab rat.  Later that evening, I received a call from the pharmacist.  "I just received a prescription for finasteride for you from a doctor at the University hospital.  I've never seen this prescribed to a woman before.  I think there has been a mistake."  I assured him it was not a mistake.  I asked for his input.  In the end, I decided against taking any oral medications.  I did not want to be a science project.

I found another dermatologist.  This one prescribed topical steroid treatments.  I also began getting Kenalog shots in the scalp.  I broke out in rashes from the shots.  I broke out in rashes from all the traditional steroid treatments.  I took pictures of the rashes to show my doc.  He said "No more steroids for you."  My hair continued to fall out.

I learned how to cover up a lot of the loss with headbands, scarves, hats.  Then, I bought a hair piece.  I then bought three different wigs.  I cut up the wigs and made my own hair pieces.  I had a hair piece handmade for me to match my hair loss pattern.  I had not counted on having the loss spread even more to the crown of my head over the last couple of months.  I was truly in denial that it would ever get that bad.  I no longer can disguise my condition.

Below is a selfie of my new hair piece that I had designed and made for me.  Only the bangs and the top part of the sides are not my real hair.  The back of my head is covered with my own hair.  I love the solution that my amazing cranial prosthesis hair dresser at made for me.  My eyebrows are drawn on everyday.  I must do a pretty good job because I've fooled more than one doctor when I've told them my eyebrows are gone.

After Christmas, I called Dr. Norris and made an appointment.  I was now willing to take finasteride and plaquenil.  My doctors at National Jewish encouraged me to try these medications and assured me of their safety.  I was told I had to do something about the inflammation levels in my body.  Inflammation has  destroyed much my hair by causing it to to fall out and leave behind scar tissue that will never again produce hair.  I don't need inflammation to destroy my heart or my joints or any other part of my body.  I have several auto-immune diseases now.  Two of them are quite rare.  I don't need any more.  I have made my decision.  I'm taking the medicine.  I giving this terrible, disfiguring, destructive disease a good fight.  I hope to stop the loss.  Who knows, maybe I will even grow back a bit of my hair.

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A True Throw Back Thursday

Today was a cold and snowy day.  It was a perfect day to stay home and get some things done.  I finally put the final touches on returning the house to its normal state. It always seems a bit dull around here when all of Christmas is put away, so I tried to brighten up the living room by moving a few of my favorite things to the coffee table in front of the couch.  We can call this a study in red.  This should keep things a bit more cheery and colorful during January.

I then pulled out one of my favorite tea cups, one given to me by a teaching friend as a remembrance of the time I went to Caernarfon, Wales, and filled it with the special tea my son had sent me for Christmas last year and headed downstairs.

At the end of December, in the midst of putting away Christmas decorations, I began the task of attempting an organization of storage shelves.  That led to me cleaning out closets.  That led to pulling boxes full of stuff out of closets and peeking inside of them to see what on earth was filling them.  That led to me deciding I needed a new system of storing stuff so I could find the stuff I wanted to find.

This is what I came up with.  Jim and I found a great solution for our storage problems at the Container Store.  It was on sale, so we bought it and had it installed in an empty corner of the family room. I think it will be a great place to store all of the stuff currently living in boxes stored in places we can't remember.

When we moved into this house a little over three years ago, the goal was to get the house as livable as possible as soon as possible.  That meant that many boxes of stuff were pushed into closets, put on shelves, or hauled into the crawl space.  I'll get to them someday, was the promise I made.

Today, I hauled out one box from the closet in the downstairs bedroom.  This box was filled with notebooks, journals, and bits of writing from the past.  I've had quite a day of doing research and discovery by going back and peeking into a few of those notebooks.  It has truly been a throw back Thursday.

 Hopefully, we won't have any guests in the next day or two since I have made a mess of the guest room/downstairs study.

One notebook was mostly empty, but it contained a few gems from 1991.  I was a single mom then.  Amy, and Julie were in high school.  Jonathan was in junior high.  The notebook that I found from that time period lived near the phone in kitchen.  It was supposed to be where we left messages for each other.  Here are a few gems:

• From Amy:  Mom, Julie needs her shoes out of my car for track.  Can you pick me up at 1:30 on Weber?
• Mom, I went with Rick to wash his car.  Be home by 3:30.  Amy  
• Andrea & Julie called.  Barb R called.
• Mom, Amy and I went to the Citadel to get her earrings.  She will clean the house when she gets home.  Love, Julie
• My response on that same day at 4:30  "It's a good thing at least this kitchen is cleaned.  I did not make this mess and I won't come home to it.  I went jogging.  Amy - when you finish reading the paper, put it away!  And your backpack does not belong on the table.  
• Mom, Don't forget to leave me some money so that I can go to the bonfire & football game this weekend.  Have fun this weekend.  Love Julie XOXO
• My response:  Amy has $ for you all.  She also has the video card for Safeway.  Give Aunt Carol my # 1-395-2477 - Trail West.  Phone # where I will be.  XOXOXO Mom
• Julie: wire to starter is loose.  

Those were the days before texting!  I wish I had more of those messages.  They are treasures now.  I guess I was a pretty mean mom.  I expected a clean home when I got home from work.  Actually, the kids were very good most of the time about that.  They knew I hated to see a mess when I walked in the door, so at least I was usually greeted with a clear vista.  Their rooms were another story.

I loved this gem.  Julie had written "My hole name Julie Ann Christiansen" in one of my notebooks.  I laughed when I saw it.  Then, I cried.  It broke my heart to see her childhood handwriting, but I was also so grateful to have it.

This little love note was no doubt written in church because it was written on an old notebook filled with my notes from sermons in the 80s.  Julie had surrounded her sweet note with drawings of a rainbow and fish symbols, representing believers in Christ.  I noticed Jon had also written his name and drawn a silly picture.  The memories of those two sitting next to me in church came flooding back.

Another journal contained entries from a journal started whenI made a career change in 2004.  I realized that twelve years ago this week, I left the classroom where I was teaching high school English/Language Arts and went to Colorado State University-Pueblo to become a program coordinator.  My job was to help write the curriculum for and develop the program to train teachers to become endorsed to teach linguistically diverse students.  I cannot believe it has already been twelve years since that milestone in my life.

I wrote in my journal:
 1/9/04 Well, I'm here!  I finally made it!  I've landed a job at the University level and I have an office!  I can hardly believe my good fortune.  I am just getting set up and trying to figure out what the heck I'm doing on my new job.  My title:  Program Coordinator English Language Learners Preparation Program for Teachers of Linguistically Diverse Students.

I have to laugh when I read my job title.  It was quite a long one.  I loved my days in this position so much.  I never would have retired if I would have had my way, but the job was based on grant funding.  Once the funding went away, so did the job.

The photo below was taken in my office not long after I started the new job when a friend and former helper in my classroom at the high school came to visit me when she was in the States visiting from her home in Taiwan.  She was a CSU-P grad.

2004
Colorado State University-Pueblo
Sally with professional friend

I have so many professional notebooks that I still can't seem to throw out.  This one is really special because it contains the portfolio I put together after participating in the Southern Colorado Writing Project.  This was the best professional development experience I ever had.  It was also the best experience I ever had in participating in a writing group.  I leafed through it and found it filled with writings and notes that I want to investigate further.

  

As I go through old notebooks and journals, I wonder if I should just throw them all out.  I know many of you would do that, or have done that.  Sometimes such books hold a record of great pain, but they also can lead to new understandings of self and why decisions were made a certain way.  I wonder at times why I didn't write more during times of great joy and fulfillment.  I tend to write more when I am sorting out my life decisions.  

Do you keep journals?  If so, do you think you will destroy them before you leave this earth?  If so, why or why not.  For now, my journals are going in a locked file cabinet.  Only I know where the key is.  I hope I don't forget where it is!  Actually, I know I have two hidden keys, but I only know where one key is at the moment.

I've have so enjoyed this throwback Thursday.  As a bonus, I got one box emptied.  Now, on to all those others.