My "crash" scene

Well, this serves me right. I can't think how to start. And, oh wow, I wish I'd been writing smaller posts than I usually do, more often, so that there weren't these long breaks between them.

Aha, but there's also been this eye problem... Whereby, I could hardly see the keyboard and so was lucky to put anything on the computer, let alone, my dear blog posts. For a while, till today...

Today, thanks to Tom, my brilliant son, I got a reprieve from keyboard "blindness" and to write a bit longer... This morning, he stuck some large key stickers (c/o the RNIB [Royal National Institute for the Blind]) onto my keyboard, and made all of my writing endeavours easier...and much more fun!

Yep, if I'm perfectly honest – and what is a blog for, if not for telling the absolute truth about one's life (that is, of course, if it's a journal and not something like a cookery blog!)? – I'm not in a very good state, physically. A few months ago, I had what my MS nurse would call a "crash" – perhaps an exacerbation, indicating that I have progressive relapsing multiple sclerosis (PRMS), rather than primary progressive (PPMS), as previously supposed: who knows? and: does it really matter? - a dramatic worsening of every symptom...

But, we'll come to that - if we must! First of all, I should tell you the good stuff...

Lucy's still here; Tom's back and is here most of the time; I - for some reason – have not gone yet...and – most important - God is constant; Jesus, with His cross, always leading...

The biggest change in the home, without a doubt - and, thankfully – has to be my care package... Yes, you will remember how I wasn't getting on very well with the agency and, much as I did like and get on with my male carer ('A.'), Tom didn't...and, anyway, he (A.) left when his girlfiend got ill and then I got stuck with lots of women, most of whom liked me even less than I liked them... And so: I took my direct payments to Gumtree.

I advertized for male PA/carers, heard from about a hundred applicants, interviewed three (all of whom wanted to move in right then!) and ended up employing one (I'll call him 'D.') – with Tom volunteering to be "cover-carer" (i.e. standing in for D. whenever he was on holiday, etc.).

Well, D. had said he'd be here at least a year, he's into his fifth month now...and I couldn't have been happier with a carer...

I think he's a saint! Really.

D. is a young man, younger than Tom, a former carer for autistic children and a couple of physically disabled seniors.

And he's so gentle, so quiet - I'm almost afraid of being too loud for him, and Tom and I together certainly are! – we (including Lucy!) hardly notice he's in the house. He spends a lot of time in his room (fortunately, his girlfriend is only half an hour away, so he does get to see her on some of his breaks), but is always there when I need him, and has proven himself to be selfless on many occasions.

After all, the way I am now – i.e. "chair-ridden", in a recliner 24/7 – is hardly the way I was when he met me, or was expected to be in his "job description". No, he was never told that he might have to: clean up a poo from in and around the commode (who'd have planned it?!); force a slipper on an oedema foot in the mornings; take a drink/soothing words to a panicking client in the middle of the night. D. is selfless, patience personified...

And I'm going to miss him like mad, when he goes next March (if I'm still here), and will have a hard time replacing him.

That's all about D. but what about Tom, my wonderful son?

Oh, Tom still finds it difficult, this situation of trying to be a carer, a loving son and, all the while, one of the lads.

And I feel for him, I really do. Working full-time as office manager at Baldwins the herbalist's, then coming here to cook every night, usually staying, and giving up a large part of his weekends.

Hardly socializing at all...

And yet, it seems to be the way he wants it for now. Making the most of this, what could be the "end-time" with his mum. And I am so grateful.

Lucy is still my very best friend during the day and I have to say that even carers have admired the way we communicate with each other. We can hold whole conversations, with her not saying a word (of course!), and I love it. She's such a good "listener", and I usually know from her eyes/body language what she wants.

Now, she's another one who's been totally non-judgemental, and adapted to all the changes that I'm sure she really hates, without even a murmer.

Oh yes, we still "travel", Lucy and I: going here, there and everywhere the Good Lord will let us go, in our dreams.

So you see, that, even after the "crash", which seemed to curse my whole being, there are still many blessings in my life.

I had the "crash" about two weeks after D's arrival: coughing up blood on a Saturday night; waking up on the Sunday morning to the hugest chest pain and the feeling that everything had been turned inside out.

And then came the after-effects: the discovery of new problems, one after another: bent-double scoliosis (curvature of the spine); supination (rolling outwards) of left foot; oedema (complete with staphylococcus rash); breathlessness; lowered speech volume; bowels apparently twisted; eyesight almost gone; maybe a bit more cognitive dysfunction (a lot more denial!).

Tom, who was here at the time, was the first to show great kindness, staying in the room with me the first few nights and then later, when I could no longer lift the left leg into bed, helping me buy the recliner chair.

And then it was D's turn, not minding anything, accepting it all...

And so the two of them have gone on...

Others have also been kind.

But not the Government (ATOS) who wanted a second ESA (Employment and Support Allowance) assessment form filled in, less than a year after the first.

And not the Council who wanted their fiddly, financial assessment carried out, so that I could "contribute" to the cost of my care package.

Well, I sort of see the reason for these things but, oh, the cruelty when people are sometimes so ill, they're literally close to death (Christian bureaucrats should remind themselves of Matthew 25:31-46 – a.s.a.p.).

Herbs! My herbal remedies (see here) must surely be one of the main reasons I am still here, still trying and - even I am impressed! – still smiling.

And Tom brings the herbs home from Baldwins, mixes them and puts them in jars; D. prepares and serves them on and off, all day, and I? Well, when I'm not taking them, I'm doing my best to promote the use of herbal remedies, as opposed to pharmaceuticals...

I write quite a lot (still at it with the ten-year novel; loving flash fiction [stories of less than 1,000 words] for its speed; visit the odd [sometimes very odd!] forum), and I teach, or inform, if anyone asks a question about herbs.

Turmeric/curcumin and cayenne are my favourites at the moment.

And I guess I'd better close now, as fatigue sets in and I know the family (Tom and Lucy) is getting bored – they finished their shower half an hour ago!

Promising shorter, individual, posts in future...

God bless,

Virginia

P.S. Bought some great insoles from an online podiatrist called "Dr Foot". Consequently, have: walked to the bathroom with a walking-frame and D. following (ready to catch me), and to the kitchen (further) with a walking-frame and Tom following (ditto above). I did not fall. 'Progress' of a good kind?!

A fall comes before...a long silence

[This is a post I've put on all my blogs. Let me just say here, though, I'd never have managed the fall, or its repercussions, without the perfect love of Jesus.]


Last August I had a fall: a slip on the bathroom floor whereby my left leg flew under the shower chair, flipped it into the air and brought it down on top of me. So that I lay there, half on the hall floor, for an hour while I waited: first for Tom to arrive from work, and second – when he didn’t at his usual time – for the panic-button people and an ambulance crew to come and pick me up.

And it was agony. And poor little Lucy (toy poodle - as if you didn’t know!), who was in her own room “resting” while I cleaned up her “mess”, remained nonchalant the whole way through: didn’t even respond to all my shouts into the alarm microphone or when the lady from the council and ambulance men finally came, and with me discovering more pain and damaged nerves (shaking leg) by the moment, caused so much commotion. In fact, I think the only time she perked up was when Tom entered the scene and she heard his voice, smelled his smell: that’s always a precursor to excitement from Lucy!

I spent two weeks sitting and sleeping in the same chair (perhaps I should have gone for x-rays but I didn’t: just smeared arnica oil on everything and took extra herbs), and dear Tom waited on me hand and foot. He had a few days off to help but when he absolutely had to go back to work, left me a coffee table covered in flasks of coffee and herb teas, and cups of tissanes and spare cups…and crisps and biscuits…and, yet again, I’d never have managed without him. What a hero!

[Note: rang social services screaming for help but found out file had been closed and had to wait for “re-allocation”. Not the first time we’ve heard that. Should make a lot of noise complaining about it. But it’s too boring. And I’ve got to think of more positive things. Or go down, mentally.]

Yep, it took two weeks to be able to get back into my profiling bed and then - what a relief -: with my legs raised, the grotesque swelling gradually reduced and it got a bit easier to move: I started staggering – “furniture-walking” with a vengeance (never daring not to be holding something) and life looked a bit more hopeful. I spent about a month buying new and different slippers, online, till I found something I could stick with (literally, to the ground?!) and now, here we are…

Well, I have to admit that fall is still having an effect: I still can’t walk brilliantly; lose my balance a lot more; feel pain where there was none, or a lot less, before and, worst of all, sometimes, feel helpless…

I write constantly but too much gets drafted only to be ignored, through fatigue or depression, and then forgotten - going nowhere… And so there’s a new yardstick: if this piece actually does get posted…well, that’ll be an improvement and maybe the other bits I prepared for blogs can follow. That would be good.

In the end, I just want to say, “I’m sorry”. For anyone else who’s had a fall (and I know there are many - some who are bed-bound as a result and develop infections). You are all in my thoughts and prayers. God bless you.

Virginia

Pope Benedict XVI's visit to UK

WELCOME TO BRITAIN

HOLY FATHER!

I wish I could come to see you but I will be with you through TV, on the Internet and in spirit – especially when you visit St. Peter’s Residence for Older People at Vauxhall! God bless you all.

Your sister in Christ,
love,
Virginia

Proof

People are always saying they want proof of God’s existence. And I say – to myself or anyone listening – here it is: I am proof…

How else could a cripple (primary progressive multiple sclerosis [PPMS]) alone, make it through a day or night without God?

When you have faith, which is believing without “proof”, and you pray, continually. When there’s nobody else there but you know you are talking to someone and that someone is always responding. When you see yourself doing things that could never be done without supernatural strength… Then you are living proof. And you thank God and wish everyone could share your witness.

Last night was a perfect example of what I mean… Picture it: adult son comes in after day at work, makes evening meal for Mum, feeds the dog, then goes off to friend’s house where he lives.

Mum (your’s truly, the ‘cripple’) moans a bit about being left alone – first to the son, then to the dog (toy poodle – good listeners!) and finally, if not simultaneously, to Jesus – then puts on brave face - and the television - and tries to get on with it…

All seems to be going well (but bear in mind that, although there could be “carers” popping in all day, there haven’t been because, along with many others, this MSer prefers to be alone…ergo, the legs are in a lot of pain at this point) but we need for there not to be a crisis. [Note: this is a house where there have been three power-cuts already this year and, every year sees myriad spiders!] …

Then at 1.30 a.m. there it is… I was watching a late showing of Marcus Grodi’s “Journey Home” on EWTN when: blam! Splot! “I’ve arrived!” It was the biggest, blackest, nastiest (all right, it wasn’t a brown recluse or even a widow but it was bad) arachnid, right there, to the right of the curtains, just behind the television and impossible, for a cripple, to get to. Ah!

Now, to add to my woes – and I don’t know why I forgot to mention this – my profiling bed is in this sitting-room (won’t go into why but it makes sense).

I wasn’t going to sleep with this thing (by the way, Lucy – poodle – has her own room!), so - as I did in the past when legs weren’t so bad – somehow, I had to get the cordless vacuum and aim for it. Hah! Without help?

Well, there-you-go. Helpless. Prayer is all you have.

“Jesus! Jesus!” (before, I’ve tried to cross myself but I think last night I was shaking too much.) I had to turn my back on intruder and reach for the charging, very heavy, Dyson…

I wobbled all over the place. Got my foot caught a couple of times in Lucy’s day-time pen. The damned thing let its web out, dropped and hid behind the curtain. I tried to hold on to a plasma (thin and light) TV-top… And then with another “Please, Jesus…” Just pointed, hoping for the best, and saw it – perhaps, not sure, only just – get sucked down the black-hole tube!

Then I sprayed – a little (allergies!) - high strength pyrethrin, went to brush my teeth (and breathe!), checked Lucy, came back and threw Holy Water all over the place. At last I felt better and could try to settle for the night.

And here I am. The next lunch-time. Daren’t look around but, hey, Mass is on. And there you have it…

They wanted proof of God’s existence?!

Amen

So, how do you die alone?

[The following two posts were drafted, both in different seasons, earlier this year. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to publish them but hope they’ll still fit in. We start with winter, the second is from mid-summer.]


So, how do you die alone? I mean, if you’re not a suicide who has meticulously planned it for weeks; you haven’t had an accident or heart attack and can see it coming but only just before you’re gone; you haven’t been lying in a hospice/hospital bed, long enough to know the staff and have regular visits, maybe even from loving family; you haven’t got a loving family…

I mean, how do you die alone when you’ve been suffering with a degenerative disease for years but people have always ignored it because: a) its many symptoms are – at least to begin with – invisible; b) in multiple sclerosis (MS) the ‘multiple’ lesions which cause the sclerosis are in the brain (“brain damage”) and spine, leaving the MSer moody and prone to emotional outbursts, as well as physically disabled; c) the pain from spasicity, nerves under attack, weak muscles, etc. makes you irritable; d) you often lash out at those who do try to help and don’t know why; e) people resent the reminder that this could happen to anyone; f) people want to believe life here can be perfect and last forever, so MS (and diseases like it) should have an end-date, be terminal – sympathy and compassion run out; g) [God forbid, anyone should say this but I think they might] you “won’t stop being selfish and get yourself euthanased.”

It doesn’t help, either, if someone like me (and I know I’m not alone among MSers) refuses to see doctors or use the medical establishment at all*. Some: don’t believe your self-diagnoses – even when you were right about other things and MS itself; don’t see the value in alternative therapies (i.e. maintaining some level of control over your own body); refuse to admit that even pharmaceutical companies use herbs.

As secular society relies on the Welfare State and social services to provide for its sick loved ones, it’s carers or nothing now for many senior and/or disabled citizens… So, if you don’t want carers (because you’re allergic to their perfumes**, for example), well, that’s another reason for relatives to turn their backs on you - for fear they’ll be called upon to help.

But probably the main reason people ignore you (or in the case of my dear son, get angry with you) is because they wouldn’t be like you. They wouldn’t want to stay at home if they were crippled or, as I am now, suffering something like COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) after said son brought “cold” germ for Christmas. They certainly wouldn’t choose to be alone at home (actually, there is also Lucy, a toy poodle who I feel really rotten for but seems happy [it’s not easy to find her a better home and, besides, I love her and keep trying for her sake: she keeps me moving!]).

They wouldn’t be like me – most of them – in that, they think you should do anything rather than die: you are certainly not supposed to look forward to dying (and definitely not talk about it with a smile on your face). And you shouldn’t have a faith that you say saves you from being lonely because you’ve always got the company of the Holy Family and Saints, when they have a faith but don’t feel like that (only because they haven’t been forced into contemplative prayer through pain and alone-ness). Even worse if they’re atheist (which most are): “You can’t just keep talking to an imaginary character…” (most don’t even seem aware of the historical evidence for the life of Jesus) “…and just wait for Him to come and get you…”

Ultimately, they have to believe you can’t be so ill that you think you’re dying and won’t call someone (i.e. doctor, ambulance, social services); you can’t say the only person you would see is a priest, that’s not the way they’d be.

Ah, but you can. And I do. And no one understands it, so it seems cruel sometimes. But I have to accept it.

And I offer it up in prayer to Jesus, because that’s the only thing I can do that may be useful.

While, in the meantime: struggling to stand up; furniture-walking to shuffle around; pooing in pants; coughing so much, heart feels weak; gulping swollen throat; swallowing voice; gasping for breath and needing air-purifier on full-blast, oxygen bottles nearby; preparing and taking dozens of herbs and the odd Anadin for head pain; sleeping only for minutes between coughing attacks; rubbing eucalyptus on chest, tea-tree (both in olive oil) on tooth ache (forgot to mention teeth falling out!); commode-sitting at regular intervals through night; talking to God all night (i.e. confession and just the name “Jesus”); saying Hail Mary’s in head – not usually finishing; surprising myself when – and if – I’m still here in the morning.

Without the prayer – oh, and, by the way, saying what Catholics say at Mass before receiving the Eucharist is amazing when you’re in pain/can’t sleep: “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you but only say the Word and I shall be healed.” Maybe I should say, Jesus’ response is amazing! Without prayer, it might be impossible. I might want to give up.

So, that’s my answer to ‘How do you die alone?’. I’ve written it here because, if there’s one thing good that’s come out of this, it’s the realization that I must keep writing non-fiction – my story – if I’m to help anyone else. And I must get on with it. Time (which only exists in this world) runs out.

Yet I think I wanted to say more. Especially on those last few nights lying there wondering about all this: feeling sure death was just one missing breath away. I mean, it was all right really, knowing you might die the very next moment and no one else being there, but why did it have to seem so matter-of-fact, so ordinary? You were hopefully going to see Jesus soon and, hey, that’s special isn’t it? Beautiful Jesus, followed by (well, maybe some time in Purgatory!), the oh-so-fantastic, Beatific Vision of God the Father, Himself. Why on earth did the very act of dying seem so…earthly?

I think I wanted to say more here to Jesus. At least say a prayer asking Him to take special care of: the homeless during this cruelest winter; anyone else alone and in any kind of pain; all those dying wherever they may be; my son; anyone suffering from, or having to contemplate, loss of a loved one.; everyone who needs Him.

Well, something like that. Something to end it all with, in writing.

And I suppose it is slightly obvious, now I think of it: anything here – death included – is bound to seem ordinary compared to the super-natural wonder of Heaven. Until you actually pass on (go over to the other side/leave this “mortal coil”, etc.) it has to be, by definition, ‘of this world’: earthly! It’s the “reality” we know here. Okay, I can live, and die, with that…

So be it. Amen.


* It must be remembered that there is no known cause of MS [at this time] and many blame the medical establishment with its over-use of anti-biotics, steroids and other pharmaceutical drugs. Many MSers (including myself) have suffered too greatly in the past from these treatments and their side-effects.
** I also have Multi Chemical Sensitivity (MCS).

In the Piazza

The crowd and me at Mass in St. Peter’s Square, April 1999.
Image credit: Tom Phillips (also scanned by Tom at the last minute – see below!).


I was there once, with Tom, in the Piazza. One April – 1999, I think – for Mass on a Sunday morning. And it was wonderful: the Pope (John Paul ll); the people; Communion. All bathed in sparkling sunshine. I’ve never been so happy – or looked so happy – and we have the photograph to prove it.

But I don’t have a scanning machine. So, if it’s not at the top of this post, it means I haven’t been able to find – the use of – one either, and I’ll be very sorry…

Even moreso, because it seems I’ll never be able to take another.

Every Tuesday night, I go to sleep with EWTN TV [Sky: 589] on - my profiling bed (raises legs and head) is in the sitting-room and I usually do go to sleep with at least the Bible [24/7 on satellite radio; Sky: 0134] being read quietly in the background. But Tuesday night: EWTN. Has to be. And why? Because then I wake up to see our Holy Father, Benedict XVI hold his Wednesday audience; in the Piazza; in front of the gorgeous St. Peter’s Basilica. I can imagine being there. And do share the Blessing. And it’s a good start to the day. I’m thankful…

But, hey, how about I, literally (physically), try to get to Rome again? Pray hard, and work hard, towards it? Wooh! That’d be a goal to aim for wouldn’t it? And something I could include others in (unlike my writing which I think – in the human family, anyway - I’m alone with!). I could try to actually see/meet Our Holy Father. Couldn’t I?

Well, this was the gauntlet I threw down for myself the other week. Not a thing has been done, since, towards it. Except, perhaps, it was mentioned and ignored as just another one of Mother’s mad ideas. Cast aside – even by me. I mean it would be almost impossible to achieve: I haven’t got a passport any more (out-of-date) and, though I did find a photographer (expensive) now my teeth are falling out (gaps in the front) and body-wise, I’m more skinnny and decrepit than ever. Not a pretty sight for la bella città!

What I’d love to do is go to Italy in a camper-van, because then I could lie down all the way, if necessary, and not show myself to anyone. Other than the Pope, of course, and a few of his good people (maybe the odd Swiss guard!). Tom, or whoever was driving, could get the fabulous Italian food and bring it to the van (couldn’t he? Do I sound spoilt?). But Tom has given up the driving-lessons he began before he (so disasterously - for me!), left home last year [see Travels with Lucy]. My brother, Blob (nickname), on the other hand, has driven a lorry…

Ah well, it’s just dreaming. What else you-going-to-do on a miserable Saturday morning, when the ’phone won’t ring and, although people are around, they won’t come to see you?

And I think someone (Tom?!) opened my Windows last night and let a Trojan horse in […to computer]!

I’m drafting this on Word and am ready to find a scanner for the photograph, which I’d love you to see. Otherwise – and, again, I’ll be sorry – a Google image to at least remind me of what we saw!

Oh, just in case the former fails I’ll describe the ‘me’ in that picture…

I was standing – looking over heads to Tom with the camera. And beaming. It really was one of the best days of my life. I’d never been to Italy before (I’m a quarter-Italian and always wanted to go – had learnt the language at home and college for a couple of years) and had only been Catholic for six years (converted with Tom, 1993 – hope to tell you “my journey” one day). And that was it, really: standing (not well but on my legs) and loving everybody. It was the most complete feeling – and one I’ve only ever known through the Church – I imagine there is, this side of Heaven (God willing, I get there!).

I hope everyone knows that feeling, at least once in their lives.

By 2000 I was using a walking-stick and 2001 (year of diagnosis and second trip to Italy, though, unfortunately, not to St. Peter’s), poor Tom had to push me in the wheelchair outside. Great fun on the ancient cobbles!

And that’s the way we measure the progress of this primary progressive multiple sclerosis (PPMS), by looking back and comparing [it] to a time in the future. I guess, right now, if I could manage to get to the Wednesday audience, it would be with the familiar (for people like me) blanket, even on a hot day (always cold) and sitting at the front, right opposite our dear Pope.

Now, that would be an honour.

And what a climax to a life!

God bless you all.

Virginia

P.S. Please pray for Tom, who still visits and helps daily. I know he’s finding this (MS, me) hard. Thank you.

Ash Wednesday (and the MS "end stage")

[Note: if you don’t see this on Wednesday, 25th February, I’m sorry. I drafted it then but it can take me a while to get to Blogger!]

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” And, at least today, everyone else will be thinking about it. Well, that’s how it seems, anyway, having just watched EWTN’s Mass and two priests smearing ash crosses on scores of poor, penitent foreheads.

Not secularites obviously, no atheists or agnostics; not even Muslims or Jews; but for Catholics the world over, and anyone vaguely calling themselves Christian, Ash Wednesday will bring them to reflect on death…

The beginning of Lent and the Gospel tells of Christ’s leaving His disciples, to go alone into the Wilderness for forty days and forty nights. To be, physically alone, to be tested to the extreme; tempted, eventually, by the Devil, and, at last, to envision and accept His death to come. It is the time poor Jesus would begin to feel the emotional agony He will cry out from in the Garden of Gethsemane.

And which, therefore as Christians, we are called upon to share, at least empathise with, at this time of the Passion – season of Easter – which starts, liturgically, on Ash Wednesday.

‘Poor penitents’ – of which, of course, I am one, though without the literal ashen brow as I no longer get to Church (I’m sure the local Priest would have come here if I’d asked but I didn’t, he’s so busy – I expect to see him before Easter Day) – will offer up their own sacrificial suffering (their penance for sins) to unite with Christ’s sacrifice of Himself for the sake of the world.

It is what Catholics are encouraged to do at any time of suffering in their lives and why they love the term “offering it up”! It is why on a Catholic crucifix there is always a Corpus (body of Christ).

For me, as someone with progressive MS – a degenerative neurological disease – in chronic (meaning constant) pain, it (the Passion of Christ) has become a blessèd raison d’être. The entire and only meaning of my life.

And for this, I am incredibly, and humbly because I know it is a grace, grateful. It is not for no reason that the word ‘Eucharist’ is Greek for ‘thanksgiving’: body, blood, soul and divinity of Jesus, Son of God, in the bread and wine of the daily Church offering.

Oh, golly gosh, I love being Roman Catholic!

Anyway, back to the reason for this piece: Ash Wednesday. I feel less alone today because I know there are others thinking about their own mortality and their future, eternal, life to come.

And because I hope they may think of all those like me and say a prayer that God gives us, or in my case, continues to give, the strength to go on. That we might show the same courage and fortitude as displayed by dear Jesus in the Wilderness and throughout His journey to, and suffering of, the Crucifixion. “Take up [your] cross and follow me.” [Lk 9:23] May we keep hearing those words.

I don’t know if it’s the same with all – what Tom (son) and I sometimes call - “long-haul illnesses”. I imagine it is, if, for any continuous period, for any reason, someone is immobile. That is, that they, like progressive MSers, will come to what is known as the “end stage”, where even your internal organs start (?) to weaken and, finally, no longer support life.

Well, it looks (even the MS Nurse agrees - but mostly I keep it to myself, I don’t see doctors [see MS blog]!) as though I’m reaching that point. And it’s a scary time. My heart goes out to anyone else going through this and my redemptive prayer (offered up) is for all of us.

My lungs are what I think will go first (as they often are, of course, with pneumonia or something similar – you can read about this and my herbal remedies/tonics for everything lung related, again, in my MS blog!). Or it could be the heart. Who knows? God knows, or will know. And that’s all that matters.

I just thought I might write about that – my end, as it were – and about how it’s going (!), here, with Jesus. And with you who I love because I know I should, if you’re actually reading!

God bless you.

Amen