The Rosary Maker

I have a rosary that I have kept in my pocket for many years. It was given to me by an older fellow who used to make rosaries at our church. The beads on the rosary are that particular shade of blue that bring to mind the flowing scapular upon the Blessed Mother's shoulders. This rosary stemmed a lifelong devotion to the Blessed Mother... even in the years that I was without faith, I carried that rosary in my pocket and that shade of blue upon my spirit.

That kind old man has long ago passed away and this rosary is the only thing I have to remind myself of him; that man whose face I cannot even picture anymore. I am sure, as none other can be, that the old rosary maker is in heaven and is praying every day for the strength of my weak spirit. I hold that rosary every night and rub my fingers along its beads as I fall into the arms of rest.

I remember vaguely the day that I had that rosary blessed, I had the hardest time letting it pass from my fingers. My mother walked me to the sacristy and helped me to hand it to the priest, who with that kind glint in his eye managed to explain everything about the rosary to me while blessing the holy object. The exuberance and ecstasy at holding and having something that allowed me to everyday speak to the Blessed Mother gave me shivers of pure joy.

When I fell in love for the first time, a love preserved only for the youngest of hearts, I had that rosary with me every day. It was before a grand statue that the object of my affection and I would kneel and pray and ask for our Blessed Mother's guidance. The young lady I had fallen head over heels for would leave roses at the Blessed Mother's feet for me to find and I would leave red carnations, symbols of our undying affection.

Only when I fell into sepsis, a year ago today, was I without that beautiful object of blue. That horrible infection which I spend every day in fear of; unwilling most times to even leave the house for fear of catching a virus and falling into sepsis. I was given a gift those ten days in the hospital, a gift not physical but metaphysical in the most accurate sense of the word... I, for the first time, felt the presence of God.

I swore upon that bed of my illness that whatever was to follow, in pain and in fear, I would offer to His Mother and endure courageously. Now, though I have not been the most courageous in this path nor always had the capability to offer this suffering to our Blessed Mother... I believe that he who gave me the rosary has directed my foolish words, my anger, and my sadness inward and helped me to glorify God even when I was not. I believe that old rosary maker is praying fervently for me on my path.

Stronger

Starting this week I am to begin taking a methotrexate shot every week. Following my procedure, which will take place on Thursday the 6th of December (an attempt to loosen a stricture in my ileum), I will begin a long journey with the immunosuppressive drug. I attempted a course with 6-MP for only six days, which turned out to be detrimental to the growth of the bone marrow in my body as a result of a missing enzyme. It turns out I am one of the six percent of white American males who are missing the enzyme necessary to process 6-MP.

I am facing a great deal of fear in the face of this new treatment. I have fought the use of immunosuppressive drugs for a great while in an attempt to avoid the terrible side effects and the dangers that are carried with them. It was only in desperation that I consented to this treatment plan of immunosuppressive drugs. Every week I will have to use an insulin syringe to inject methotrexate into my stomach. Indeed I feel a great deal of empathy for my diabetic brethren, who have had to inject insulin into themselves for years.

I came off of my daily dose of prednisone last week, and it (as many can attest to) was not the greatest in the side effect category. My stomach pain increased substantially with the use of the medicine, I guess, on the other hand, I have been ulcer free. I feel as though I must sacrifice one thing for another in this trial... that there is no clear path without a price. I pray only that I gain the strength to persevere in this chosen path. 

My doctors, one of whom is the most respected gastroenterologist in California and the other the most passionate rheumatologist in the world, have striven a great deal to find the answer and treat the pain. I feel safe in their hands and I trust their decisions, which says a great deal about them, because I am not one known for my love of doctors. The two have given a "differential diagnosis", which they are treating with full force, perhaps, when the dust settles in this struggle to attain a better state of life, I will come out stronger and better than I ever was before. For they say: what does not kill you makes you stronger.  

Food

In my childhood Thanksgiving morning was spent with a tall glass of milk and an entire package of graham crackers. I remember submerging the cracker in the milk and allowing it to become so soggy that when I removed it there was no way of telling whether I would lose half the cracker to the depths of the glass or actually manage to get it into my mouth. The taste of milk on a chilly morning while smelling the sweet scent of my mother's pumpkin candles created a beautiful environment of joy on Thanksgiving morning.

My two younger brothers would take their share of crackers and milk and together the three of us would successfully (in less than an hour) mess up my mother's freshly cleaned table(which had taken several hours to clean). The soggy crackers would cake onto the tiles of the kitchen table with a vengeance, and, no matter how hard we tried, nothing short of the toughest sponge would remove the residue of crackers and milk.

As the afternoon rolled around my brothers and I would hide in our room trying our best to avoid working on the house in preparation of the company coming for dinner. We would wait impatiently for dinner and the cold bottle of Martinelli's apple cider, while not helping in any way, shape, or form. We would hide in the closet, outside, and in any other place our older brothers or our parents were not.

My brothers and I would eat, truly, all day and all night. Enjoying every bite of turkey made by my mother's expert hands and every bit of apple pie artfully crafted by my sister. The food, though it hit us hard as bedtime rolled around, was a tasty memory in our lives and one we tried to replicate every year.

Now, I await dinner knowing that the majority of it will not touch my lips. I know that milk will put my stomach into a frenzy, that stuffing will do much the same, and Martinelli's is most definitely off limits. I enjoy a mild shake of gluten free, weight gaining, banana flavored protein powder mixed in a vitamixer with almond milk and how ever much yogurt I can tolerate for breakfast and know without a doubt that lunch won't be much better.

Perhaps I remember wrongly. Perhaps I remember badly. Perhaps the memories were not of food, but of something infinitely more important...

Memories of my mother's tireless work, my brothers' abnormal happiness, and my father's attempt to cancel the dinner at every turn. Perhaps it was not so much the food that made such great memories, but those that I spent the day with. I am thankful indeed for the memories, memories not of binge eating... but, of my beautiful family and the many hours of happiness spent with them on Turkey day.

The Conqueror

I remember only vaguely the day that I fell into septic shock. I remember the struggle the doctors went through to treat me, while the numerous pregnant or new mother nurses stood unwilling to come into my room, because they feared that I had C. Diff. I remember how my mother sat beside tirelessly holding my hand as I fought against the hands of death into the wee hours of the morning.

I remember (a seemingly worthless memory) the woman who drew my blood for tests that night. The woman who, at first in a very foul mood, became kind and gentle after learning that I had an autoimmune disease. She explained, knowing my ear to be an empathetic one, that she had suffered from Lupus for many years and was quite worn out waiting for remission.

I learned a very valuable lesson that day. We who suffer from these diseases, these horrible invisible enemies with their cold dark fingers tearing the life from our very bodies, find a treasure in each other. We find that we can be strong in the face of the seemingly endless pain knowing that we are not alone; knowing that we have people who truly understand.

I will not explain in what form my body attacks itself, because I know that the details are useless, endless pain is endless pain... no matter what place it calls home. I know a woman who has suffered from Lupus for a great while who smiles every day and offers words of encouragement to all those she comes into contact with... and another woman, with Crohn's Disease, who has given birth to ten children, risking so much for the sake of those little ones. Both women suffer, and yet neither would say their pain is worse than the other's pain. Both know how difficult the other's trial is and empathizes with it wholeheartedly.

This blog is for the purpose of sharing my experiences as I follow the path this disease takes me along and to share my insights with others. I am at the front end of this disease and know that I have yet another gauntlet to run and so my insights will grow more insightful as time passes.

There is not a great number who can attest to understanding what this pain is like (thank God), but there still is a fairly large chunk of society who can... and to each of you this blog is dedicated. For we, brothers and sisters in the face of trial, know that to be a conqueror is hard... but, is far from impossible.