My Own Origins

No sooner had I posted about my recent research into the origins of Western Washington State, a letter arrived today from my biological aunt Steph.

Along with Steph's letter she sent me a copy of her cousin Tanya's book of poems entitled The Tide Clock.

 

The parents who raised me adopted me at 10 weeks, or at least that's when they first brought me home. I was the third child and second son of my biological mother Nicola or Nicky as she was called. Nicky was very bright, I am told she was an IQ genius. She died unexpectedly, tragically young at age 27. I was two years old.

 

My parents who raised me, my mom Patty in particular, always used to tell me God gave me to her. Even so, I looked quite different from my adoptive parents and adopted sibling. For starters the three of them are white and I'm, well, some may kindly describe me as swarthy; definitely olive complexion. It's not just by appearance I felt a little like the black sheep. I was at times a very awkward kid. My sense of identity was skewed. Growing up knowing I had been adopted, I had often wondered about my origins.

 

Steph has been one of the most helpful of all the blood relatives I have connected with. For one I feel we have a genuine kinship. She has been supportive and kept in touch. One of my favorite of her correspondences to me is from December 1, 2013. She wrote:

 

"Hi there, and Happy Post Thanksgiving! I hope it was a great one. Ours was - had Dan and Ann (my half brother and sister-in-law) and the kids, Ericka and her baby with Jeremy, Jenna and Madi, and Frank's Mom and husband. Aside from wishing you the best during this holiday time, Dan's recent post on a writing from Nikos Kazantzakis's, who was a fav of my mom's, got me thinking about you. She handed all her books down to him as he shared her passion in reading. What flashed through my mind is that she lost much in not knowing you; and you in not knowing her. I know you have your family and life you lived. But I have to tell you, I believe you share that same thirst and passion of literary knowledge. I could be completely wrong, but I don't think so. Her intelligence and wit were above most. I'm going all sentimental here, because I know Nicky missed out as well. Brad, she'd have loved your passion in life and the code you live by. That being said, even though I have not gotten out your way in forever, never think for a moment I don't think of you with love and pride. Whew. I'm on a roll! But ya, I think of you often, and will make my way out there! It's a fricking must! Happy Thanksgiving!"

 

I was moved to tears by my aunt's words of sentiment.

 

You know, my life has these funny paradoxes. I don't quite fit into the mold of the family I grew up with. I've been far removed from the family I share blood with. So having someone I've now somewhat known about a third of my life, who lives thousands of miles away in the Lone Star State, let me know they think on me with love and pride ... That speaks to the very core of my heart.

 

I'm mostly a humble, modest person with occasional bursts of outrageousness. As a mostly optimistic idealist, I envision eventually forging closer ties to my biological family if for nothing more than cementing my ambiguous sense of identity. Such a story is ever so gradually in the works. Though forging those initial ties, discovering the traits and characteristics of my blood relatives, this has been profoundly confirming. So many near lifelong mysteries solved. Where do I get my eyes? My big hook nose? My sense of humor? My zeal? My passion for writing? I see it in photographs of Nicky, hear it in stories from Steph, experience it in expressions from my brother Dan. Connecting these (what may seem trivial to most) dots gives me a greater sense of belonging and knowing more about who I am. For me this is powerful and sacred and deeply appreciated. This is truly one of my life's most generous gifts, which I am entirely grateful for.

 

So the poetry book my aunt Steph sent me was written by her cousin Tanya. It's called The Tide Clock, pictured as follows.

Tanya's given name was Barbara. Apparently she always hated that name. During her time in Oxford (I'm assuming for study), she formed a tight friendship with a Russian Orthodox family. They inspired her new name, which she legally changed to Tanya.

 

Tanya speaks five languages and has written in several of them. Her son graduated from Yale and lives in New York. Apparently there are some other brainy folks in our lineage. These blood relatives are from my biological mother's maternal side, the Contos'. From what I understand the Contos' are an aristocratic Greek family.

 

Apparently Tanya's poems are derived from her life experiences. That's certainly something I can identify with.

 

Steph is correct to some extent about my literary prowess. It's a more recent enjoyment, and not nearly as intellectual as my brother Dan's. Perhaps if I had had similar influences, I may have been swayed differently. Yet it's ineffective to wonder what if. I am who I am. I've experienced what I've experienced. I'm so inspired to know I have an accomplished relative who has a similar desire to relay and share wisdom.

Western WA Origins

Since childhood I recall a special kinship with my hometown of Issaquah and Seattle, its area of dominant influence. My family relocated to the Puget Sound Region when I was entering second grade, age seven and a half. A few things struck me as unique to my new home. An emphasis on nautical hobbies such as boat racing and waterskiing. An emphasis on aeronautics, the area dotted with small airports, gliders and skydivers. Windsocks were common sights as was native-inspired artwork. Today by comparison really only the nautical holds firmly true.

I fondly remember one of my first visits to Seattle's waterfront in the early 1980s. Waiting for a ferry to cross either to Bremerton or Winslow (I can't recall which), I stumbled into Ye Olde Curiosity Shop.

Founded in 1899, this house of 1,000 relics captivated me. If I had been allowed to, I could have spent countless hours there exploring and dreaming. Here one can find everything from native artwork, tourist swag, historic artifacts and quite bizarre creatures (like shrunken heads, two-headed animals, etc.). There's just something about this place and a couple other unique and historic spots like Seattle's Pioneer Square and Pike Place Market that are almost indescribable. It's more than the scent of ancient timbers and decades of managed dust. It's a feeling. A feeling of nostalgia. A feeling of optimism. A feeling of spirit, heart and soul, of what those before me dreamed would eventually become of this sacred place we know today as Seattle.

From a much broader perspective, I had always considered my town as my town, my county as my county, my state as my state and my country as my country. Perhaps one could consider this an entitlement for being born of a certain nativity at a certain time in history, in my case a late twentieth century American. Yet barely more than 160 years ago, claims to this land were much more ambiguously uncertain. Examining how this land for you and me came to be, admittedly I become increasingly less fond of my own native heritage.

Modern day scientists have evidence supporting the existence of indigenous people in my region dating back some 8,000 to 10,000 years before the first settlers of European descendants arrived to this once pristine realm. One certainly need only rely on historians, the local library or the internet to understand who was here before our predecessors began to call this place home and stake their claims to it.

I make somewhat frequent trips to West Seattle from it's burbs to the south. Often my route takes me along the western banks of the once mighty Duwamish River. One might as this river, once teeming with nature, is now a barren wasteland of industry. In fact it is today a federal superfund site; highly toxic. I guess we Americans call that progress?

At the north end of West Marginal Way sits proudly the Duwamish Tribal Longhouse, which looks out toward a park at the edge of the superfund. I've passed by this building on numerous occasions. I was drawn in for the first time several weeks ago by a jazz event, which was actually on a different day than the one I had seen advertised. No matter, the longhouse is open to the public and I was there during regular business hours. So I poked around. A very kind, pleasant woman greeted me. She didn't appear to be of native descent. Then again, I am of half Greek and half Hispanic descent, not exactly anyone's picture of your typical "guy next door all American."

After greeting me, the woman gave me a brief tour of the gallery and museum by pointing out from where we stood at the entrance what I would find where. I started with the splendid gallery featuring work by indigenous descendants. Much of the work was more contemporary, some even modern and most of it quite well done. I was more drawn to the artifacts, relics and historical points of interest. This is when I began my study of these once thriving, native people. The Duwamish Tribe in particular still struggles for federal recognition. They were the first "Seattleites," so how can this be?

My curiosity drew me to begin some initial research on the most celebrated, native tribal figure for whom the founders named this area of dominant influence after; Chief Seattle. Seattle is a variation of this great man's name. In their indigenous culture, the native people of this area customarily never spoke the name of the deceased for fear that spirit resting in peace would be disturbed.

Incidentally, before becoming a Washington resident, I learned to walk on a rocky beach in Poulsbo, a short distance from Chief Seattle's and his Suquamish Tribe's winter lodging grounds, known as Ole Man House.

Last week I ventured to the King County Public Library's Burien branch, which has a surprisingly rich collection of Northwest culture and history. I picked up three Chief Seattle biographies and just today completed reading the third. What a fascinating, rich history this area has! I wonder how many think about all that transpired to "settle" this area.

Between the three books I found some disparities in information, some holes in timelines and in the most detailed book possibly quite a bit of racism. I actually now find the word racism a little antiquated. Aren't we really talking about people who fancy themselves to be superior to another? Should we not refer to them as "elitists" or "supremacists"? If the Cole Haan fits ...

Not sure at this point where my intrigue around local history may lead me, I'm looking forward to finding out!

The Blessings of Being 36 Months Sick

From left to right: Friend Joe, husband Terry and yours truly (approx. 45 lbs. heavier) the evening of November 11, 2012 at La Patrona Polo Club in San Francisco, Nayarit, Mexico.

Ever randomly notice when the clock shows 11:11 and wondered whether this has any significance? I frequently see this time flash up, and never has it had more significance in my life since November 11, 2012, the day I fell ill and remained so to this day.

Had anyone told me at some point in my life I would be chronically ill for three years, I would never have believed it. I've been on this long, seemingly endless and often arduous health journey like a bad dream I can't wake up from. Even so, three years? Really?

My then fiancé Terry (we're married now) and I were enjoying a long weekend at my holiday home in Mexico with my long time high school friend Treasure and her then fiancé Joe (they're married now with kid). The second to last night of our stay, we enjoyed a cocktail on the beach for happy hour and watched our closest star seemingly melt into a calm, shimmery Pacific Ocean. This is truly one of my most favorite pass times, or at least it used to be.

We took a cab into Sayulita that night and had a beautiful dinner at a fancy restaurant right on the beach. Afterward we strolled around town, ducking in and out of boutiques, marveling at local artisan crafts and taking in the festive atmosphere that comes from a vibrant weekend night in this somewhat quaint Mexican surfer town and tourist trap.

Before long we were back in my cozy little village of San Pancho, having a nightcap or two at Panchitos. Formerly known as The Drunken Monkey, Panchitos is the favorite local, open-air-palapa-style watering hole in the village. Best of all that night, a regulation shuffleboard table! Treasure and I squared off against our fiances. We kicked their asses, royally. We ended the night with a luxurious soak in my dipping pool beneath a moon-lit, starry sky. I vividly recall how perfectly room temperature the water was, floating in complete bliss in wonderful company; an ethereal experience for sure.

The next morning, everyone was doing pretty well, except for Joe. He was feeling particularly unwell. Treasure asked if we had any headache meds, but we didn't. So I escorted her to the local farmacia on the other side of the village. The sun shined brightly, the air comfortably warm and tropical. We quite leisurely made our way there and back.

Upon our return, I enjoyed a few sips of coffee. Treasure and Terry were chatting away at the high table on the back patio by the pool. I walked out to join them. As I stepped across the threshold, my gaze suddenly affixed toward the sky, which had been clear blue and bright with full sun. Suddenly the sky darkened until I could see nothing but black and stars. I felt for a moment as though my legs and feet were giving out on me. Then it was as if I was losing complete consciousness, as in my soul departing my body. Then the light appeared again as I gasped for breath and took a seat.

Treasure and Terry asked if I was OK, and completely frightened, I explained what I had just experienced. At the same time, I was trying to get a handle on how I was feeling. Something was wrong, very wrong. I could no longer gauge whether I was hot or cold. I knew the temperature was getting warmer outside based on the time of day. I thought maybe I was dehydrated from our night out on the town and needed to cool down. So I took a dip in the pool. The water temperature had virtually no effect on me, and then I worried whether I was cooling off too quickly. The most alarming of all at the time was having no sense of internal body temperature.

I got back out of the pool, dried off, refilled my water glass and laid down in my cool bedroom. And that's where I remained, slowly and regularly sipping water until lunchtime. By afternoon Joe was up and stirring. We all walked down to La Playa to eat lunch. I just ordered a quesadilla, which I ended up only taking a couple bites of. I had no appetite and still felt rather "off." So I excused myself from the table. On my way out I ran into my ex's mom Pat, who I adore. I told her I wasn't feeling well. She smiled back at me and said something to the effect of how it sucks getting old. Mind you, I was 38 at the time.

When I got home I climbed back on the bed and rested until dinner. We had a special evening planned, our first time going to our local polo club, which is quite lovely. I would even venture to describe it as luxurious. They had a guest chef from Oaxaca that night. We had a delicious dinner and a marvelous evening. I decided it was best to lay off the booze, so I tea totaled all evening.

The next day we were heading home. This is when the more minor and periodic faintness spells started. I would suddenly out of nowhere get woosey and feel as though I were starting to lose consciousness. A wave of panic washed over me. Then it would all dissipate and I would return to normal. Frightening and completely puzzling.

One of the first things I did when we got back home was book an appointment with my primary care physician at the time, Dr. Michael Rosenfield, at Emerald City Medical Arts. I hadn't seen him in a while, and I wasn't a long time, established patient of his. So I was pawned off onto his cute physician's assistant and his more robust nurse. Mind you I was still having these peculiar faintness spells for several days between leaving Mexico and the day of my appointment.

The assistant checked my vitals and then suggested a series of blood labs. So off to the nurse for draws. The nurse first offered me a flu shot. I asked if she got them. She said no. So I declined.

When the results were in, the assistant said all my vitals check out just fine, so if things worsen I should go to the ER. Really?! Fuck you very much. And so began the next three years of health frustrations and scares, including a trip to the ER a few weeks later.

One early December 2012 morning I was at the office. I had been somewhat light headed since starting the day with a ringing in my ears. I was diligently drinking water. Even so, the faintness spells were coming on quite frequently. My colleagues were all in our weekly team meeting down the hall. As the spells began to intensify, I made a dash to my car and drove myself from my Wallingford office to the ER in neighboring Ballard. In hindsight this was not the best idea I had ever had, and really would have been better served enlisting someone from the office to take me. At the same time, the last thing I would ever want to do when I'm having such acute symptoms is cause alarm, worry or burden others.

Let me tell you, nothing is more frustrating than feeling as though you're just going to whither away from this world while someone is trying to collect your identifying information such that they may be entitled to collect payment from you and/or your insurer. Seriously.

The ER doctor, Brown as I recall, gave me the whopper of all health practitioner greetings I have received to date. After introducing himself, he asked me the following: "Has anyone in your family ever mysteriously and suddenly died?"

What the fuck kind of question is that?! Isn't an ER a place where they address trauma and not create it?! At the time not only was I not in any position to fully process a response to this question, I began to further wonder about what my body was trying to tell me. Was this its way of telling me its throwing in the towel, lights out, time to go to eternal sleep?

"No," I answered, "not to the best of my knowledge." Simply stated, that was the truth. Even so, in that moment a door had been thrust open in my psyche.

Dr. Brown ran a battery of tests; EKG, urine, stool, blood. The attending nurse put me on a saline IV to treat me for dehydration. At the end of the three ring circus, Dr. Brown told me they could make no determination as to my ailment(s), and referred me to a cardiac specialist.

The cardiac specialist ordered me to wear a holter monitor for three days to further investigate these faintness episodes. I felt a little like Darth Vader with this thing strapped to me 24/3, and was relieved to be able to turn it in.

I call this photo Darth Selfie. Yes, I do own a Darth Vader mask and large sombrero. This photo was taken around Cinco de Mayo, 2014 and only now posted for a little comic relief.

During my time married to a holter monitor, I didn't leave the house. I wasn't feeling up for being out and about anyway. Though the problem with that is being in business for myself. If I don't show up for work, there's really no one to "fill in" for me. If I don't work, I don't get paid. Even so, this was really the least of my worries at the time, and still a pretty weighty worry.

My follow up with the cardiologist included imaging of my heart. The findings from the monitor, EKG and ultra sound ... Despite having tachycardia, which I was diagnosed with as a teen, my heart is healthy and not causing any trouble. Well, I guess that's a big relief. After battery of ER labs and this latest information, I was left with a $7,500 bill and nothing conclusive to treat.

For the first time in my life I felt truly powerless and helpless. I didn't know what to do or who to turn to for help. Add to my health issues being surrounded by all the doomsday chatter for 12/21/12. If I didn't have anxiety before, I was certainly going to now.

By the end of December 2012 I had an initial visit with Dr. Sean Congdon at the Bastyr Center for Natural Health, who my wonderful acupuncturist referred me to. My first visit was nearly three hours in length. Talk about comprehensive. We covered a lot of ground, including what I see in my dreams. Dr. Congdon shared with me that when our bodies are in imbalance, it can take a month to recover for every year we are imbalanced. If that's the case, then my body has been inbalanced for 36 of my 41 years on Earth, and I'm still to this day feeling unwell.

Even if we weren't getting to the bottom of things immediately, I now finally felt as if I had someone on my side, an advocate who was going to support me through this as best they could. And he did, for quite a number of years.

By the holiday season of 2012 I was still feeling intermittently unwell, often with head fog, ear ringing and the occasional faintness spell. My husband and I were spending the Christmas holiday with my mom at her home in Coeur D'Alene, ID. It's a magical town on a lake surrounded by mountains. We had a beautiful white Christmas, and I would have loved being able to enjoy myself more than I did. Toward the end of our time there I did start feeling better. For the next month following I felt as though I was making a solid recovery.

Then came early February 2013. I was out to lunch one afternoon with my title rep. Jenny. We went to a more foodie joint in Fremont called Revel, Korean/Northwest fusion. About half way through our meal I began to feel a strange sensation in my throat I hadn't before experienced. It was like something was caught in my throat. I excused myself to the restroom. On my way there a chill washed over me and I became a bit lightheaded. The throat sensation wasn't clearing, it seemed to be intensifying. I asked the waitress if there was anything in our dishes that may cause an allergic reaction. She was calm and very helpful and of course asked me if I had allergies to anything specific. The big problem was I had never before in my life had any type of allergic reaction to food, not even a sensitivity. My palette was quite broad. One of my former favorite foods was Unagi (eel).

To be safe Jenny rushed me to ZoomCare, and stayed with me the whole time. The doctor there administered a Benedryl shot in my right rear cheek and then sent me home. The doctor told me I could have a flair up within 12-48 hours and cautioned about the risks of possible anaphylactic shock. I suppose for liability purposes they are required to tell patients such things. Still, these topics don't resonate well with one's psyche. Such concepts weren't only completely foreign to me, they were downright terrifying! I had no idea what was happening inside my body. Heck, I thought I was getting better. Now I might suddenly have fatal allergies?!

ND Dr. Congdon discovered my thyroid imbalance, completely overlooked by my previous primary care MD Dr. Rosenfield. Dr. Congdon gave me incredible dietary recommendations and supplements to support my body's natural functions. After six or so months of clean eating I had shed 45 lbs. or so of unwanted body fat. This substantial weight loss was yet another strange experience for me. For one thing it left me looking much leaner and more youthful. I often fielded compliments from people around the office, in my personal life. "Have you lost weight? You look great!"

Had the weight loss been intentional, I may have been delighted by this attention. Yet I felt like shit. Many days a challenge to get out of bed and do my life. If I look so damn great, how come I feel so fucking crappy? In hindsight, now that I've lived with this invisible specter of illness for three years, the type of attention I find helpful is that of compassion.

Then came the breath shortness, which was periodic and at times severe. Dr. Congdon referred me to a top MD allergist, Dr. Virant, who prescribed me a rescue inhaler and epi pens for the throat responses. While I suppose these are good tools to have around just in case, being prescribed meds to help prevent the sudden onset of death is more than a little unnerving if you really think about it. Again, the antithesis of aiding my psyche in healing.

When the allergist's nurse explained the rescue inhaler to me, she mentioned it could make me feel a little jittery. If that wasn't the biggest understatement of the year. The one time I had a concerning breath shortness spell where I used the inhaler, the drug exponentially amped my anxiety. I felt like the world was fucking ending! I still carry my inhaler. Even when my bouts of breath shortness are pronounced, I use a breathing technique to ease my suffering and calm my system. Other times I just lay in bed as it's easier for me to breathe when I'm laying down.

There were also times where I got out of bed only to have my body feel like a wet noodle I could barely move. In hindsight it was a sudden and complete loss of energy. At the time I had no idea what was going on and felt like perhaps my number was up or going to be soon. One Saturday I recall in particular just laying in bed with a candle going, listening to Tibetan Monks on Pandora. While the music made this experience tolerable, this is no way to live. Just existing does not in any way shape or form resemble life. For a time I felt so poorly for such a duration I contemplated alternatives to life. If this is how it was going to be from here on out, what really was the point?

I found my way to the best MD endocrinologist in the state, Dr. Murray, who put me on an RX of T3 and T4 supplements, my energy levels stabilized. Only now I'm diagnosed with Hashimoto's Thyroiditis. On occasion I do have more energy than other times. Still, things were looking up.

Dr. Congdon had me take many tests, mostly blood and a couple digestive labs. Those were my least favorite, having to defecate into what looked like a paper to-go container for French fries, then scoop part of it into vials, package and mail it off in a biohazard bag. Most unpleasant; gross.

My digestive labs came back showing candida overgrowth and some parasites; two known and one unknown. We treated the candida. Dr. Congdon's opinion about the parasites is they are generally common in people and a path to chart if things get worse.

Before my body became imbalanced, I lived a very vibrant life. I had lots of friends who I spent time with on a regular basis. Today my daily life of friends has dwindled down to my most important people; my husband, our dog and my bestie. Keeping up on the bare minimum to make my life work is where I allocate about 90 percent of my energy, most of that is directed toward my occupation. Whereas I used to thrive on and found the company of others restorative. Now I find solitude restorative. Not having to talk or be clever or interesting or interested. Quite frankly I'm just no longer up to the task of being me. Quiet time where I can just be is what helps me recharge.

Having gone from being someone who was once gregarious, full of life and vitality to suddenly being in survival mode is quite a dramatic transformation. While in some ways I've been sad to see friendships fade, I know it's all for the best. I don't know for certain I'll get better or recover my health; I'm optimistic I will. When that day comes, I will have space for genuine friendships, people who will stick by me through thick and thin. I'm grateful for those people I have in my life who have been there for me through this whole journey, which has been an evolutionary and revealing experience, brushing aside the noise in my life.

Ironically I've had two of my most successful years in business these past three. One thing I attribute to this is focus. I don't have either the time or energy to mess around. So I have to quickly make sense of things and only perform work that's meaningful.

So here I am three years later in bed at my Normandy Park home, still sick and being cared for by Nurse Millie Monday, November 9, 2015.

Along the way of various rule outs, Dr. Congdon had me tested for Lyme. One of the three test results showed antibodies for Lyme, and I am positive for it based on the New York and Connecticut State standards. That was in June 2013.

As wonderful as Dr. Congdon has been from late December 2012 through spring of 2015, I feel I may need more aggressive support. His opinion has been that whatever infectious agent I may have, my body is dealing with it very well. As such, he is of the mind to not intervene unless things get worse.

Dealing with it well is all relative. This illness, whatever IT is, has been quite debilitating for me. Though I've read about cases of people having Lyme whereas they have such severe migraines they are admitted to the ER for morphine drips, and even that isn't completely effective. I've more recently had some head congestion, sometimes on the intense end of the scale, nowhere near hospitalization. Even more recently inner ear aches and on a couple occasions a severe loss of hearing.

For the past three late summer seasons, I go from feeling alright to feeling really unwell. This year was no exception and more intense than the past two warm to cool season changes. Today I was really out/short of breath. My husband is at his wit's end with my illness. That's a whole other story about his psychological issues with illness based upon his once abusive mom's hypochondria.

Two nights ago we got into a fight. He yelled at me because he thinks we need to aggressively treat my disease. Yet he has done little if any study of Lyme and I believe is mostly just frustrated that we've not been targeting this since my test results about a year ago. My husband also has several health issues of his own. So I yelled back about his reluctance to do anything about his own health and that maybe he ought to be doing something extreme to correct his issues.

As much as I understand my husband's frustrations, and he has every right to feel the way he feels, no one could feel more frustration about what I've endured than me. Yet I am taking it in stride; moment by moment. In the past year or so I've taken up a meditation practice, which I've found most helpful. I've studied Buddhism, which is really more a philosophy of life than it is a religion, and it's quite practical. I've done a shamanistic soul retrieval. I've been poked, prodded, adjusted, massaged. I took an eight week mindfulness based stress reduction workshop. I've completed a biofeedback program. I've rested, hydrated, eaten clean. I've supplemented, RXed and detoxed. I've been doing everything I can to support my own well being for the past three years. Despite my countless hours, high degree of discipline and thousands of dollars spent, I am still unwell. So if anyone is allowed to be frustrated, it's me. While I am, I still have hope and optimism I will heal, restore balance/homeostasis.

My husband has also been very patient, and at times in copious amounts. As much as I appreciate his patience, the one thing I need most of all from him more than anyone else is empathy. Based on his childhood-based wiring around illness, it's one of the most difficult things he can give to me.

Today I posed to my husband perhaps he would be happier with a healthy partner. I was serious. Yes, more often that not this imbalance has been a very lonely journey. Still, I would rather be in solitude than be the source of someone's constant frustration. That doesn't help either of us, I do love him and want him ultimately to be happy, even if it's with someone else. The practical me becomes quite strong when my body is weak, come to find out.

As of December 1, 2015 I have an initial consultation scheduled with a naturopath who specializes in Lyme Disease and co-infections. This doctor previously practiced in Connecticut, which is an area well known for Lyme. This doctor also has battled and healed from Lyme. I am even that much more encouraged. Perhaps this is the final phase of this three year journey. I truly wish for this saga to come to a positive resolution as soon as possible. Time will tell ...

I could have greatly elaborated on this post, and there's so much I have yet to share. For another time certainly. In the meantime, I leave you with this: