Business With Who

People are more like horses than wolves. 

In a town of small horses, your face is pressed right up on the mess your neighbor made. There’s not much galloping room. I grew up outside a town of about 10,000 souls; I know what it’s like to know everybody’s horse’s business, from cradle to grave. 

I’m working on forgiveness. Speaker Jennifer Eivez says that we spend a lot of time teaching people how to forgive and that’s good; yet, we as Christians don’t spend enough time teaching those who hurt others to apologize and repent. I love peoples’ forgiveness testimonies at Friday night class at church— “Abundant Life.” We do forgiveness prayers and our pastors who are also friends in this small community— they stand in for our debtors and apologize. They dim the lights, in deep prayer we call out some of the things no one ever said they were sorry for. 

I am sorry for how I have hurt you. I did not know how to love you. Will you forgive me? 

It sounds like a hokey therapy exercise and it is not unlike things I have done in rooms where therapists and I processed my life before I came to Christ. Therapy helped me cope, but what happens at Abundant Life is a true release. I take the class for 2 winters, and when I drive home, my car feels small. My body yawns and sighs, letting whatever dark things in deep places release and scurry into the Columbia River Gorge. The muscles are an endocrine system all of their own and it is known we store things in our bodies.

God counts every hair on our head, wrote our name in the book of life, made great plans for each of us before we were born. He arrays us more resplendently than the balsamroot up 7-mile Hill road. In springtime in The Dalles miles of gold flow through our emerald green hills, surrounding our little tent. Our city. 

Last spring, when I was angry at one particular person, I was having coffee at the local shop. This is a city of God's people, so the battle is going to be heavy here, my friend Ben said. We had been having a lighthearted conversation, discussing regional dialects of the East Coast. I sensed the hand of God on what he was sharing— it was so out of nowhere, this heavier utterance. We have to keep fighting the good fight, he said. 

I’m choosing to forgive someone I don’t even know and doesn’t know me, but they hurt my family badly and injured my children. I know but struggle to remember; they were created for a purpose. To God, they are more beautiful, even in their darkest times, than all the lilies of the field, arrayed in Glory, swaying against His supernatural blue sky. 

The Greek word for forgiveness that is used in the Bible is aphemi. It’s an accounting term, meaning to settle a debt and start over with a clear account. When we forgive someone, we are not condoning what happened. We are leaving it to God to be the “debt collector”. If you’ve ever had a bill in collections, you know how aggravating those phone calls can be. If you are like me, you may be calling up those old emotions every time you stew over the past. When you don’t aphemi, or clear the accounting ledgers, you call up bitterness, anger, fear, rejection, and pain repeatedly in your mind and body.

Sometimes forgiveness is reconciliation, sometimes it is not (or not yet.) When Jesus recruited his disciples, it says in the Bible they “aphemied” their boats and nets. They left them behind and started fresh. I bet they left some emotional accounts behind as well. Yet, they weren’t focused on the past. They were full of the work they had to do, they were about the Father’s business (Thank you pastor Bobbie Clear for that phrase.)

God doesn’t cause suffering. He is sovereign, but He is not all-powerful. Not on this planet. Suffering is just what humans choose, have always chosen, as many have pointed out. We choose suffering and then blame God. We choose our own adventure. Sometimes, we suffer because of others' choices, aka other people’s (mis)adventures through this fallen world. 

What helps the pain is focusing on any true, noble, just, pure, lovely or good thing (Philippians 4:8). Baby G kicks her legs like the miracle they are, whenever she hears music. My daughter’s gene therapy to arrest her spinal muscular atrophy. The nurse who taught me the hiemlich just days before my oldest choked and we saved her; but for a moment she was silent of Your breath in her lungs, how she violently cried and roared back to life once the danger had passed. Dark days can become like lights strung up. Testimony is those things that could have been endings, but were just beginnings. Like Jesus.

The ending to this essay came organically. One day, I saw the person I had been trying to forgive, who hurt my family. I hollered at them. What I said wasn’t a threat, or a curse, or anything bad at all. But, it wasn’t the nicest voice, recounting what they did to us. My voice rang out in the morning air, this person's steps faltered as they scurried away. I wrote to them. As it turns out, they ARE deeply sorry, and have been in a hole of pain, shame and dispair about what they did. They’re not doing great right now, and haven’t handled things well. They met with my husband to further apologize for hurting our family, especially our children. We all feel lighter. It’s still not okay what happened, but at least we know why and we are not left behind wondering about this person’s heart.

When I feel like I am too hurt over how I was treated by someone to aphemi— I remember this: who do I want to keep accounts with? Who do I do business with? Who do I want to entertain in my thoughts and will it keep me from from His table?  I look to His hills and the holy, pure mountains that are my children’s faces. I touch their cheeks; wipe them clean after each meal.

We do not get the blessing of hearing an apology from an enemy very often. Aphemi is trusting that God is inviting you to sit and have the best meal of your life, on the House, while you trust with a childlike wonder that He is plowing those other children’s hearts and the unearthing may not be pretty. We all have virgin soil somewhere we may not even know about yet, waiting to be supernaturally disturbed. Someone else’s heart may look fallow from the outside; I try and hold out hope that the story isn’t finished here on earth.

What if your forgiveness could be someone else’s seed?  

Fall line

Part 1: You died in Vermont

I took an old boyfriend home from college and he eyed me queerly, looked around the room unimpressed. “Your family does not know how to dress for a funeral,” he said. 

When it didn’t land the way he wanted he played it off as a joke. 

I couldn’t help but agree, yet only people who haven’t lost anybody care what you wear to bury your dead.

I knew this even then. 

Now I am a poorly dressed visitor in this place I came from. Where you stayed and waited and now it is too late. 

Where I came from. Where I came from. Where I came-

I come from blue collar hands you could trust with your roof, or milk, or snow. 

I come from men and women who scrubbed their homes floor to ceiling, Marine style, every Saturday. 

They do not eat in their cars. 

They love weather; after my grandfather died, Hurricane Irene stranded me in Vermont for 10 days.“He would’ve lived for this,” his children said watching the news reports.

They are as good as their word. 

We come from doing what you gotta.

We come from “blooming where we are planted,” as pastor Ken Post says. 

In “Shopgirl,” Steve Martin had an affair with a gamine Claire Danes, practically just off the high school bus. He pleads with her, why can’t she just accept the affair, and the world, for what it is?

“I’m from Vermont.” She says. 

She repeats it more slowly, “I’m.from.Vermont.” He doesn’t get it. 

But, why would Steve Martin’s character ever get it? 

The antagonists in my own life call me a hippie, but I always say “I’m just from Vermont”. 

I’m. From. Vermont.  

I’m more hick than hippie. But those two things blur together where I am from.

My husband knows I am angry if he suddenly can’t understand a word I’m saying. 

“Vermont-speak,” he calls it. We call my dad back in the Green Mountain state and he says, I’m jest comin’ in the dooryard. You can hear me in the door yard.  

When I pray lately I ask God to put a watch on my lips. My lifelong obsession with words is both a gift and a curse, if I let it be. My tongue is a chameleon. 

Lately, God tells me to loosen up the way I’ve trained myself all these years to enunciate.  

I’ll never stop writing about Vermont because it’s so misunderstood. 

We are from sugar-on-snow-supper, which is a truck full of snow pulled up to the back door of the brightly painted volunteer fire station. 

Temperate conditions don’t favor a sap run- it’s the trees weathering hot and cold that makes the best maple syrup. 

We are from down dirt roads so long you don’t know what state you’re in, anymore. 

We are some of the eldest surviving kin in a long line of gone too soon. 

And now you’re gone, too. 

I didn’t go to your funeral. I was 7 months pregnant and had just been back to bury another friend from the place I am from.We are from. Where you rest.

Part 2: Our ticket out

My parent’s businesses were built from one truck, essentially. Eventually, we enjoyed the finer things in life. 

We learned that you can lose a lot of time chasing the almighty dollar. The nicer my skis, the less I saw my dad. He gave me wings, though. 

Skiing took me flying down mountains across the world by high school. 

Skiing allowed me to move to Oregon during a recession, ski instructing when even restaurants weren’t hiring Oregon. 

Skiiing saved me more than once. Now, I skate-ski. It’s the purest form of flying I’ve known yet. Just you and your breath whooshing your body through the silent woods. No chairlifts. 

I didn’t fit in with the rich ski hill kids, though. I dropped down to high school racing by senior year, no more USSA racing, where you could qualify for nationals. 

I never did. But I went far for somebody whose dad taught them to ski at 7 on the neighbors too-long skis at Maple Valley. Maple Valley has long since shuttered, like all the smaller ski hills the locals favored.

Skiing taught me courage, discipline and about pain; how it tempers you into a version of yourself four times stronger than your original form, strengthened by your journey. 

There is an ecstasy in spending so much time on the mountain, we were birds. Flying through the untouched snow in our bright coats; cold, clear 8 a.m mornings, slushy rainstorm practices, and so many storms in our rubber suits over snow pants so we didn’t get soaked. Sometimes it was just us and the creatures out there. And the lifties, perhaps the toughest breed of all. But that’s for another essay. 

We skied without poles to set the courses; skiing with my arms out straight horizontal down mountain faces remains one of the greatest experiences of my life. Like skiing with you, bud. 

That’s another soft skill; knowing how to pick your fall line. In topography, a fall line is the most direct line down a mountain or hill. That’s how you win the race. 

It’s not always the fastest or the strongest skier who wins. It’s the one who manages, above all odds (unexpected conditions, ruts, sleet, fear) to stay closest to the fall line. 

Icy, deep ruts made by the previous racers are left on the course for the skiers who go last. Deep ruts chatter your teeth. You hang onto your thin, sharp metal edge, latched into your bindings cranked up maximum tight, hanging on for dear life.  

So many people my age have died in our tiny Valley it feels like a plague but it’s all drugs, suicides or car wrecks. 

So many young men seem to be leaving us, good solid men. 

Men in pain who have no way to ease it. Physical pain, emotional pain, mental pain. Men are not supposed to be in pain, not pain the doctors can’t quickly fix. 

There is no social language for men’s pain that is acceptable to the general public. 

Women's pain is historically neglected, but at least women are expected to go through changes like Jupiter; storms and moons, dust and scars. 

If I could go back and ski with you one more day bud, or we could drive down one more muddy dirt road, get stuck and need to push ourselves out for hours. 

Or back to my grandpas field at 4-years-old and sit in the clover, while our grandparents played crazy eights.

I’d sure meet you there. 

I can still smell the inside of your coat you’d lend any girl in the class who was cold, because that’s how you were raised. You always smelled a little bit like woodsmoke, gasoline from your chain saw and good soap. I last hugged you on the side of the road, pulled over when I saw you there on a break from another beloved longtime job. Not many can really cook on a line so busy, either. 

Our paths diverged in life; and the hand I got was simply better, bud, as twisted a road I’ve tracked. But we always made sense to each other, no matter the shoes we wore. No matter the road we traveled. 

I told you once, nothing you could ever pick up would ever make me love you any less than how I already loved you like a brother. 

You immediately hated that one old boyfriend, and you were slow to have a bad word for anyone; but you smelled him out; his judgement of the wedding you met him at, his wandering eye. You warned me, like a brother would. 

The timelessness of the green mountains seems a little less ancient, now that you’re gone and took a piece of their heart. 

It seems fitting that your jobs all required skill and managing dangerous situations adeptly. Your favorite one was grooming snow and snow making, up at that same rich-kid ski hill where we flew as kids.

Driving that groomer, you were king of every sunrise; it seemed like your God -given right as a Vermonter to be at the top of your world.  

You skied more elegant than all those rich kids combined, tall and unbound by arrogance, you out skied ‘em all.

We both left Vermont where you are now buried.

Your fall line was fearless, flawless. 

Medicine (Holy Belief)

In Hydra, the wildflowers that were my medicine for so long grew on the mountain. We walked through fields of yellow, terracotta roofs clumping down to the Aegean sea. We saw no other travelers hiking up steep switchbacks through virgin pine, rock-rose peeping out from the parched soil of the mountain steppe. At the Monastery of the Prophet Elias, 500 meters above the port, monks were crawling through the little door to the temple and shaking out rugs, dust mites shimmering around their robes. We both teared up at the top. “Look at you,” you said. I was healed and pregnant. It was easy to have an abundance of faith and courage, then. G was the size of a poppy seed in my belly, and I didn’t need a test to tell me so. 

The path to get to this point where I was standing on top of the monastery began 10 years ago. When Dan and I began building a life together, we threw all our eggs in his career basket: we’d now moved three times around the state in 7 years and more than that if you included stints living with our babies in airbnbs, hotel rooms and our travel trailer. I had prided us on the ability to move swiftly when needed. While my husband traveled for work and was on call, an essential employee for emergency events, the family enjoyed the stability of life with me as the stay-at -home-parent. It was a lot of work relocating all the time, and we were a one-income family by choice, but we had it all, or so we thought. The house, the job and even the stay at home mom dream didn't mean much when I could not get out of bed due to pain and fatigue as our life continued.

You think of the strangest things lying in bed when you feel that type of pain and disconnection from your body. I thought of a regular I had at my first bartending job, Leo. He drank Branch bourbon and water and was a limo driver. His advice for quitting smoking was this: throw ‘em out the window. Leo came to the conclusion when he was sick with pneumonia on Christmas, he could hear everyone else enjoying the turkey, mashed potatoes and homemade cranberry relish just outside his door and nothin’ tasted good so he chucked his beloved smokes out the window, never looking back. Oh, how I wished I had anything to chuck out the window when I laid up in bed waiting for years for answers.

None of this existence seemed fair or to line up with how I built my life. I had quit smoking and drinking completely years ago. I ran daily in the forest, I cooked most things from scratch, I skied and paddled and biked for miles depending on the season. That had all slowly been stripped away as my strength waned. When the doctor said the word celiac, as shocking as it was, I was relieved to chuck my favorite foods the window. I would’ve done anything to be out of bed playing with my 2-year-old and -4 year old daughters. 

Yet through all this I now stood on top of the Monastery overlooking Hydra.

A few months earlier I stood in the shower and God spoke to me about the third child now in my womb. I heard a still, small voice reply that He wanted to bless me with a third baby, before I was even healed. I reflexively said hoarsely “No!” It was more a gasp than an utterance. I am no Mary. I thought of how I was never without an enemis bag during pregnancy, or without “letting a little blue pill dissolve under my tongue before my knees hit the floor each morning,” as one woman so aptly described the experience of severe pregnancy sickness. 


When I told my mother she said “NO SIR,” in a similar gasp, when my husband told her at the local ice cream shop. She does not normally call Dan “sir.” It’s a very old-fashioned, New Englandy way of cursing. She was scared for my health, too. The Bible says not to be afraid 365 times. It is the most repeated command in the book and it may also be the hardest to obey. When I prayed over the words I heard from God about my pregnancy, I kept hearing that I’d have a Christmas baby. Even though I very much wanted another baby, I was afraid of pregnancy after my second child. I consulted the doctor first. God bless him for assuring me; with my autoimmune condition now in remission, he did not believe I would be that sick again.


The Holy Spirit put those personal words of encouragement in the doctor's mouth. Even when he uttered them, he looked like he wished he hadn’t; he didn’t want to over-promise and under-deliver. I don’t think it was the autoimmune remission that kept me from getting as sick as before. It was the belief that I wouldn’t be sick that he planted in me when I couldn’t muster it on my own. God works with and through His people. 


When G was born early on December 14, I thought of Mary, who was present in thought in my other births. Leading up to the birth she was on my mind when I was so anemic I couldn't get out of bed without an iron transfusion. I could not control the pregnancy experience and neither could Mary. I thought of Mary on the donkey, Mary in the elements, Mary among strangers in a strange land.


When baby G was a mere 4 days old, her doctor called me and said we needed to go to Portland first thing in the morning; her newborn screening showed a positive result for a condition we had not heard of before. We drove in a snowstorm with her strapped in, sleeping like a little mouse. The Columbia River Gorge was white with snow, we blasted the defroster continuously as we crawled along the highway that snakes its way eighty miles to what locals call the hospital on the hill— OHSU Doernbecher Children’s Hospital. I prayed the whole way. 


It was there G was given her battle to fight: SMA type-1. 

The room spun around, exactly like I was going to pass out, blackness peppered my vision, my throat a frozen knob of wood, sodden with that same frozen river water we had just followed in the dark.

I cried, but disassociated so loud it was like a jet engine in my brain. I couldn’t hear or see clearly through the white noise for weeks. That day, I prayed and listened to worship music but I also blasted old favorites: angst alternative rock of The Old 97s and Bayside. I wanted to feel pain in someone’s voice that matched mine. “I’ve been up all night trying to find a way she doesn’t have this,” my husband cried to the doctor who teared up too as she discussed treatment options that day. 

There were long days in the labs and hospitals as we prepped and isolated for the big infusion known as Gene Therapy. 


I thought of many things like; what would it be like to be anemic and pregnant in any warzone, in any country right now, and not be able to access a newborn screen? What about all the places the SMA screen isn’t yet available? Our sheer luck, privilege and blessings were astonishingly apparent.


One of my favorite books in college was a biography, “Molly, Spotted Elk, A Penobscot in Paris.” In the book, Molly is an expat Penobscot dancer who hiked her baby out of a WW2 war zone over the French Alps to safety; meeting her husband and reuniting her little family, alone. I had never realized it before, but maybe subconsciously I had envisioned a similar fate if the apocalypse or bad times hit. I had always muscled my way out of most situations. Four years earlier, I had been raising my babies in the Cascade Mountains where I was miles from the nearest town, pushing a 250 lb snowblower around and chopping wood. Within a short 2 years, my body seemed to be failing. I could barely mother, let alone carry my babies from any warzone like Molly had. I was completely humbled by not being able to climb the mountains I faced alone. I was 37 at the time with a baby and a 2-year-old, sitting in specialists’ waiting rooms like it was my full time job.


Now, I am 40 and I have crossed a couple deserts like Moses, but my healing is imperfect. I’m still in the wilderness, not the garden, but I’m starting to have my eyes opened by the miraculous and mighty goodness in my life. It’s not only G. I am a testimony to so many things I’ve been through since the last time my hands pushed that snowblower sometime in 2021. And everyday, my eldest daughter A tells her baby sister she will roll over. “You’ll crawl, run and jump and play with us soon. Your legs will grow big and strong!” A has no idea that her much-wanted baby sister's every milestone is a miracle, that her words are a prayer affirming this. 

“So many of us fought for your girl.” One mom said to me when discussing newborn screenings, now in 50 states. It was too late for her daughter in just 2020, the year my second daughter was born. It takes my breath away. Being physically strong, mentally fit or psychologically prepared is not real bravery, but a counterfeit for the courage the real things we will face in life require. Now, everyone kept telling me how brave I was being for G during her diagnosis and treatment, but what other option did I have? In retrospect, the brave thing my husband and I did for our kids was putting down roots and investing in relationships. We had moved to a small town intentionally, like the ones we were raised in, just a year before G was born. 


In our new home, our new(ish) friend Pat offered to watch my now 3 and 6-year-old daughters while we focused on newborn G’s treatment in Portland. My stomach churned with the imposition on Pat’s busy life. But she did it with grace and a cheerful heart. Pat watched my children for 8 days, and it wasn’t just a huge, generous, gift that got us through a hard time. Instead of us offering our children the ragged crumbs of Dan and me while we nursed their sister in Portland, Pat poured into our children in our home. She filled them up with music, books, walks, games, attention, and most of all, I saw little clues for me left everywhere in her care of the girls. She supported me like a mother, noting items like when we needed more towel hooks at a level for little hands and that A would thrive in school now unlike before. The advice was love for me and my family. 


It was validating to accept help, and most of all, it gave us hope for a future. For the best yet to come during a scary time. 


Real bravery is asking for help and real strength is lifting up the meek and downtrodden. It’s knowing, when you’re doing a bit better than someone else in some way, it’s not because you’re so great at life, it’s: there but for the grace of God go I. It’s also knowing you’ve been there before, and you’ll be there again. No one is immune to the wilderness. Even more so, it’s trusting God. 


Abraham put Isaac on the altar, trusting Jehovah-Jireh, He-who-will-provide, to make a way through an impossible situation. When I put my 14-day old baby girl in a hospital crib, or on the gleaming steel table for her repeated blood draws, I whispered His names: Jehovah-Jireh, Jehovah-Rafa; provider, healer. God provided a ram for Abraham and Isaac; He provided Zolgensma for me and G. 

During our stay at Doernbeckers, another friend Kay sent me this scripture about how Moses was too weak to get through a big battle. His friends held his arms up and that battle was won with their support (Exodus 17:12-13).

 

Kay said, 

“When you are feeling weary and like you can't pray, you are NOT alone. Just know your church family is still lifting you all up in prayer, so we will be Aaron and Hur for you, and the enemy will be defeated.”

In March, Pat and Kay threw G a gorgeous baby shower! Again, other women knew what I needed more than I did during that time. They were celebrating G like a “normal” baby, (which she is!) sitting with the women who prayed over her, dressing her in the adorable gifts they brought in splendid bags and ribbons, healed my ability to hope. For the skeptics who write me and say “great blog, but they could do without the God stuff”... let me tell you, it’s all God stuff. Medicine alone cannot heal or be developed without divine intervention; no one can ever say in one blog all the wonders we saw in our great adventure so far with G. If you gave me 40 more years it would still not be enough time to tell you all the complexities of the story and the lives that became intertwined with ours through God's good work. 

God and His people are loving G and our family the way the Velveteen rabbit was loved until he was real. Like the tattered velveteen rabbit, G’s healing became real even though it was ugly. These friends do not see my shabbiness and if they do; they love me anyway.  The word used for hope in Aramaic in the Bible is himnota, which describes a nursing mother. When I nurse baby G, my hope for her is infinite, unconditional. I’d take a bullet for G, pray to take her place if she could not have SMA. That’s how much God loves us. That’s also how much His children are called to love each other. It’s an embarrassment of riches.



Kay made an “adventure awaits” cake for G, with world-traveler themed decorations in bright Aegean-sea blue and spring grasses, so much like Greece where G was already with us I haven’t even told Kay yet, it was so uncanny. And a baby in itself, a Christmas baby with the predicted due date of 12/24/23, with the planned middle name Moses, seems so spot on Yahweh must be laughing at His own cleverness. Even during the infusion at OHSU, G was ministering to the nurses, other patients and children. Everywhere we went people wanted a peek at tiny G, and though we were overprotective, wrapping her in our baby carrier, we felt the hope she represented. Another mom wrote to me: “As Moses means ‘delivered from the water’ or ‘to draw out’ …I pray right now in Jesus name that He would draw G out of the deep waters this diagnosis threatens, and that she would simply bear a testimony of goodness all over her life.”


I will be 41 later this month and the cliffside in our small town home is aflame with yellow balsamroot, so similar to the wildflowers in Hydra. In the pine woods here, the bright orange heartwood of the manzanitas gleam with April showers and a pal writes to thank me for information about rock rose tea. She tells me we can brew manzanita leaves and drink the tea to prevent poison oak. 

God plants medicine next to the poison so often in life. And he planted G right next to her medicine, too. As we trek back and forth to Doernbeckers God gives us the courage through our friends holding up our weary hands even when we cannot hold our own weapons anymore for the battle. Bravery is the bitterroot that will bloom next; saving all years’ rain in one taproot. The rainwater in the roots is like God's special plan for getting us through the rocky, hard, dry times when you can’t even remember the rain itself. Spring’s colors are arrayed as medicine where each spring is a dose of holy belief in the goodness of His kingdom here, in the land of the living. 


  • Pat and Kay are pseudonyms

G

I revised my college savings budget sheet, added three weddings at the suggestion of a friend. Sure, it’s old-fashioned, but why not save a little something just in case? I researched vaccines all over again, digging into anything published since my last daughter's birth. I did hypnobirthing, hired a doula and wrangled with a birth preference sheet that both communicated my wishes and welcomed the doctor to advise and assist me. I chose hospital birth for a reason, I told the soft-spoken, petite OB who teased me in gentle, low tones when I worried my belly was too small. By the time she wanted to induce me for hypertension, I trusted her completely and agreed to induce at 38 weeks. 


My husband and I fussed over snacks for the hospital, knowing how long induction can take. We brought candles, music, reading materials, blankets and essential oils. I ordered two robes, remembering acutely how the joy of birth can be accompanied by blood,sweat and tears. We dropped Shakespeare the border collie off to Cascade Pet Camp, where once again he would end up working the front desk and becoming best friends with the staff, showing no signs of the aggression he displays around us. Once again, we promised to return soon for more dog training. But life keeps throwing us curveballs. 


Working on my health and fertility and making sure I had a negative Western blot for Lyme (since newer studies show it can be passed congenitally) before I conceived G took nearly two years. It was hard treatment because of how long my acute Lyme went untreated. The hardest part was Herxing, which is basically like a terrible flu that means you’re getting better. Carrying G was my best pregnancy yet. Her birth was complicated in some ways but magical and I am grateful I followed my gut and chose hospital care this time. Home birth is for the low-risk candidate, and I think for a long time I was trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. Even now, I’m a week postpartum with G and my blood pressure isn’t behaving at all. But since I have a real OB, I can get medication easily. It’s so much better to have the right fit for care. The midwives I have used are amazing, by the way, and they also referred me to both high-risk OBs and the hospital when things became high-risk. It was always me stubbornly trying to do everything the hard way. 


This birth, I tried not to be so stubborn. I still had an unmedicated labor, but once again when back labor struck I was reminded how very much I’d beg for an epidural like anyone else if that had gone on too long. I accepted a sleep aid so I could nap during the second night of induction- pre- labor. I complained when things hurt or were uncomfortable, like sweating though my clothes three times the night after I had G.  God bless the night nurse, who gruffly tucked me in with warm blankets and dry Hospital gowns as many times as I needed. G’s birth was healing to me, after the last few years of dealing with so many doctors for my own health- some great, some awful. The best thing my OB said to me was about my birth preference sheet. She could see how nervous I was and she assured me that there was “nothing crazy on there.” After being misdiagnosed with anxiety until my labs finally tanked from untreated celiac, acute Lyme and mold illness, being told I’m not being crazy by a doctor is like a love language to me. It’s equivalent to ten years of therapy for medical trauma. My OB is a Yale graduate in a a cream-colored Gilmore Girls sweater under her lab coat. The delivering OB wore a sweater in emerald green. Dan said if she had dogs they’d be elegant greyhounds. Classy, gentle women doctors are my new heroes. 


Four days after G is born we are at the children’s hospital, and the doctor runs our sample to the mailbox, carrying a hot pink Coach medical bag wedged in her armpit. She jogs everywhere that Tuesday, as Dan pushes me behind in a wheelchair, me and baby G. I have no energy to cover up while breastfeeding; shoving my nipple into her mouth everytime we take a ride to the next destination- the two hour appointment with the neurologist, cardiac and physical therapy appointments, and two blood draws and a heel stick. They forget a crucial lab the first stick, prompting my ever-cool-under-pressure husband to drop a few F-bombs at the staff as G screams and they miss the tiny vein again and again. The fresh-faced nursing duo with the needles handles it exactly how a labor and delivery nurse does when something besides blood comes out during labor. They don’t blink an eye, coo and say no apology needed. This is all part of it, their four brown eyes say over the droll blue masks, not quite cornflower but not periwinkle either. A cold blue, like the shadow the corner of a roof makes on snow. A cool spot, you could fall into and never stop falling. 


The doctor runs everywhere, herding us like children and rightfully so. We are grateful to be led through this by her determination; we are shell-shocked and exhausted. Before 2018, there was no cure for spinal muscular atrophy. Where a gene should be, there is nothing. Space, zero, nada, zilch. But now, there is a one-time life saving gene therapy treatment. The exact type of therapy I have been so skeptical about when it comes to new vaccines. I had even researched this treatment, Zolgensma, when I wrote my last blog. I said to my husband, now here’s a good use for this technology-  babies who had no chance at life are now no longer dying from a couple genetic diseases. Gene therapy has been studied in this exact context since the early 2000s. Editing everyone’s genes to better handle regular illnesses like the flu (this is really in the works btw) doesn’t make as much sense to me without more research. But now, my baby is sick and the best way to give her a chance at survival and a normal life is to edit what God wove in my womb. In my mind I picture the devil making off into the underworld cavern with G’s missing gene glowing in his dark, cruel hands. 


Now we are praying for a miracle— could it be the samples were mixed up? We had just assured everyone that she was perfect, all was well. We ask for prayer intercession against this nightmare, nothing else matters anymore besides if G can stay here with us. My six-year-old does skin to skin with G, changes every diaper she’s awake to help with. My three-year-old introduces us to the baby repeatedly. “Hey little baby. I’m C. This is daddy, A, and this is mommy! And this is my puppy. Is SO nice to meet you!” 


Now our friends far and wide are praying. Some ask how I am, text and message. Some say thinking of you, others ask how are you, what can we do. Some people make me wince- not understanding how serious the treatment is, how it’s not a choice. I’m no longer surprised when thoughtless comments fall from some mouths, utterances like newly rotted  apples thudding on the ground between us. Everything I have already been through has prepared me for this. I need no one’s approval. This orchard has quiet rows my husband and I take turns crying behind. His crying shift is twilight, mine is dawn. When my father counters our instructions to quarantine with there’s -germs-everywhere theories I hand the phone off to my husband and scream in the shower, once. The kids scream too. Once. We all seem to feel a little better, after the screaming. 


The doctor is running because all her experience and training for over twenty years tells her every single second counts for G. Newborn G looks perfect, full lips, pinky skin, long hands and feet like her daddy just waiting to grow into. Tall like her sisters. She has a full head of light brown hair with golden eyelashes and brows. Inside that perfect body, nerve motor cells could be dying that G needs to be able to breathe, swallow, and move. With Zolgensma, she could have a normal chance at life. Without it, respiratory failure causes infant death before the age of two. Before 2018, we are told, hospice might be at your house as soon as you came home from the birth center.


I can’t do anything for G from my natural medicine cabinet. I can use a few therapies that are safe for newborns when she herxes from the treatment, and that’s exactly what will happen and why it is dangerous. She will have her immune system completely repressed and given a virus with the gene she is missing encoded inside. She’ll have a massive viral die off, and will be given steroids to mitigate organ failure. We will quarantine for at least a month after. All of this is risky. I have a searing hot pit in my stomach and a sharp lump in my throat. I take four showers in one day because the only way I can stand talking to God is with scalding hot water pouring down directly on top of my head. But, at least we're speaking. At least there is a doctor with a reason to run. 

*written on my iPhone


Waiting

38 weeks, waiting for Georgia.

Part 4: The Road Out

Please read first:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

When I first got diagnosed with autoimmune conditions, I started to be documented as “chronic” in the healthcare system. This means you have a condition that has lasted longer than six months and may be lifelong. Not all of them, but some doctors counseled me not to get my hopes up for a full recovery. Adjusting expectations and cognitive behavioral therapy is a heavy focus for some chronic patients. And in some ways, this is for good reason. It’s been proven to help with pain more than medication long term. In other ways, people are unintentionally conditioned to view their bodies as broken, feeling dependent on medications or interventions that may have serious side effects. 

My past experience as a medical writer for pharmaceutical companies kicked in and I began to take research into my own hands. What I have discovered is a disturbing trend; the CDC, FDA and NIH standards for many conditions (especially autoimmune) are all woefully behind the latest research in Europe and other countries. Even worse, many studies used to corroborate the efficacy of medications or other therapies were often corrupted by lobbyists or other stakeholders funding the studies. In some states like Californian, doctors’ hands are tied by governing boards’ recommendations. I’d like scientists to think like individual scientists, and patients to be treated like individuals.

When I received the first series of the COVID vaccine in 2021, I was advised by most of my doctors, both western and alternative, to take the shot for extra protection against the virus because of my special health conditions. In 2023, I know two fellow autoimmune warriors who have been officially diagnosed, by western medicine MDs, with vaccine-induced long Covid. They have not yet had the actual virus, merely the vaccine.

One friend was a burly firefighter before they received their first Covid vaccine. They have not been able to raise the arm they received the vaccine in, or return to work ever since July 2021. Their case is rare, but they and others with certain conditions are now being advised not to receive any further boosters. Despite this, the CDC website still suggests that the autoimmune population should get the boosters, since they’re immunocompromised and may suffer worse effects of the virus.

The concept of vaccine-induced long Covid began in January of 2022. The NIH and other research programs were starting to investigate complaints of migraines, body pain, fatigue, and POTS (a blood pressure disorder.) More subtle than the rare initial vaccine side effects like large blood clots, these patients’ symptoms were similar enough, and the complaint volume high enough, it could not be ignored.

Animal studies have shown that the immune response mounted by the body when it encounters the spike protein in the vaccine, may cause what they are calling collateral damage in the body. Other studies showed that four of the antibodies the body created in response to COVID-19 vaccines using mNRA technology attacked healthy tissue in mice. Additional studies show that some animals and people, though rare, developed micro-clotting throughout the body after vaccination, which can lead to health problems. More research is needed, because one common theme among studies is unpredictability in which groups develop long term complications.

Interestingly, Robert Gallo, the American who worked for the NIH (and sued for discovery of the AIDS virus against French Dr. Montagnier and lost) had some controversial suggestions just like his competitor Montagnier, specifically for treatments and prophylactics during early Covid. YouTube videos still available as of 2023 show Dr. Gallo lamenting that the government muzzled him for promoting the use of the the oral polio vaccine as a stop-gap measure to prevent the pandemic. Although he gave the caveat that it should only be used for short-term, emergency use protection, 1-2 months, he gave extensive interviews on the subject to sources of varying credibility. (This was well before the advent of the Covid-19 vaccines.)

Dr. Gallo’s argument was that it was a safe, effective and extremely cheap vaccine that could be repurposed in the beginning of the pandemic. He said Remdesivir and Hodroxycloricline were risky and not as effective. Besides being involved in the race to claim discovery of the HIV/AIDS virus between the US and France, Dr. Gallo was a highly awarded researcher, and at one time was the most cited scientist in the world. While Dr. Montagnier was vehemently opposed to the mNRA vaccines, when they came out, Dr. Gallo merely believed they weren’t effective for very long and were expensive to make. He cited the decades already spent trying to find an effective HIV/AIDs vaccine using the same technology. The immune response always wore off too quickly to make any collateral damage to the body worthwhile (in his opinion). 

Speaking of controversial yet cheap medications, Ivermectin was discovered in the 1970s by a Nobel-winning Japanese Scientist named Satoshi Omura, who worked for Merk. The advent of this powerful insecticide was hailed as a wonder drug; it made river blindness obselete in several countries. Ivermectin is derived from an organism found in soil samples in Tokyo. It is currently used to treat billions of animals, both domesticated and commercial, from infectious parasites such as horn-flies, lice, lungworms, mites, roundworms, and ticks. Human use began in 1988 in West Africa, for a parasite spread by black-fly bites. Ivermectin is now the mainstay of global disease eradication programs targeting parasites of all kinds.

Despite its use in more developing nations, before the Covid-19 pandemic, doctors in the US prescribed about 3,600 patients Ivermectin annually. After the pandemic, that number shot up to about 80,000. Although some studies have shown the drug to be ineffective, others have shown it to have anti-viral efficacy against Covid.

State medical boards have given warnings to doctors against prescribing Ivermectin for Covid. In some cases, the boards have pressed charges. No matter the pathologist or infectious disease specialist’s professional viewpoint, the government has made themselves the doctor when it comes to Covid.

The irony of giving Ivermectin routinely to pets and being unable to obtain it, even if it has been proven to have an anti-viral effect, is not lost on many people. Others associate it’s use with conspiracy theorists. One thing is for sure, politics have clouded the this topic.

The same thing has happened with the mNRA vaccines. The information disclosed to the public on the vaccines has changed over time. Despite unanswered questions about it’s side effects and efficacies, drug companies are in trial right now for mNRA vaccines and gene therapies for many different conditions, ranging from cystic fibrosis to the annual flu vaccine. Did we really spend enough time perfecting this technology and making sure it was safe and had efficacy value before pressing on ever forward with billions of tax pay dollers?

The US government paid upwards of 40 million dollars to Pfizer in 2020 to develop their vaccine, and upwards of 80 million in 2021 to develop, produce and distribute more boosters. The Covid vaccines are predicted to become the most lucrative pharmaceutical product ever in a short time. Before the Covid vaccine, the most lucrative drug ever was Humira, which was approved in 2002 and brings in over ten million a year routinely.

Here’s some numbers to consider:

-The US has invested at least $31.9 billion in public funds directly towards development of mNRA vaccines. 

-Covid-vaccine sales have profited Moderna and Phizer over $100 Billion in sales

-It is the largest public investment into any disease in history

If the actual Covid-19 virus has really killed one million people because it escaped from a lab (which was partially funded by US dollars) I hope one or more parties involved will eventually pay in some way to restore justice to the families who were forever robbed because the defense department of our country and China’s played with fire. And it escaped. 

Even if, as some have suggested, death rates were inflated for whatever reason, many still died untimely and unfortunate deaths in a great deal of pain, and alone. All in the name of what was best for the public, as decided by the US government, without our input, inside our own bodies. 

In Part 3, I suggested we leave Omelas so that we could pursue research that was ethical. The suffering of some was not worth the benefit to others. Utilitariasm in this case creates scarity; we can only know health in this model as a quantity over quality. During the recent pandemic, the utilitarism philosophy reigned; and the population of the experiment was much greater. Those that passed on from Covid-19 were far more than all the individuals in the studies I explained in this series.

We may have waited too long to leave Omelas afterall. If not, the choice is individual and the burden of proof is heavy. Staying aware of history, reading original sources when possible and not blindly doing what the government tells us at any given time is the road out. 

National Institute for Public Health budget of 47.5 Billion 2022

Phizer headquarters NCY, profits over 1 Billion last year

Moderna, Profits of 8 billion last year

Dr. Gallo early AIDS researcher 1980s

Dr. Gallo

Dr. Montagnier (won Nobel Prize for discovering HIV virus) 1980s

Dr. Montagnier also “disgraced” himself by blessing homeopathic medicine!


Sources for parts 1-4:

https://www.nature.com/articles/s41598-022-10928-z

https://www.dicardiology.com/content/mri-sheds-light-covid-vaccine-associated-heart-muscle-injuryhttps://www.itnonline.com/content/mri-sheds-light-covid-vaccine-associated-heart-muscle-injury

https://news.bloomberglaw.com/pharma-and-life-sciences/covid-19-vaccine-recipients-face-injury-payment-black-hole

https://healthpolicy-watch.news/u-s-government-invested-31-9-billion-in-mrna-vaccine-research-and-procurement/


https://www.modernatx.com/power-of-mrna/modernas-mrna-platform

https://www.pfizer.com/news/articles/what_does_mrna_mean_for_the_flu_vaccine

https://www.npr.org/2021/11/24/1059041725/covid-vaccines-are-set-to-be-among-the-most-lucrative-pharmaceutical-products-ev

https://www.marketwatch.com/story/how-much-is-big-pharma-making-from-covid-19-vaccines-were-about-to-find-out-11635716094

https://www.npr.org/2021/09/21/1039393874/how-ivermectin-ended-up-in-the-middle-of-a-covid-19-controversy

https://www.ihv.org/news/2020-News/RollingStone-Useful-Idiots-Dr-Robert-Gallo-on-a-COVID-19-Vaccine.html

https://youtu.be/bNYeLI7-8Ec

https://www.cdc.gov/flu/pandemic-resources/1957-1958-pandemic.html

https://www.gavi.org/vaccineswork/historys-seven-deadliest-plagues

https://rarehistoricalphotos.com/american-soldiers-stayed-north-korea/

https://health.ucdavis.edu/news/headlines/xbb15-what-you-need-to-know-about-covid-19s-kraken-variant-/2023/01

https://www.science.org/content/article/rare-cases-coronavirus-vaccines-may-cause-long-covid-symptoms

https://www.npr.org/2019/09/09/758989641/the-cias-secret-quest-for-mind-control-torture-lsd-and-a-poisoner-in-chief

https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2015/06/injectable-electronics-promise-sharper-view-of-brain/

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/this_world/4038375.stm

https://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/28/nyregion/28foster.html

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/02/21/nyregion/willowbrook-state-school-staten-island.html

https://www.thecut.com/2020/02/former-willowbrook-residents-still-suffering-abuse-neglect.html

https://www.chicagotribune.com/news/ct-xpm-1992-12-31-9204280756-story.html

https://www.science.org/content/article/u-s-weighs-crackdown-experiments-could-make-viruses-more-dangerous

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/spoonful-sugar-helps-radioactive-oatmeal-go-down-180962424/

https://www.history.com/mkultra-operation-midnight-climax-cia-lsd-experiments

https://www.forbes.com/sites/leahrosenbaum/2020/06/12/willowbrook-scandal-hepatitis-experiments-hideous-truths-of-testing-vaccines-on-humans/?sh=2eeaf44a279c

https://news.bloomberglaw.com/health-law-and-business/fdas-imperiled-funding-threatens-drug-approval-revamp-staffing

https://nypost.com/2021/06/03/fauci-emails-heres-what-we-learned

https://www.baltimoresun.com/news/bs-xpm-1992-02-21-1992052036-story.html

https://www.newsweek.com/anthony-fauci-vaccine-experiments-beagle-dog-research-university-georgia-1616987

https://cml.harvard.edu/publications/

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/flexible-circuit-has-been-injected-living-brains-180955525/

https://bpb-us-e1.wpmucdn.com/websites.harvard.edu/dist/7/67/files/2022/05/Nanoenabled-Direct-Contact-Interfacing-of-Syringe-Injectable-Mesh-Electronics

https://www.nbcnews.com/health/health-news/ethicists-blast-study-testing-fake-blood-flna1C9466415

https://abcnews.go.com/WNT/story?id=2166058&page=1&WNT=true

https://www.msn.com/en-us/health/medical/when-will-a-vaccine-for-rsv-be-available-in-the-us/ar-AA13IDXt

https://www.fiercepharma.com/manufacturing/pfizer-plant-hit-warning-letter-has-history-fda-problems

https://www.fda.gov/inspections-compliance-enforcement-and-criminal-investigations/warning-letters/hospira-healthcare-india-pvt-ltd-557890-03042019

https://www.fiercepharma.com/manufacturing/pfizer-ceo-indicates-it-will-be-2020-before-sterile-injectables-issues-are-resolve

https://www.fda.gov/inspections-compliance-enforcement-and-criminal-investigations/warning-letters/halosense-inc-606153-03302020

https://news.yahoo.com/daszaks-coronavirus-grant-rejected-pentagon-200800644.html

https://www.nature.com/articles/3301267

https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2021/10/nih-admits-funding-risky-virus-research-in-wuhanOn

https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/15322523/

https://www.nola.com/news/crime_police/do-you-remember-the-murder-of-dr-mary-sherman-50-years-ago/article_6796d028-316e-5faa-ba5a-18a2d4fba4c3.html

https://sites.dartmouth.edu/dujs/2013/03/10/genetically-engineered-bioweapons-a-new-breed-of-weapons-for-modern-warfare

https://prepareforchange.net/2021/10/15/list-of-us-companies-secretly-owned-by-china-tesla-microsoft-gm-uber/

https://www.wionews.com/science/what-are-biological-weapons-here-is-a-list-of-countries-that-possess-them-330033

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2375249/

-https://medesignman.com/MEDICINE/THE%20PROJECT/The%20Project%20-%20jcmd.html

https://www.newscientist.com/article/dn6116-vaccine-scandal-revives-cancer-fear

https://www.niaid.nih.gov/research/emerging-infectious-diseases-pathogens

https://www.myneworleans.com/dr-marys-monkey/

https://www.myneworleans.com/dr-marys-monkey/

https://time.com/5211143/robert-redfield-cdc-director/

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/covid-lab-theory-robert-redfield-no-evidence

https://news.yahoo.com/daszaks-coronavirus-grant-rejected-pentagon-200800644.html

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/covid-lab-theory-robert-redfield-no-evidence

https://www.nature.com/articles/3301267

https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2021/10/nih-admits-funding-risky-virus-research-in-wuhan

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/politics/how-prosecutors-used-a-law-meant-to-fight-the-mob-to-shine-a-light-on-dark-money-in-the-householder-corruption-trial/ar-AA18d3Vx

https://answers.childrenshospital.org/gene-therapy-history

https://www.businessinsider.com/us-government-tests-deadly-chemical-warfare-agents-utah-2019-10?op=1

https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2018/03/21/595812200/research-misconduct-allegations-shadow-new-cdc-director

Part 3: What Will They Think of Next?

*Please first read:
Part 1

Part 2

In 1964, Dr. Mary Sherman, a widow who worked for 12 years at Tulane University researching bone and soft tissue cancers, was found dead. The details of the scene were disturbing; she had been stabbed, experienced blunt force trauma, and was missing one arm after being found under a mattress that had been lit on fire. No one was ever arrested in connection with her death. Dr. Sherman published papers on viral and cancer research. Why would anyone want her dead? 

Recently, a book was published by the son of a scientist who worked at Tulane University’s research lab with Dr. Sherman during those years. Ed Haslam titled his book, “Dr. Mary’s Monkey,” and attributed his fascination with her life, work and mysterious death to his father being haunted by the horrific death of his co-worker. Two reporters from New Orleans magazine, Don Lee Keith, and Bonnie Warren, have also written extensively about Dr. Sherman.

Ed Haslan’s book theorizes part of Dr. Sherman’s work was developing antidotes to a cancer-causing virus. Not long after Dr. Sherman was found deceased, an anonymous human rights complaint that was never substantiated, stated the complainee worked at Tulane Labs with Dr. Sherman. The complaint said researchers at Tulane experimented on prisoners, giving them many cancerous tumors. Haslan further posits that Sherman was also working with the government on ways to kill Castro with a cancer-causing virus during the Cold War. Dr Sherman’s death remains unsolved today. 

The idea of giving viruses to the public through government programs is not a new topic. In the 1940s, the early polio vaccines were tainted with a virus known to cause cancerous tumors in animals. Although studies have shown that there were little effects, some studies did show a significant increase in testicular cancer among those who received the polio vaccine. Despite the correlation nothing has ever been proven. 

SV40 is a monkey virus that was identified in batches of the polio vaccine, probably from cells (used to create the vaccine) from the kidneys of monkeys infected with the SV40 virus. Whether the virus definitively causes cancer in humans, only more research and time will tell. In 2004, Michele Carbone of Loyola University Medical Center announced the results of a study suggesting that hundreds of millions may have been infected with the SV40 virus by polio vaccines well into the early 1980s. At that time, the Soviet Union was supplying more than 100 countries with vaccines, including the US. The factories in both the US and Russia are plagued with a long list of violations, including samples containing mold, other additives, and unexplainable viruses or bacteria. Why was this virus allowed to be injected into the public, without them knowing, for over 40 years?

Gene therapy is an example of another research process that has been shrouded in intrigue, as well as being a darling of the defense department. In 2016, the US government put gene-editing on the list of potential weapons of mass destruction. In 2013, Dartmouth University researchers published a similar announcement about recent findings in the field of bioengineered weapons. Because of recent advancements in the use of computing, the components of DNA have been encoded into binary code or simply “1’s and 0’s.”

Using computing to map the human genome made the cost of configuring and predicting new genome sequences dirt cheap. Almost any virus on earth could be replicated. Gene therapy, or altering man’s DNA with viruses, whether to control the mind or body, is neither positive nor negative. In benevolent hands, this technology could be used to facilitate use of mobility devices with the user’s thoughts. And if we can make any virus, we can theoretically engineer an antidote to it. The Moderna Vaccine was based on gene therapy technology. 

In 2021, The NIH sent notice to members of a federal oversight committee that one of their research teams, an NIH-funded nonprofit named EcoHealth Alliance, led by Charles Lieber, was in deep trouble. The NIH alleged EcoHealth Alliance engineered synthetically enhanced bat-viruses in international laboratories, including Wuhan, China. In 2023, a federal audit of the nonprofit found that the Wuhan arm of its research labs still couldn’t produce sufficient records concerning what they were working on, and further, Charles Lieber had committed tax evasion. He is also suspected of allegedly participating in China’s thousand talents program, a suspected Chinese intelligence operation. Charles Lieber is currently facing 23 years in federal prison for tax evasion and failing to report foreign bank accounts. Similarly to the synthetic blood experiments, DARPA is picking up the research right where Lieber left off. 

Charles Lieber was not just involved in bat viruses. He was also at the forefront of injectable nano mesh that enables mind-machine communication. His product, mainly developed at Harvard, is considered injectable mesh electronics. The microscopic nano mesh is injected into the subject, and travels to the brain, where it unfurls. It then adheres to brain tissue enabling neurons to cross over it just like regular brain tissue. It’s uses run the gamut from Nerualink medical devices, which Elon Musk was working with Leiber to develop, allowing people to run computers with their minds. Other uses were similar to what Dr. Robinson is doing at Rice University, and are aimed at developing bioweapons for mind-control. These potentially mind-altering devices could be injected like any routine shot, and research into Leiber’s devices, just like his viruses, are being continued on today by DARPA. Considering the evidence that Lieber funneled US money into Chinese lab research, it’s reasonable to say other countries may be in possesion of this technology. 

In 2020, French Nobel Prize winner Dr. Montagnier claimed that COVID was engineered in a lab, as part of government funded research to develop a vaccine for HIV in humans. Dr. Montagnier won the Nobel Prize for discovering the virus that causes HIV, and was controversially and vehemently against the use of gene therapy, or mNRA vaccines, stating that the vaccines created too robust of an immune response in humans. Montagnier and other top scientists around the world were categorically shamed for expressing such opinions. Studying viruses, and how to make them better, is big business in the world of research. Within the US, other scientists including researchers at the University of Chapel Hill, published work shortly before the pandemic experimenting with bat coronaviruses. Scientists were engineering the corona viruses by grafting the gene containing the spike protein of the bat virus onto pieces of a SARS strain known for infecting mice. Scientists call these chimeric viruses. The biological definition of chimeric is having parts of different origin. Another term for it is gain of function research, aimed at improving viruses for specific uses. 

Along with scientists like Montagnier, US military researcher Dr. Robert Redfield, stated that his opinion early on in the 2020 pandemic was that it was an escaped bioengineered virus. Redfield’s controversial past includes homophobia, falsifying results of an HIV vaccine trial, and more. Because of his track record, no one listened to him on this point, despite him being tapped to lead the CDC during the COVID pandemic. In 2023, the US government admitted that it knew all along that COVID-19 was engineered in a lab.

I am in no way suggesting HIV was engineered; but HIV/AIDS was a pandemic of catastrophic proportions shrouded in government secrecy, just like COVID. And the Band Played On, a film exploring the controversy surrounding the discovery of the HIV virus, is outdated in some ways, but it is worth a rewatch with the 2020 pandemic in mind. 

One reason why consent and advocacy is so important in biological research is because the benefit-to-cost analysis is difficult to measure in real time. The results are also difficult to control when they involve biological substances, which some researchers handle before they fully understand how they spread. Our defense department is busy, and it is also enmeshed with the latest medical and bioengineering research. Post COVID, there are still countless studies going on right now, aimed at identifying biological weapons and their antidotes. Medical devices like Dr. Robinson or Chris Lieber’s, could easily be used to read or write a person’s mind, incapacitate their body, or harm them in countless other ways. These technologies exist, are not going away, and are the result of 100 years or more of experiments I have only begun to outline. 

Our tax-payer dollars pay for new viruses continuously, that are being engineered and sought out from the bowels of the planet to be studied and replicated. We continue to fund agencies like DARPA at a high cost of 3.9 billion a year. And who will they test new viruses or technology on? Will they be volunteers or unsuspecting participants? And if and when viruses escape, will the public ever know? We may have the latest and greatest technology, but the US has a long way to go with oversight, advocacy, and transparency in the name of public health. 

All of the examples in this series so far have described a lack of advocacy or research ethics, rooted in the idea that the suffering of a few will result in the benefit of many. When will we leave Omelas? At what point do we walk away, now that we are capable of whatever we can imagine? 

“They leave Omelas, they walk into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less immaginable to most of us than the city of happiness.”

Omelas, (from Sam Wolf’s blog)

Charles Leiber CEO of EcoHealth Alliance

Charles Leiber early Harvard Days

microscopic nano mesh

Electronics fused with organic tissue

sources listed in part 4

Part 2: Using the Brain as a Bioweapon

Please read Part 1

"Unthinking respect for authority is the greatest enemy of truth.”

Albert Einstein 

“One believes things because one has been conditioned to believe them.”

Aldous Huxley, Brave New World


Humans have long used bioweapons against each other in some form or another; willfully exposing another population to unknown pathogens. With recent advancements in bioengineering, the next bioweapons testing ground is the human brain. 

In 2013, DARPA announced the “Brain Initiative.” President Obama declared in his State of the Union Address that year that the program would launch with an initial budget of 100 million dollars. This hefty price tag was described as paying for itself; President Obama said “every dollar we invested to map the human genome returned 140 to our economy….Now is the time to reach a level of research and development not seen since the height of the space race.” 

And with that a defense project was sold in the name of scientific advancement for our economy and prosperity.  

Continuing in 2016, DARPA announced 65 million dollars in funding specifically to their Neural Engineering System Design, or “fully implantable devices able to connect with up to a million neurons.” 

In 2019, DARPA was spending millions in researching thought-control weapons, theoretically allowing soldiers to operate drones, or armies of drones, with thought-commands. That same year, six independent research teams received federal funding for the Nonsurgical-Neurotechnology program. The government funds are specifically to be used to develop technology for a two-way channel for communication between the human brain and machines.

One such team at Rice University is looking into how to genetically altar the human brain using viruses to facilitate mind control. Led by Dr. Robinson, the team is using modified viruses to encode genetic information into cells. Basically, neurons receive signals that cause them to emit two different proteins. One protein absorbs light, allowing researchers to see, through imaging, what the subject is experiencing. This could beam sights, sounds or even intentions the person’s brain may be signaling to outside observers. The second protein hooks on to nanoparticles that are impanted in the brain, so the subject’s neurons can be magnetically stimulated to fire. For example, the nanoparticles could be used to stimulate neurons in someone’s brain to induce a vivid hallucination.

The US government initiated mind control technology with projects like Bluebird, Artichoke and MKUltra after noticing some American GIs returned from the Korean War and seemed brain-washed. Some GIs confessed to using disease warfare against North Korea, which the US denied. Perhaps most shocking at the time, some GIs had refused to come home, joining the Communist society they had been sent to suppress. After this, the CIA began experimenting using electroshock, drugs, hypnosis, polygraph tests, and toxins including chemicals and diseases, both natural and/or bioengineered. They used every drug imaginable, including forced addiction and opiate withdrawal as a means of incapacitation. 

Frank Olsen was an unsuspecting Army Doctor who tragically jumped out a window after his boss Sidney Gottlieb secretly slipped him LSD. Others died like Olsen or were irreparably harmed in these experiments. Some sought a truth serum, while others were meant to discover how to drive a person certifiably insane, or erase their memory. Project Artichoke was specifically designed to see if assassins could be created through mind-control. In 1952, the scope of work for Artichoke included “can we get control of an individual to the point where he will do our bidding against his will and even against fundamental laws of nature, such as self-preservation?”

Throughout these projects, the CIA experimented on prisoners and poor people that no one would believe and possibly, no one would miss.

Operation Artichoke documents that have been declassified include the idea of using viral dengue fever to incapacitate subjects. They reasoned that a virus did not always have to be lethal to be used against a population or individual like say, Castro during the Cold War days. Other ways to incapacitate a man included radiation, and the US government fed radioactive oatmeal to orphans to study the effects. Well before the 60s, before WWII and the massive genocide comitted by the Nazis, the CIA hosted Nazis at the army’s lab in Ft. Detrick, Maryland, to learn more about how to kill people with sarin gas. We will likely never know how many research subjects in the US were harmed from experiments in the name of national defense and/or public health.

One glaring issue with federal funds being funneled into independent research teams is lack of oversight by the government. But even within the US military and government agencies, there is a remarkable lack of accountability and ethics in general. Until we all agree that we cannot experiment on the most vulnerable members of society, or even on average unsuspecting citizens, we are as barbaric as the leaders and scientists of the past. Contemporary mind-control technology like Dr. Robinson’s could create a whole new realm of mind-machine capabilities. Or, it could be used to overtake a nation by controlling the minds of it’s citizens’.

Stay tuned for part 3 and 4

Frank Olson

Sidney Gottlieb

Dr. Jacob Robinson, Rice University

Just one possible use of Robinsons technology

Rice University

Americans who refused to come home N Korea,

sources listed in part 4

Part 1: The Human Body As Test Dummy

“Whatever you can consider in your mind, is probably capable of being produced in the synthetic biology.” Dr Ken Wickiser, associate dean of of research, Westpoint Academy 

“Moderna’s covid-19 vaccine, weather satellites, GPS, drones, stealth technology, voice interface, the personal computer and the internet are on the list of innovations for which DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency) can claim at least partial credit.” - The Economist July 3, 2021

“There are those who say: the First World War was chemical; the Second World War was nuclear; and that the Third World War— God forbid— will be biological” M. Ainscogh, Next Generation Bioweapons; Genetic Engineering and Biowarfare, April, 2002

I taught dystopian fiction to an after-school program, because they liked it better than poetry. The Ones Who walk Away from Omelas by Ursula LeGuin, is a dystopian short fiction story about a society where there is seemingly, no suffering. Each summer, there is a coming of age ceremony, where each individual learns there is a terrible secret: there is one child, chosen to bear all of society’s suffering, imprisoned secretly underground beneath the city. The last line is about the rare individuals who leave the society,  instead of accepting their place among their peers, who are contributing to one child’s suffering for the supposed good of the many. 

"The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.”

It makes us all hope we’d be the ones who walk away from Omelas. 

In 1955, Dr. Saul Krugman knowingly infected over fifty disabled children between 5-10 years old, at the Willowbrook school in Staten Island, New York, with hepatitis in hopes of discovering a hepatitis vaccine. Back then, he likely believed he was helping this population prepare for future outbreaks. After all, the overcrowded (at times holding 6,000 patients instead of the recommended 4,000) Willowbrook campus was already known for pestilence and poor treatment of patients. Forbes magazine wrote: 

“In 1965, Robert F. Kennedy, then a New York Senator, made an unannounced visit to Willowbrook and left appalled. “There are no civil liberties for those put in the cells of Willowbrook,” he later testified before Congress, calling the institution a “snake pit.”  

Dr. Krugman wrote about the weight of the decision to infect pediatric patients in a 1958 paper published in the New England Journal of Medicine. His reasoning included that the strain of hepatitis in Willowbrook wasn’t too severe, many of the children would get infected anyway, and that any knowledge gained from the experiment would in fact help all Willowbrook residents. The study was well known, at the time it was blessed by the New York State Department of Mental Hygiene, and the Armed Forces Epidemiological Board of the Surgeon General’s Office. Willowbrooks’ experiments are now universally viewed as unethical and the knowledge gained was not deemed worth the children’s suffering of jaundice, liver disease and more. 

In the 1980’s, antiviral drug companies, funded by the government, enrolled foster children in very early antiviral research. This level of research is considered the riskiest. Researchers reported some children had to be taken off the drugs because of "serious toxicity," others developed rashes, and the rates of death and blood toxicity were significantly higher in children who took the medicine daily, rather than weekly.

Some children died during the study from a variety of causes, including four from blood poisoning, and researchers said they were unable to determine a safe, useful dosage in children of the riskier drugs. Federal investigations didn't find that any child’s death was caused directly by the drug trials. 

NPR reported a perspective from Dr. Kline, an infectious disease specialist from Tulane University, who has been on the ground researching HIV from the beginning. From his viewpoint, the foster children were being given an opportunity to survive, by being offered these experimental treatments. While that may be true, in 2005 The Associated Press found that at least half of the foster children who participated in these trials were not provided required independent advocates.

In 2004, Polyheme blood substitutes, produced by Northfield labs, was used in a widespread experiment with the FDA’s approval on the American people. More than 600 patients at 31 trauma centers were unknowingly enrolled in the study. Participants were given the fake blood once in an ambulance enroute to a major trauma center, and then in the ICU for an additional 12 hours. Northfield Labs enrolled patients who were unable to consent in this experiment, and some may have died. In 2006, the American public was notified of the study, but given no option to learn more about or halt this study other than donning a blue bracelet. “To opt out of the study, contact Northfield Labs www.northfieldlabs.com and request a blue bracelet. If worn, you will be exempt form the trial.” ABC News reported in July, 2006. After three years of injecting the oxygen-bearing synthetic into trauma victims, on May 9, 2009, the FDA shut the experiments down. Reasons for forcing the company to shutter experiments to losses over 200 million dollars, included the benefits didn’t outweigh the risks of the studies. 

In 2023, DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency) announced funding for blood substitute research in over a dozen universities. Human trials will begin in 2028-2030. DARPA is the United States Defense Department’s research and technology arm, responsible for development of emerging technologies for use by the military. The question is, who is going to be enrolled in future studies, and is there any guarantee you will know if you are ever given fake blood in an emergency, and if it harmed you or not?

What theses cases have in common is they are the government deciding that the good of the many outweigh the misery and sometimes torture of the few children or adults in these medical situations. The lack of proper advocacy or consent to medical experimentation is the heart of the issue. The ability to consent to experimentation on our bodies, even in the name of good, is crucial. Experimentation is only ethical if consent is given, or if consent via advocacy is implemented when necessary. If I am laying on a stretcher in an ambulance and require blood transfusion, I personally would like someone to ask my husband if he consents to me being experimented on, instead of applying life-saving measures. You don’t know what you don’t know. 

Stay tuned for the rest of this four part series!

Dr. Kline and Romanian pediatric AIDS patients 1988

Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency

Dr. Saul Krugman with pediatric patient 1960s

Robert Kennedy

Polyheme Synthetic blood

Willowbrook State School, where Krugman practiced

Willowbrook State School

sources listed in part 4

When I Got Saved Part 2

Part 2 

(Please read When I Got Saved Part 1 first. )

The induction and hospital birth were the only way out of my suffering. I didn’t even feel connected to the pregnancy in a normal way. I had been sick, and there was a baby I loved very much, but I had compartmentalized the baby from the sickness. I just felt like I was dying, I told my husband. The midwives transferred me to the hospital because of the life-threatening HELP syndrome. I was given no choice in the matter. 

Once I adjusted to the unexpected change, I was grateful for the hospital, the labor nurses who gladly helped me labor unmedicated, with zero judgement. I was grateful for their controls connected to my IVs; they deftly controlled my hemmorage after birth. They were skilled with the Pitocin. I found labor a bit more painful than without, but ultimately it was much easier. 

C was born as quick as A was born slow. I labored all night as the induction took, but after they broke my waters I roared her out, kneeling on the hospital floor, just one hour later. The nurse who caught her reappeared afterwards in her scrubs. In the excitement, she forgot to put her face mask back on. For nearly two days, I’d labored in the hospital, unable to leave the room because of Covid, and everyone, including my husband, had to wear a medical mask except for me. I couldn’t place what was different, at first. When she quickly pulled her mask up, I felt sad. Can I please see your smile, just once? I asked. A joyful smile broke out, and she beamed before donning her mask, again.

In addition to feeling like praying was getting me through, the presence was still with me, especially when my blood pressure spiked again to 200/100 just hours after I had been released from the maternity ward. And it kept climbing.

Normally, a mom less than 24 hours from birth would be admitted with her newborn, but not during 2020 Covid. I was wheeled in alone, and felt my missing baby’s presence like I had no left arm. I was immediately given the fullest work up of my life, EKG and cat scan included. The battle ax of an ER nurse looked afraid. I was treated in a hallway with a thin curtain separating me and a man having a panic attack. Because of the Covid lockdowns, it was his first time being alone with his kids all day, every day. The nurse recoiled when she took my blood pressure at first, saying but you’re so calm for it to be that high.

I’m terrified, I replied. It was like I had a new superpower, I thought, and it seemed to be prayer.

I prayed for my blood pressure to come down, and to my surprise, it did. It was all borderline, she said, and looked surprised when the hospitalist who attended my birth put me on bed rest for two weeks, instead of admitting me. Would you admit me? I asked. She nodded, soberly, and I had the feeling she suspected I’d be back soon for the dreaded magnesium treatment, which supposedly made you drunk-feeling and woozy. I would’ve done anything to not be separated from my newborn, and promised to follow the discharge instructions exactly. 

I’d been listening to sermons from a church my doula attended while I labored. They were one of the only things that comforted me. Looking back, maybe that’s why the presence of what I now believe was the Holy Spirit returned during C's birth. I began to pray even more during my postpartum bedrest, becoming curious about Jesus. Jesus without horoscopes and tarot cards thrown in. Jesus without making up my own rules anymore. Because where, I thought, had that gotten me in life? It seemed like I’d miss this presence, if it went away. And at the time it seemed elusive, at best. 

I wanted to feel it again and wondered, could this possibly be why Christians were so into Jesus? It sounds like a simplistic question, but I had never felt anything close to that comforted and satisfied in my life, as when that presence was with with me.

Throughout my two-week bedrest for preeclampsia, I prayed. But I didn’t pray to the universe, or the goddess, or at my medicine wheel in the garden, with it’s hunks of amethyst and obsidian. I prayed in bed. I prayed on the floor of the bathroom while sick. I prayed in the shower, siting on the linoleum floor, shedding milk and tears. I asked my parents to pray for me, a first. They are not church-goers, but they prayed. My unpredictable blood pressure, as long as I stayed flat, remained borderline for two full weeks, and then lifted ever so slightly enough so we could all breath. For the first time since C’s birth, I could get out of bed. Never had the corduroy rocking chair in C's nursery been such a welcome sight. I treasured those sunny mornings in her south-facing room. 

I had made a secret promise to the presence. If you keep me out of the hospital, and I don’t have to be without my newborn… I will become a Christian. I will even call the number on the screen of the television, I prayed more specifically. I’ll call the number of the church, and I’ll tell them I want to be saved. My first thought when I remembered my promise may have been an expletive. I reluctantly, fearfully even, called the phone number of Journey Church, Bend, Oregon. A woman named Mary answered the phone, and led me through the sinner’s prayer. I may not have understood the full significance at the time, but I felt something deep within me release, dissipate and go calm. It was like I’d been carrying a whole circus, and I put it all down.

What I didn’t expect to happen was I have never again been haunted by that nightmare, or eerie things around my house. I am free, and the Holy Spirit is with me as long as I have repented fully, praying aloud for forgiveness from my bitterness and sins. It’s not always an easy path, and forgiveness isn’t always synonymous with reconciliation. I am far from perfect. It’s been two years since I was saved, and I’ve joined small groups, studies, and entered into a discipleship with a pastor I trust. I have a lifetime of learning to catch up on what I have missed, losing my connection with church at a young age and experimenting as much as I did.

Dan and I have a picture of us with our daughters, during the pandemic. We set up his iPhone to take a selfie on the beach. Our eyes are a bit tired from the kids, but otherwise bright and clear. Our daughters face’s beam, they are treasured children. I have always thought it was a miracle that A. and C. have never seen their mom or dad, both formerly high-functioning alcoholics, take a sip of alcohol. Everyone who knew us knew we loved to party. But for two such prideful people, as Dan and I, coming to know Jesus was an even bigger miracle than quitting drinking. It would be two more years before Dan said the sinner’s prayer with someone he trusts. But, you can see the difference in his eyes in the photo, already, after all the emergencies had passed. There’s a soft brightness, reverence for the fragility of life. And something else burning, probably the seeds of faith. Later, he would admit that whenever I was in danger, despite exploring zen meditation for years, he prayed to God. 

I still don’t understand my experiences completely. I have come to believe the Holy Spirit came to me when I was in Kofutu training to save me, and because I was praying, not as part of the energy-work. But I dismissed it. I will say that, although I spent probably hundreds of hours studying Kofutu, I only practiced it on one or two people besides myself and my dogs. Somehow, it never felt quite right. My willingness to believe in Jesus Christ was compounded by going to church as a young child with my grandparents, and my time spent in bed, sick with mold illness, Lyme, and undiagnosed celiac. I laid in bed for weeks at a time, sometimes months, during the pregnancies and beyond. At times, I couldn’t even look at my phone, my migraines and nausea were so acute. God used my hardships for good, like so many people in the Bible. When I became even sicker after having C., the Bible was one of the only books I found comforting, or worth straining my foggy brain to read. The Old Testament showed me that there was always trouble, and evil, in this world. I was not alone. In Genesis, there is murder, betrayal, rape, infertility, and death by childbirth, to name a few. And most of all, they tried to forget about God while he was chasing them down, the whole time. 

When I was in bed, I thought a lot about my life, replaying it all. I was over-whelmed at times, forced to examine and process my past. It was hard not to notice that most of my new-age friends were no where to be found when hard times befell my family. But, some were. My former astrologer is still a dear friend!

But, my mental fortitude grew with each flare. Between my little family and the helpers everywhere we went throughout the illnesses, it was hard not to see the good trumped the bad. I started to connect with something bigger than myself, and it was what got me through. Instead of becoming nearly suicidal with some of the pain flares, as I had at my lowest point, I was transported to good times, imagining memories of people’s faces and happy moments in detail in my mind. 

I smelled E’s coffee while he cooked everyone migas for breakfast in Austin. I imagined the softness of my great-grandmother's inner arm that I loved to stroke when I was young, sitting in her lap. I tasted pork belly, crispy and then melting, salty and rich, at Marz Bistro. I was on the back of my neighbor’s Harley, cruising up hot asphalt to Leadville, eating fish tacos at the highest altitude in America. I saw former students, their eyes crinkled as they beamed quietly with pride, after conquering their fears. I remembered my dogs, all of them, the clean-grass-and-sawdust smell behind their ears. I smelled my father’s work jackets as we hugged, diesel fuel and cold, outdoor air. I saw my husband, his long, slender fingers clipping our daughters tiny nails, his beautiful blue eyes narrowed intently, one of my favorite expressions. I have found that when in severe pain, picturing people I loved was one of the best ways to distract from the pain. I now believe this was Holy Spirit, or what some people call their “life flashing before their eyes.” I was shown what was important, and it was in the details of loving people, breaking tacos, nights, and bread.

Far too many people don’t heal from disseminated Lyme, and they go on to develop multiple autoimmune diseases, or neurological illnesses they never recover from. Something seemed to be guiding us, as we prayed, and we were blessed to be shepherded through the hard times, like the preeclampsia induction, surrounded by people who went above and beyond to help us. I believe the Holy Spirit works in mysterious ways: through doctors, midwives, strangers and friends who plow your driveway. Having to practically divorce myself from my body, with no distractions during the most painful times, made me connect to my own inner spirit in a way I never had, even in the Spiritual Awareness Community.

One of my greatest fears in being born again was my friends feeling like I’m judging them. I’m not. That’s the last thing Christians are supposed to do. We’re supposed to be known for our lack of judgment and love of all people. I’m not sitting here judging my friends of other religions, or my beloved queer former students and friends. Some of them are actually Christians. I’ve met Christians from all walks of life. I do know we’re not supposed to have have all the answers, and we’re not supposed to be taking each other’s inventory. I’m never going to try and convince you to follow my path, or anyone else’s but your own. I would take a bullet for those individuals who were brave enough to come out to me. I will always be one of your safe people! God loves all of his children, this I believe to my deepest core. When Jesus told us to love one another, he used the Greek word agape, which means, to love like God does. God is the ultimate safe person, it is humans who judge each other and try to find scripture to excuse our behavior. Agape means to love unconditionally.

“So we are always confident, knowing that while we are at home in the body we are absent from the Lord. For we walk by faith not by sight.” 

Corinthians 6

At some point, lying in bed, alone with my body, I started to believe in something I didn’t need to understand to believe in.  I could have chalked it up to hormones or heightened states of fear for my own mortality. To me, it didn’t matter. It became more than enough for me to “walk by faith and not by sight.” You could say I couldn’t forget about God, because He never once forgot about me. 




When I Got Saved Part 1

From 2007-2012, I attended a Spiritual Awareness Community. They had new age teachers of all kinds speak, from pet psychics to Reiki masters.  I went most Sundays. Oddly enough, their closing prayer was a Christian protection prayer my grandmother taught me when I was four: 

The light of God surrounds us, the love of God enfolds us, the power of God protects us, the presence of God watches over us,

wherever we are, God is, and all is well.

I had prayed it in times of danger, my whole life. Most new age people would say they love Jesus, and claim to know his spirit well. The phrase “Christ consciousness” is common. But, they don’t believe he is a savior, and they don’t believe in the Bible. That was me. 

It wasn’t always that way. I had gone to Sunday school as a kid until age six. Despite the God of my childhood, in my 20s I dowsed for spirit guides, became certified in Angelic Kofutu healing, had readings and healings with mediums and energy-workers and gave my crystals full moon baths. Maybe Sunday school was the reason, on the inside, I would ask God to protect me from anything evil during some of these activities. 

During initiation, when the Kofutu master was praying over me daily from a distance, I was visited at night by a sensation I’d never felt before, except maybe on drugs. But I was completely sober. A tingling sensation started at my toes and worked it’s way up to the top of my head. I was afraid, and without knowing what I was doing or why, I tested the spirits. I said the little protection prayer and told anything that wasn’t good to go. The presence stayed, caressing my face and heating up my hands so vividly I looked at them to see if there was any difference. I felt euphoria for what felt like hours, but was probably 10-20 minutes. I took this at the time to mean that Kofutu was alright with Jesus. But I was wrong. 

During the same time in my life, I regularly experienced a recurring dream. In the dream, I would wake (but still asleep) choking, and see a ghostly figure in my room. Though it never touched me, and I couldn’t make out details of the nebulous shape, it was clear the entity was sucking my voice dry, and taking all my air so I couldn’t breath or move. In the dream, I tried to say the protection prayer, but I could not get enough air. I gasped, and choked, often waking gasping for air in real life. I often couldn’t move, my body completely paralyzed. It was around that time I started experiencing panic attacks, along with the episodes of nightmares and sleep paralysis. 

Around the same time, I stayed in a hundred-year-old cabin in Post, Oregon. To my dismay, the lights started flickering on and off, nightly. Then, I had the nightmare three nights in a row, towards the end of my residence. After that, I refused to sleep in the cabin alone, either driving all the way home, many twisty canyon miles, persuading a friend to stay with me, or once, sleeping in my car. The last night I slept in the cabin, I bribed my giant dog Moo into my twin bed with crackers. When the residency was over, I mentioned the lights flickering to the owners of the ranch. They told me there had been a murder there, when a man asked for his girlfriend's hand in marriage, and her father did not approve. The father was killed by shotgun in the living room.  I’ve had other experiences in different houses throughout my life, including my parent’s house. No matter how much sage I burned in these places, or how many prayers I said, the spooky feeling never went away. 

In 2017, I was in labor with my first daughter, and I became frightened. It has taken me years to prick through the frozen shell of trauma, coupled with the strongest endorphins I’ve ever felt, to remember this part of her birth clearly. I sensed a change in the room, though the midwives didn’t say it; if I did not push her out soon, they’d call an ambulance. I’d be transported with her in my pelvis, and furthermore, there was meconium in the birth waters, a potential danger sign for baby. 

I asked my husband to pray The Lord’s Prayer. We said it over and over, and at one point I started to feel the very same tingly, warm, light sensation that I had felt in the middle of the night years ago. The only reason I reached for The Lord's Prayer, was because I’d been in 12-step for over a year, and my home group ended each meeting with it. The prayer was like a worn, nubby blanket to a frightened child. I clutched that prayer, and my stuffed koala bear from my own childhood. Suddenly, after we’d prayed for awhile, I felt the same benevolent presence I’d felt once before, but this time it was crystal clear, like I was being embraced. I heard a voice in my mind; you will never be alone, no matter what happens, you are safe with Me. Even stranger, the voice said this: Even if you die, with Me, you will remain unharmed

I asked my husband to tell me he believed in God. Quietly, in my ear, after 18 hours of labor, my husband whispered that God was real. He did so reluctantly; he was an agnostic. I saw that it pained him to lie, and I urged him to tell me. Tell me you believe in God. Each time he complied, I felt reassured by the presence. 

At one point, I heard the voice saying, now you know pain like I know pain. It was not a sense of being punished by the pain. It was a feeling that God, and only God, could empathize with the pain of birth. He loves us all so much, to suffer the pain of creation, and then let us all be free, I thought in between contractions. 

My midwife looked me deep in the eyes and said, show me how much you want to be done. And I did. My daughter “A” came into the sunset filled room right in time. She breathed within 60 seconds, as soon as they roughed her up a bit, and I miraculously stopped hemorrhaging right before the midwife was about stuff a catheter in my urethra. Apparently, that’s how they would see if releasing fluids would bring my now very-high blood pressure down. I was enormously relieved when she packed up the instrument, making the midwives giggle at my sheer terror of the Foley catheter, after all I had endured. 

Afterwards, the midwives said repeatedly, anyone else would’ve been a hospital transfer. They commented on my strong body, my mental determination. That was a marathon, they said. But I knew, it was not my strength, it was the presence. I told no one but my husband and the senior midwife at my birth about the strange spiritual experience I had. I chalked it up to myself as the hormones being enormously powerful. When I told the midwife she was surprised, oh really? I didn’t catch any of that, she said in an offhand way that was reassuring at the time. Time, space, and words become very psychedelic during unmedicated labor, I told myself. The truth was, God came to A’s birth, and I tried to forget about it. 

Not even two years later, the call to have a second child was sharp as a knife. When I miscarried, again, the doctor gave me the miserable diagnosis of Adenomyosis. Endometriosis grows into the muscular wall of the uterus, infamous for causing labor-like pains. No wonder the first stage of labor felt so familiar, I thought to myself. From my first cycle at the age of twelve, getting my period was accompanied by what felt like a swift kick in the base of my spine, and terrible cramps. I couldn’t miss a dose of extra strength Midol, or I’d be inconsolable. My mom said welcome to womanhood, the pain runs in the family. Apparently, so does miscarriage. 

The doctor gave me birth control pills, said the best chance of conceiving would be to let the hormones shrink the misplaced endometrial tissue. The plan was to utilize birth control for three months, then immediately try to conceive when I stopped taking them. During this time, the severe pain, along with other mysterious symptoms I was seeing other doctors about, had wrecked me emotionally. My daughter didn’t sleep well, the whole first year of her life. Many nights, I rocked her until 4 or 5 in the morning, as she grimaced from colic. I am now certain it was from me having undiagnosed celiac, and ingesting my breast milk while I consumed gluten. Poor baby. 

Despite the sleepless nights, I wanted another baby so badly, I wept at the thought of even waiting three months. This was compounded by doctors telling me some women had a hard time keeping a pregnancy with Adenymyosis. I built a New Orleans-style altar, with a statue of the Virgin Mary, my Gynecologist’s business card, and all the feathers and glitter we had laying around. I prayed for Coco daily, and in three months, it worked just like the doctor said it would. I started talking and praying to God during that pregnancy. But I still wasn’t a true believer. My fertility altar was inspired by a real-life trip to New Orleans, just before we started trying. Strangely, when I was in the city of the occult, I wanted no readings. For the first time, I sensed they were not from God. 

With C, I wasn’t just sick with Hyperemesis for the first and third trimester, I was miserable. After a brief and wonderful respite during the second trimester, (where I merely vomited twice a day), I was swollen from preeclampsia and bedridden from vomiting. I was in pain, and fighting to keep myself nourished and hydrated from constantly retching up stomach bile. By the time I went for my induction, in the high-risk room at the hospital (nearest to the OR), I was begging for the pregnancy to be over. 

To Be Continued: When I Got Saved Part 2

Grateful

Dear reader,

Over 1,000 of you read the blog this year. I was pretty surprised when I looked at the analytics and realized how many of you are stopping by. Some of you return frequently, as I do with blogs I find comforting or informative. So, thank you. Thanks for reading, thanks for sharing it with your friends, and most of all thanks for caring. I’m working hard on a few more essays, some about Lyme/CIRS and some just about life.

Enjoy your family, found family, football and food today. I love you. And the truth is, that’s why I write. I’ve always loved people, from all walks of life, all temperaments and tempers. I love your weather, and the way your face shines it’s own sun, even in the dark. I love the way you care for each other, cutting crusts off bread or brushing your dog’s teeth. I love the way you stand up for what you believe in, and the way you admit your little imperfections, the coffee stain on your sweater, the hole you darned over in your stocking. I love the way you apologize for crying, even though we all do it, and we all tell each other it’s ok. It’s really ok.

I love the way we decorate our nests like pack rats, the way we congregate in rows like sparrows. I love the way you change, shedding another version of yourself each decade, stepping into a new skin, burning bright with the knowledge that but for the grace of God, we’d be buried with all the good eggs who have departed us.

Rest In Peace, chicks. Enjoy your day, reader. May God bless you with bravery, gumption, and good health through the holidays and beyond.

Jamie

When I Got Sick, Part 2

The sharp yet musty smell of alfalfa grass drying in the sun filled my nose as I army-crawled up my parents' field. My small body cut a tunnel through the grass wherever I ventured, all around me were walls of green grass and gold dandelions. I flipped on my back, peered through the blades that draped over my face, pretending to be a bug like the grasshopper I saw rubbing his back legs together. I laid there and watched the clouds, then crawled at a 90 degree angle, three times around, making a little square “fort” in the middle of the field. Did I get bitten by a tick at some point in my childhood in the 1980s in Vermont? It could’ve happened. If it did I never heard about it, or it was unremarkable. Perhaps if I was bitten and there was no tick, we assumed it was a splinter, and my mother deftly tweezed out the black spot with her needle, burned in the candle to sanitize it. 

Or did I contract Lyme disease camping by the side of the highway in Ohio, when I was 19 years old and following the band Phish across the country? If it was, I supposed I deserved it. Or was it in Portland, Oregon when I was 33, sick with a flu and an insect bite on my shin that had been weirdly slow to heal? The doctor was new to me, filling in for my regular physician that day, and he refused to run blood work, telling me it was just an ear infection. When I pressed him, saying that I had horrible flu-like pains in my hips and knees that seemed to move from one side to the other, he walked out of the exam room. The more I learn about Lyme disease, the more I believe it doesn’t really matter where I got it. Maybe I didn’t get it from an insect at all.

According to the CDC, you can only get Lyme disease from a tick. The CDC website reads “It is transmitted through the bite of infected blacklegged ticks.”  The WHO website is more general and says “Lyme disease, or Lyme borreliosis (LB) is a bacterial disease transmitted to humans through the bite of infected ticks.” Both agencies define the disease as being treatable with two weeks of antibiotics. Currently, the CDC admits to what they call Post Treatment Lyme Disease, and it is estimated that of the roughly half a million Americans who are diagnosed each year, up to a third of them do not recover. So what does the CDC recommend for patients like me? Basically, manage symptoms and wait. Talking to your doctor about managing your symptoms might be the new American dream, for these folks, and many more people living in the greatest medical system in the world. 



We bought new construction, on the edge of the Deschutes National Forest. It was thirty miles from town, on a dirt road, but it gave my husband and I, both raised in the country, the feeling of home. When my eldest daughter was three months old, I watched an elk herd cross single file on my neighbor's property. All I could hear was the elk breathing, and the crunch of their hooves in the snow, so carefully, hiding in the shadows of 4 a.m. The house had been built custom by a construction company out of Redmond, Oregon, commissioned by a family like ours. They received a job offer elsewhere and never ended up moving in. It seemed too good to be true. We moved in with our one-month old baby, and I began to make it a home. Unfortunately, my health would go downhill every single month I lived there. 

The old saying “they don’t make ‘em like they used to,” is quite literally true. The history of mega-construction companies churning out substandard homes goes back to post WW2, when all the soldiers returning from the war created a demand for housing like never before. This required a whole new way of building homes, and as the cities burst at their seams, the American suburb grew. The GI bill, passed by Roosevelt in 1944, allowed consumers to purchase homes with only 5% down for the first time.

Before this, houses in America were built one at a time, by local craftsmen, whose hands touched every single part of the home from the foundation to the roof. In 1946, the first suburban housing development, known as Levittown in Long Island, New Jersey, was built on an assembly line. Built this way, the homes that came to be known as the Sears catalogue homes, (because you could mail-order them from your Sears catalogue,) could be built in a day by 36 men. With even more men, companies could build a new home every 16 minutes. Infamously, the builders of Levittown wouldn’t lend to people of color, and there was a general campaign marketed towards the suburbs being a safer home for white families.

Traditional American building materials in most cities and rural dwellings before WW1 had walls made of wood, brick, stone, or plaster. Drywall was invented as the poor man’s plaster in 1916, but it didn’t gain popularity until the post-war housing boom; drywall could be assembled ten times faster than traditional plaster. By 1945, the predominant building material in the US was drywall made up of two paperboards with gypsum in-between them. Gypsum is a powdery grayish-white substance that is classified as a sulfate. It comes from two sources: mines, or it is engineered from a by-product of coal power plants. Drywall was marketed to the public in large part because gypsum is inherently non-combustible. 

The problem is, walls made of drywall are more porous than walls made of traditional building materials. In addition to being hard on the environment in almost every step of production (mining and working with gypsum is hazardous), it is especially prone to mold. Americans were reminded of this when, during Hurricane Katrina, millions of homes were damaged beyond repair. Old-fashioned plaster homes survived the hurricane, and many are still standing today all over this country. What started out as an innovative new way of constructing middle-class homes forever changed the landscape of the way we live. We quite literally live in paper houses. 

There are over 100,000 species of mold. Every single time you hike in the woods, you are walking on roughly 300 miles of mycelium, branching deep below the surface of the forest floor. Mushrooms are the fruit of the organism. The majority of the organism is underground; long, skinny threads make the fungal mass called mycelium. Recent research has revealed that mycelium works in the same way as our neural network, with electrolytes (salt) and electrical pulses. They form massive links, huge webs throughout the forest that the trees use to feed one another; swapping nutrients between trees when one tree is lacking in something.

Fungi are helpful to our forests, and are crucial to the health of the planet. Most recently, a specific type of fungus proved to be one of the only substances capable of composting oil. Before antibiotics were invented, soldier’s infected wounds were treated with a poultice of moldy bread. When Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin in 1927, the winning strain of mold that could kill dangerous pathogens was found blooming on a rotting cantaloupe in the lab. Bourbon is made from sapons from moldy corn, and one of my favorite cheeses, blue cheese, is the same mold as penicillin. Like any other organism, fungus creates enzymes to protect itself from competition. This is how antibiotics work; the fungus puts out mycotoxins to protect itself from bacteria, and also protects the host from the bacteria. Mushrooms are powerful, and like all powerful things they can help or harm, depending on the usage and the dose. 

The most common drywall mold is Staccybotrys, a mold that is infamous for being difficult to smell, and also for not needing any additional moisture source besides the air to grow. Most molds need a water source, a hidden leak somewhere, to feed their fungal colony. Not Stachybotrys, often called simply black mold by those of us who have been sickened by it.

Sharing what happened to my family started as simply an outlet. But, the more I shared my story, the more messages I got from others who have Lyme. Unless it was an acute case of Lyme where they got the bite and were treated right away, they all have mold in their story. The rare individuals that do not have mold in their story, I suspect they haven't found it yet. Functional medicine and Lyme specialists acknowledge the connection between mold and Lyme. My doctor was the one who told us there was mold hidden somewhere deep in our seemingly pristine dream home. The scientific community is still searching for answers, but the best explanation is that long term exposure to toxic mold can suppress the immune system, allowing opportunistic bacteria to flourish. If someone is harboring a stealth infection, but it has mostly been cleared by their immune system, they may never experience symptoms. Some scientists believe that these infections remain dormant until old age or other stressors like mold arise.

Since 2005, studies have been accepted by the international scientific community acknowledging sick building syndrome, or toxic mold in buildings, as public health hazard. Similarly to how it will not acknowledge chronic Lyme disease, the CDC doesn’t acknowledge mycotoxins as an actual biotoxin. They acknowledge that it can cause respiratory symptoms. That's it. Nevermind that studies since 1994 have shown mycotoxins to be an immunosuppressant, and that the USDA outlines more guidelines on how to protect livestock from mycotoxins than the CDC does for human beings. Additional studies have shown that mold in homes may be responsible for the rising rates of asthma diagnosis, which have increased by 43% in the last twenty years. Mycotoxins have also been proven to cause cancer, mental impairment, internal organ damage, and in some cases, death.

In his book, “People of the Lie,” Scott M. Peck says that the smallest things we do not admit to become the greatest evil in our lives. Looking at all of the information I have read about Lyme, mold, and the insurance agencies, it is hard not to see the collective cognitive dissonance we are living under in this country. We are sicker than ever, but instead of digging into some of the most innovative studies about Lyme and mold, we follow the information that organizations like the CDC, IDSA and EPA maintain, even if it is twenty years old. These agencies are allowed to operate with little oversight, and yet they write the very guidelines that the medical system and insurance agencies use to determine what treatment the doctors will prescribe and what the insurance companies will cover. The FDA is paid $300,000 by big pharma for every drug they test, making up almost half their budget. It's hard not to see how the FDA no longer works for the American people, instead working on behalf of drug companies’ and their stakeholders. 

When we found mold in our home, we had already been in treatment for Lyme disease for six months, but it wasn’t working fast enough for our doctor. We were elated to have finally found a reason for our bad health, but it was actually the beginning of a very long road. We lost most of our belongings. The hardest objects for me were baby books, childhood pictures and letters. None of the thousands of dollars of mold remediation or our lost belongings was covered by the insurance company or by the construction company's warranty, despite being 100% due to building mistakes.

Insurance companies only cover mold if it is caused by a natural disaster. People like us have zero recourse, and must undergo losses that equal to that of a fire, but with no insurance coverage. In addition, people like us who live in black mold for years are often left with CIRS and Lyme, both chronic conditions, few medical insurance companies cover testing or treatment. We are extremely blessed that our insurance company covered some of the treatment. The mold remediation company we used for our home has testified before Congress about the lack of recourse for shoddy construction like we found in our home. Who is looking out for the health and wellbeing of the American people as far as what the construction industry and it’s insurance representatives aknowledge as a health hazard? The parallel to the health care system, with its conflict of interests and lack of oversight, is eerie. The main take- away is that our lives are in the hands of people who have lost sight of the value of human life over the almighty dollar. 

In 2021, US State Representative of New Jersey, Chris Smith, celebrated the House passing an amendment he had been pushing for ten years, asking for a federal investigation into whether Lyme disease was an escaped biological weapon. He said:

“The millions of Americans suffering from Lyme disease have a right to know whether any of this is true, and if any old research documents could be applied by current-day scientists to find a better diagnosis or treatment- something that’s desperately needed.” 

The legislation requires the US government to report findings to Congress about if the Department of Defense experimented on ticks for use as a biological weapons from 1950 to 1977, including the experiment's scope or whether any insects were released by accident or by experiment design. Although Chris Smith has been advocating for Lyme disease research since the mid-90s, (his state is one of the hardest hit with endemic Lyme,) it was a 2019 book called “Bitten,” by Kris Newby, that reinvigorated his campaign.

Kris Newby and her husband suffered from chronic Lyme disease after being bitten by ticks in Martha's Vineyard in 2002. They spent years of their lives and tens of thousands of dollars on Lyme treatment, all the while being told what they had didn’t exist by many doctors. Newby made a good point in her book, positing how Lyme was discovered in 1981, and yet 41 years later we have no reliable test or treatment for Lyme disease unless it is caught within a couple weeks of contracting the bacteria. Newby made two award-winning documentaries about her experience with Lyme disease, and when she got her health back she thought she was retired from filmmaking about Lyme. A few years later, she received a package in the mail with video footage from another documentary filmmaker, and the footage was Willy Burgdorfer, the discoverer of the Lyme disease bacteria. On the video Willy said outright: he worked with ticks in biological weapons facilities in the US during the cold war.

Before he died, Willy allowed Newby to go through his garage where he had kept copies of many of his government research files. Willy’s original lab notes, letters, and interviews suggested that in addition to the Lyme bacteria, he was putting biological agents like Venezuelan equine encephalitis in ticks. At one point, Newby even spoke with an ex-CIA operative who claimed he had dropped two tick-filled canisters over Cuban sugar plantations during Operation Mongoose. After he returned from the mission, his 4-month old daughter became severely ill with a relapsing fever so severe she underwent an emergency tracheotomy due to high fever. The baby survived and eventually recovered. When the agent shared this unusual occurrence with his boss he was mysteriously told “burn all your clothes from Cuba.” 

There are those who claim that ticks would make such a poor biological weapon that it makes this premise ridiculous. When you look at Operation Mongoose as well as the general history of biological warfare in the US, it seems like a pretty flimsy argument against Willy’s end of life confessionals. For one thing, Operation Mongoose was known for ridiculous ideas. After the Bay of Pigs, Kennedy wanted to prevent nuclear war at all costs, but also wanted to get revenge on Castro by any means possible. He gave the CIA free range to take him down, and they created a covert special group made up of policy makers and intelligence professionals to come up with ideas to do so. No one had any oversight of this group, and this led to outlandish ideas and abuse of authority.

Documents released to the National Archives in 1997 showed the CIA had entertained ideas such as a toxic diving suit infected with tuberculosis and Madua fungus, an exotic seashell rigged to explode when Castro (an lifelong diver) picked it up, and a poisoned cigar. Other ideas called for a space launch at Cape Canaveral to be sabotaged and blamed on Cuban agents. Operation Bingo called for a staged attack on Guantanamo Bay, which would allow the US to declare war against Cuba. There are seven pages in the report detailing what constituted an exotic enough shell to capture Castro’s interest, so the idea that ticks may have been experimented with as well, doesn't seem that far fetched. 

The US government also has a long history of experimenting with infectious agents, even on its own people. In 1950, Operation Sea Spray was conducted by the US Navy, who released a spray of microbes into the air, to test how it would spread amongst the residents of San Francisco. The bacteria was thought to be harmless, but eleven residents checked into the hospital with rare, serious bladder infections and one of them died. Doctors later wondered if the experiment might have been responsible for a rash of heart valve infections at that time, but it has never been proven. In 1965, the US Special Operations Division spread bacteria through Washington's National Airport. A year later, in 1966, they dropped light bulbs filled with organisms onto the tracks of the New York City Subway system. In1965, an operation called Big Tom sprayed bacteria over the Hawaiian island of Oahu to simulate a biological attack. The test used Bacillus globigii, which was supposed to be harmless at the time. Researchers later discovered that this bacteria is a close cousin of Anthrax, and can cause severe to fatal infections in people with suppressed immune systems. In 1951, the Norfolk Naval Supply Center in Virginia, a massive base that provides equipment  for the entire Navy, was blasted with fungal spores to see how it would affect the workers unpacking supplies in the warehouses. Sadly, most of the workers were African-American, and scientists wanted to see if they were more susceptible to fungal disease than white people. Zinc cadmium sulfide was sprayed over St Louis, Minneapolis and possibly more cities in the 1950s, to test biological weapons on terrain that was seen as similar to Russian cities they wanted to create attack plans for. Although the amount of the toxin used was supposed to be safe, sociology professor Lisa Martino-Taylor asserts in her 2012 research that cancer rates spiked during and directly after this testing. The US government has admitted no wrongdoing in any of these cases.  

Where does this leave the millions of Americans suffering from chronic Lyme disease who aren't offered a reliable test or treatment for their disease? Even if the disease is treated with the requisite dose of doxycycline, there is a 30% treatment failure rate. Chronic Lyme disease specialists and researchers believe Lyme has contributed to the massive rise in cancer and other chronic illnesses in this country. Scientists have found spirochetes hidden in metastatic brain and breast tumors. Lyme and other stealth infections like Epstein-Barr have been found in the spinal fluid and brain tissues of patients with MS, Parkinsons, and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Willy claimed towards the end of his life that he was also injecting a pathogen called Rickettsia helvetica in his experiments, which can cause cardiac failure, meningitis, muscle soreness, facial palsy, and deafness. Newby found a letter Willy wrote to a colleague, stating that blood from Lyme patients “showed very strong reactions” on a test for Rickettsia helvetica. Rickettsia, or “The Swiss Agent'' as Willy called it, is screened for in Asia and Europe, but not in the US. A Lyme doctor in 2022 will test their patient for co-infections, as it is well known that ticks almost never carry just one pathogen. But, they can't test for what they don’t believe exists. Could this in part explain the patients who don’t get better? More research is needed to be sure.

In her documentary, “Under My Skin,” Newby questions the official medical guidelines on Lyme, written by the Infectious Disease Society of America (IDSA.) Furthermore, at least three members of this panel are investors in the Lyme disease vaccine, which has been under development with Pfizer for almost a decade. It would stand to reason that if you owned the vaccine, you wouldn’t want to admit that chronic Lyme exists. After all, you cannot vaccinate an already infected population and the half a million Americans who have chronic Lyme would automatically be disqualified. Furthermore, a 2022 study conducted by BMJ Global Health found that more than 14 percent of the world’s population has been infected with Lyme disease. This is the first global seroprevalence study, which means looking for immunity markers in the subjects’ bloodwork. The CDC says that Lyme disease diagnoses have increased 44% in twenty years, from 1999-2019. There was already a Lyme vaccine on the market in the late 1990s, and it was pulled. Although it was supposed to be safe, it had gotten a bad reputation because it caused arthritis in some participants. Pfizer's vaccine, set to come out in 2025 and currently moving into the final stages of drug trials, is the only new research development for Lyme disease in the US that the powers-that-be will acknowledge. Some doctors follow European guidelines for pulsing three different types of antibiotics as the best chance of curing post-treatment disease. Other doctors follow the CDC guidelines exactly, which do not recommend long-term antibiotic therapy. Many doctors herald a Lyme disease vaccine as the only way to get the increasing number of infections under control, without asking: if we are admitting this is such a huge problem, why there is no effective test or treatment that the CDC or IDSA is willing to look into? 

In 2017, a group of Lyme disease patients sued the IDSA panel for fraud claims, based on the IDSA’s denial of chronic Lyme disease, alleging conspiracy between the IDSA and health insurance companies. The lawsuit was dismissed, but this is not an isolated incident. In 2008, the Attorney General of Connecticut concluded a antitrust investigation into the development of Lyme disease treatment guidelines by the IDSA. The investigation found “significant irregularities in the IDSA Lyme guideline development process, including significant conflicts of interest among the guidelines panel members.” One researcher on the IDSA Lyme guidelines panel was named specifically for working with Lyme vaccine manufacturers for over a decade, while sitting on these special interest panels. Despite these findings, there is no plan to reexamine the US IDSA clinical guidelines for Lyme disease. In addition, although the IDSA claims that these are merely guidelines and doctors are not obligated to follow them, the IDSA has testified against doctors, and this has led to doctors losing their licenses for not following their guidelines. This is still happening today, even though there is mounting scientific evidence that chronic Lyme needs to be treated or it can turn into neurodegenerative illnesses, heart failure, and more.

A University of New Haven study in 2020 showed that out of 400 invasive breast cancer tissues, a significant number of samples were positive for Borrelia, the Lyme bacteria, suggesting that Lyme may play a role in the development of breast cancer. Other recent studies have shown that Lyme shows up in genetal secretions, suggesting that Lyme might be communicable, just like its close cousin, another spirochete, syphilis. Studies have also shown it can be passed down from mom to baby. The CDC and the IDSA doesn’t acknowledge any of this research. They don’t even acknowledge that it can be spread by any other type of tick besides the black legged tick. 

After my last blog, I received an email titled “Feedback,” with the author letting me know that she feels I am “alienating good people,” by expecting support from her. She said she wanted to “gently remind me” that she has lost a child to cancer, saying she “never expected anything from anyone when she went through hard ***.” In 2017, a study showed that there were1200 suicides directly related to the effects of Lyme disease. Furthermore, negative attitudes about their disease from doctors and family members was a huge contribution to their poor quality of life. My family was completely and totally involved in supporting this person when her child was dying of cancer. Of course. Maybe that is why she feels she didn’t expect anything— she never had to fight for recognition of her experience. What happened to her is unimaginable, so much worse than what happened to us, so it was difficult to receive this email and not want to set myself on fire with shame. But, I remembered how serious what we went through was, and how little our immediate families have acknowledged it in any way. It became an awkward topic after a certain point, with palpable skepticism on their end. The email, couched as advice, did not feel gentle. The worst part is that it’s intent was exactly what it claimed to not be: it was intended to shame me into letting my hurt feelings go. Into silence. My own heart was heading towards failure, as well as my liver and kidneys, when we finally found the toxic mold. My daughters both have Lyme and CIRS, and although I will only share little bits of their story to protect their privacy, it has deeply affected their lives. PANS/PANDA has been one of the worst symptoms to see them go through.

I can’t stop sharing about this, even if it is alienating those who compare hardships. I am incredibly grateful that my children do not have cancer and are alive. It is something I pray and worry about constantly after losing more than one family member to cancer, like so many of us have. Like I said above, I’ve heard from so many Lyme/mold patients or their family members, that they are not able to work or live life like they used to. Many of them can’t afford or access treatment, at all. Google Lyme disease and death on the news and you’ll see the reality of where this disease progresses.

I had a friend reach out, concerned that she wasn’t supportive of me when I got sick. I’d like to clarify— when I talk about people hurting us by not being supportive, it is immediate family members or once-close friends we had regular, if not daily, interactions with that I am discussing. It was the most basic level of acknowledgment we expected, from our primary support system. I have learned that in general, people don’t want to hear about illness after a few months, especially if they’ve never experienced long term health problems. A dear friend reminded me this attitude is also societal; being sick is for the weak in America. More on that in the next installment.

Now, I am grateful for this experience. It has lit a fire within me to learn and share as much of this information as I can, so that it might help someone else have their experience validated. And it has opened my eyes to how corrupt the medical system and the government really is. Until the US government is honest about chronic Lyme and where it came from, or even just changing the guidelines so health insurance companies will cover better Lyme illness testing and treatment, patients will continue to be bullied. It is identical to how it feels having mold illness; even after finding high levels of mycotoxins in their homes or bodies, many patients aren’t believed by doctors, family, or friends. If you are sick and need support, feel free to email me anytime. houghton.jamie@gmail.com

Stay tuned for the next installment, part 3, where I will dive into more corruption and medical gaslighting in the medical system and the multitude of studies linking deadly and degenerative diseases that may actually be caused by stealth infection.

Sources: 

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/strange-but-true-largest-organism-is-fungus/

https://hackaday.com/2022/08/22/a-brief-history-of-drywall-or-how-drywall-came-to-dominate-the-world-of-construction/

https://www.nestrealty.com/blog/ill-huff-and-ill-puff-building-materials-in-american-history/

https://www.today.com/today/amp/rcna49473


https://www.nestrealty.com/blog/ill-huff-and-ill-puff-building-materials-in-american-history/

https://www.thedailybeast.com/the-postwar-housing-boom-wasnt-all-sunshine-and-roses

https://bauerleroofingllc.com/history-of-drywall/

https://www.statnews.com/2016/10/12/swiss-agent-lyme-disease-mystery

https://www.columbiapsychiatry.org/news/lyme-disease-heightens-risk-mental-disorders-suicidality

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2901226/

“Fantastic Fungi” 2019 Directed by Louie Scwartzberg

“Bitten, The Secret History of Lyme and Biological Weapons,” Kris Newby, Harper Wade, 2019 



When I Got Sick

"Chronic disease was a forest fire that burned my life to the ground. Once I stopped fighting the fire and let it burn away the things I had once thought valuable, I began to learn from it and accept where I was. The empty spaces gave me room for new growth and my life moved in a different direction." Gregg Kirk, "The Gratitude Curve.” 

When you are sick for more than six months, you are considered chronically ill. When this happens to you, you quickly realize that even the most concerned friend will have no idea what an endurance event chronic illness really is, unless they’ve been through it. There are endless rounds of specialist visits which are prepared for like a job interview, considering the amount of prep work and documentation you provide for some of them. These appointments are merely lighthouses in a sea of waiting. Appointments, labs, imaging, and treatments are nothing compared to how long it takes to be seen, let alone taken seriously. The wait time to see a specialist was up to 13 months to see a neurologist. Years of your life go by, while you follow the protocols and manage a host of symptoms, and even as you get more information, it becomes harder to share. When I’ve shared feelings like this, friends fear they weren’t there for me. I reassure them the dinners, the childcare, the plowing, so many countless acts of generosity and kindness were everything to me. The people that checked in on me, in any way, were everything to me. 

I’m talking about how hard it became, on my end, to share the truth about how lightheaded I was, how nauseated, how my pelvis had knives stabbing me on one side, then on all sides, then it never went away, not even with birth control pills, the Gynecological panacea. My joints were swollen and hot, and I had muscle spasms, tremors, feeling of shocks on my foot and face, and more. I had a wonderful primary care doctor at the time. She helped me in every way she could. Many people live with pain. No one wants to distill their life down to chronicles of pain or sparse and unsatisfactory updates from long-awaited specialists. I focused on therapy, self-hypnosis, exercise, nutrition, and following all the advice from a team of Western and alternative doctors. I kept searching for answers, because my labs and imaging were mostly normal. And every single day I wasn’t bedridden with pain or nausea, we lived our lives to the fullest. Like most women, I have a high pain tolerance, and I hid my pain whenever I could, refusing to stop trying to ski or hike. 

When my youngest daughter was born after another hyperemesis pregnancy, it was complicated further by preenclampsia. The high blood pressure spikes didn’t lift with delivery, either. I was on bedrest for weeks postpartum, and my blood pressure remained unstable for almost a year. I had to stop breastfeeding her at four months because I was rapidly losing weight again. I felt faint all the time, my heart pounding out of my chest. My stomach churned and gurgled, anything I ate, I felt like I could feel every crumb pass through my guts. Night sweats soaked the bed two or three times a night; we could wring out my clothes and the sheets down to the mattress. I had migraines three times a week, but sometimes they lasted for days straight. This was on top of the other symptoms I had been dealing with already. I was no longer able to hike, swim, or bike. Not even Ibuprofen, salves, ice, physical therapy, chiropractic and more could get me out of the house most days. Over the years, I had used different methods to dull the stabbing and cramping pains in my pelvis and joints. The sharp pain in my hands started to bother me the most, since I was constantly changing diapers and snapping up my daughter’s outfits.I slathered salves, tiger balm, even Saran Wrap on my body (to heat up the Tiger balm) just to function. I have scars from heating pads, pale little circles on the small of my back and near my groin. My left foot began to go numb, starting with the pinkie toe and spreading to all three small toes. My anxiety was at an all-time high. We had once been a couple who backpacked our baby and a paddle board for miles to paddle Waldo from a private beach. We’d summited Paulina Peak (7984 ft) with Annie when she was less than a year old. I had always held down jobs requiring double-shifts and physical prowess; waitressing with heavy trays held high above my head, teaching over crowded classrooms and assemblies. Both jobs required projecting my voice and standing way more than eight hours a day. Now, my mother and my husband had to help me care for my own daughters, I was no longer capable. We used up all of our FMLA leave and then some, and he eventually took a work from home position because of my health. 

Finally, we got more answers when my labs went haywire when my youngest baby was one. My liver, kidneys, cholesterol and hormone counts were all suddenly totally screw-ball. I had nonalcoholic fatty liver, which was ironic considering I’d been sober from alcohol for six years. The naturopath tested me for Lyme and I was a strong positive, by CDC standards, on two different tests. I begged her to treat me herself, having little patience for referrals at this point, but she insisted we see a Lyme specialist. She was especially concerned that I may have to be admitted to the hospital because of my cardiac and neurological symptoms. I began Lyme treatment in earnest, under the care of a Lyme literate MD from Bend, Oregon. Mallory has an MD, an ND, and an acupuncture degree, but his main passion and focus at this point in his career is Lyme, or what he calls tick-Bourne illness, or more often, “the critters”. Mallory doesn’t believe that Lyme is ever really the main problem when someone is sick like I was. Maybe all of us have Lyme bacteria, or at least all of us who, like me, bush-whacked our way through the wilderness as a rule, and not the exception. Most people's immune systems fight it off naturally, without medical assistance. But, when something else is suppressing the immune system, Lyme and other opportunistic bacteria (critters) can flourish. One of the first things he asked was if we had any reason to suspect that our house had mold. No, it’s new construction, was our reply. 

Month by month, I saw small improvements in my health and energy level. I began to slowly put on more weight. I had also been diagnosed with Celiac disease, but my gastrointestinal distress never really cleared up despite being strict about a gluten-free diet, free from cross-contact. Refractory celiac was a concern, and a terrifying one at that. I still had migraines, sweats, and pain, but since being on the Lyme treatment I was having more good days. We were able to go on a few small one-night camping trips, the highlight of my summer, despite packing three changes of clothes for the night sweats. 

I lived in a vacation destination for nearly fifteen years. I had always treasured visitors, taking time off from work and tour-guiding them through Oregon. Despite me sharing what was going on with my health well before their visit, it was a rude wake-up call when some family members made it clear; they were on vacation and that was not to be interfered with. Others enjoyed our home for a week and then made it plain when they returned they were resentful as hell about my headaches. The worst part was being told I seemed “perfectly fine” because I managed to keep my schedule when I could. I don’t think people realize what this does to someone’s confidence when they’re already trying to be their toughest. Another person stonewalls me anytime I mention Lyme, refusing to acknowledge it. When people don’t believe you, they don’t say it outright. They hide it, in passive-aggressive questions insinuating you must be exaggerating. It’s captured in silences or changing the subject after you share heavy news with a person that, despite sharing regularly with you, suddenly won’t validate the one thing that is the center of your life. “Isn’t chronic Lyme controversial?”I was asked. A nurse practitioner in the family heavily hinted I should be taking doxycycline. They never asked what we have already tried, or why I cannot tolerate the drug. Their patient was “fixed right up.” What was I supposed to say to these comments? It was a relief to get that diagnosis, yet it quickly turned to part of the nightmare. I felt more alone than ever.

Thankfully, most people do not question a sick person. In therapy, my husband and I learned to deal with the enmeshed family relationships, and to reflect on why we had fostered some of these one-sided friendships. Chronic illness really has burned our life to the ground, but deep down I was and am thankful. I exist on a deeper, more honest level emotionally than I ever have. Being so sick made me take nothing for granted, and I have immersed myself in my kids and the relationships that survived. Even during COVID, we were blessed with enough kindness to get us though the worst of times, but losing some of the closest relationships to me at my most vulnerable time is something I am still trying to understand. I had heard of this type of thing happening to the chronically ill, I just never thought it would happen to me. Everyone must think they are the exception, but the truth is there’s a percentage of people who are so deeply uncomfortable with things they don’t understand they cannot believe in someone else’s suffering. 

Six months into Lyme treatment it was Christmas 2021, and I was only about fifty percent better. Dr. Mallory began asking again, with more pressure on us to look this time, about mold. On a hunch fueled by a late-night internet search, my husband tore apart a shower unit and found black mold in an improperly sealed shower door. Two days later, the motherlode of mold was found when we had our home professionally inspected. It was hidden behind insulation in an unsealed crawl space, and had been wafting into our home for years. The air quality was unlivable. We left our home in the middle of the night, threw out most of our Christmas gifts, and began the tumultuous practice of mold avoidance for the next eight months. We remediated the house, removing damaged materials, encapsulating unsealed areas, fogging and testing. But, this is not the end of the story for people like us. Now, coming up on eight months after finding the black mold, I still suffer symptoms of mold-illness, or CIRS, (chronic immune response syndrome.) It is a biotoxin illness, in very short summary. There may be a genetic component to being more sensitive to toxic mold. Everyone in my little family was sick from the mold, but why did I get sick first? When I looked into this, 25% of us may be genetically susceptible to CIRS. For all the skepticism I felt aimed my way, this is actually a common issue, and it’s being talked about more and more. At one time, “sick building syndrome” was more prevalent in the news. A few office workers would fall ill with nebulous and varying complaints (probably the 25% who are most sensitive to mold), but after a few months or a year, everyone is sick. The building needs mold remediation, and isn’t safe for anyone at that point. At first, mold may simply cause allergy-like symptoms in people and animals. But, long term exposure to high amounts in the air can cause organ damage, respiratory damage, cancer, dementia, mental illness and more. 

It took years for the Stachybotrys mold to grow, slowly and without needing any additional moisture source besides the water molecules in the air. Needless to say, Stachybotrys is the perfect high desert mold. We bought new construction, but we made some common mistakes. The first one is assuming a new home in a dry climate would equal no mold. I’ve had many, many people tell me they consider anything black to be mildew in Bend. I believed the very same thing, and had always cleaned mold the way I was taught by my mother, with diluted bleach solution. The very first thing I was told by experts was not to use bleach. I laugh now when I think about that small learning curve when so many more were to come as we relocated as a family with CIRS. My husband and my children were also affected. I will keep writing about what happened to us, this is just the first installment in our story. 

My writing brain is still coming back. One of the worst things was how it affected me mentally and intellectually. I still struggle with reading and writing. But, it’s coming back! As long as I stay away from mold…

Stay tuned for part 2…

You can find more stories of American who have suffered from mold-related CIRS here: 

https://wgntv.com/news/medical-watch/what-is-cirs-a-closer-look-at-the-immune-syndrome-that-sidelined-jonathan-toews/amp/

https://www.menshealth.com/trending-news/a39049886/mystery-illness-lyme-disease-emf-essay/

https://people.com/health/ryan-sutter-reflects-on-2-years-of-health-problems-i-am-in-a-much-better-place/


June 2021 just starting Lyme treatment

THEY ARE SO LOVELY, THEY ARE SO LOVELY

There is something about humans that makes us want to take care of things. Some people love plants, a dog, a fish tank, a musical instrument, or even a car. These things are just a vessel into which we pour some part of ourselves, usually, the very best parts. Now that I have a child, I can officially say I don’t think you need to have children to experience love in this way. It has to do with a biological and spiritual need to love. It may seem unromantic to describe love in this way, but it really is true- we are wired, down to our DNA, to nurture. 

Recently, my beautiful, 2-year old dog, Potato, went into acute renal failure and died within three days. Testing revealed that she had a congenital kidney malformation that was so severe there was nothing they could do. She was basically born with one, really messed-up kidney that was barely even recognizable as a kidney. Who knows how much function she had? Sometimes dogs don’t know how to feel any different, the vet said.

Being alone in the mornings without Potato made me realize how much I channeled the part of me that wants to nurture into her, since the day we brought her home at 6 weeks old, too young to be separated from her real, doggie mom. She was rescued from a bad situation where several puppies in her litter were killed by another dog, and so we took her in early. We fed her by hand, and with the help of our other dog, Leah, taught her doggie manners. Looking back, Potato gave me signals the whole time that she was fragile. She preferred people with a gentle touch, and always stuck close by my side, indoors or outdoors. 

She was with me after I got my wisdom teeth pulled and suffered a massive dog bite on my hand. She was with me through the miscarriage, the flu, and the long months of an extremely difficult pregnancy. When Annie was born, Potato got up with me for every night feeding, and sat up into the early hours of dawn with my husband. One of Dan’s memories of our daughter’s first few weeks is being comforted by Potato, and how tired she looked the next morning, staggering into the nursery, refusing to miss a feeding. We joked how unfortunately there was no dog coffee for Potato to enjoy, and I broke out in a sleep-deprived rendition of the Ani Difranco song, “Dog Coffee.” We were all slap-happy and in love, and Potato, more than the other dogs, wanted to be right in the center of it. She surprised us by taking responsibility for the baby, always guarding the crib or the bassinet. 

Once, when I had a broken heart, someone wise said to me: Just think of it this way, the love that you had- or have- no one can take that away from you. You take it with you- it's yours and you carry it forward into the world." So, I take my love and drag it, ragged and hurting, to focus on keeping the floor clean, trying to fold laundry without resentment, the fabric of life, the shirts my husband wears, the baby’s clothes, the teddy bear and t-shirt we left in Potato’s kennel when she had to stay overnight at the animal hospital. 

Maybe love isn't something else mixed in with the elbow grease, maybe it is the elbow grease. Because what I most miss is filling her water bowl, whistling for her to come in, brushing her silver-white fur. I was vacuuming after she was gone, and when I was finished, I found one perfect tuft in the middle of the living room, cream colored with a touch of the lightest brown towards one end, like a toasted marshmallow. I put it in a clay bowl and kept it by the kitchen sink. In two weeks, I moved it upstairs to my office.

I planted seeds and sat in a chair while my daughter napped, adjusting the lamp and giving them water, then draining off the extra. I fussed over my lazy labeling system, which is already all mixed up. There is Clary Sage, wildflowers from Vermont and Oregon, Nettle, Marigold and Tulsi. I moved the light closer, then farther away, finding the sweet spot where they will grow strong, a little leggy but not too leggy, not having reached too far for the light. 

So where does love live? Is it in memories? In action? In our minds? Hearts? All I know is it doesn’t leave us along with what, or whom, we lose. My friend and fellow poet Krayna said this, when I told her I was sorry she too had lost a canine friend:

I'm not sure what I've lost. I mean, I know the body is no longer appearing to me and that's natural enough, phenomena being what it is....and certainly these "disappearances" take some getting used to. Though the most essential thing remains. These are just my contemplations through the day......

I also love what my friend Joleen said about dogs, when I told her about Potato, she said simply, they are so lovely, they are so lovely. I carry this loveliness with me, and after a month, plant my seedlings in the ground. I feel a fragile hope as I check on them each morning- will they make it? Was the frost too much? Either way, I feed them fish emulsion and set up a bird feeder nearby. There is too much lovely to bear, sometimes. Perhaps in another month we will scatter her ashes among it. 

 

 

For more information about Krayna's work as a poet, life coach and artist: 

Krayna Castelbaum

Want to know more about how we are wired to love? Here's a start:

Love and the brain

 

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CHOOSE LOVE

Annie Rae was born in the Clover Room tub at ALMA Midwifery Center in Portland, Oregon, on September 12, 2017, while it was still light in the sky. The day we brought her home, I read a friend's social media post about "What to Expect When You're Expecting," and she summed up the section on labor and delivery as "Birth: your worst nightmare." I thought the exact same thing when I read "What to Expect." But, having just experienced it, I immediately texted her, "Not your worst nightmare. Just really hard," along with a picture of Annie, one hour old in my arms, bright-eyed, with long, raven hair on her soft little cone head.

It was really hard, but for me labor was a transformative experience. The midwives have this wonderful, low-pitched, affirming "mmmmmm-hmmmmmm," that we learned in birth class they actually practice in midwifery school. It's the best response, in fact probably the only response, to anything a woman says during a contraction, but I've already started to use it in other situations. Someone complaining? Mmmmmm-hmmmmmm Don't know what to say in an awkward situation? Mmmmmm-hmmmmmm. Jokes aside, simply affirming what someone is going through, without categorizing or judging, without even involving language at all- which is by nature messy, is a wonderful way to meet someone where they are. 

I read "What to Expect," and I also read "Ina May Gaskin’s Guide to Childbirth.” Gaskin writes about how women's bodies have been observed responding to spoken affirmations or fears during labor. At one point, the midwife at my birth said, "Choose love." I don't even remember the context- time and space get very weird when you are in labor, but I do remember how she repeated softly, almost to herself, "Choose love," and then added, "That's what I try to do every day." It became the single most important point of my labor. The way she made it personal, adding that it is part of her daily practice, made it real for me. I leaned into this statement, and it took me away from the pain. It sounds crazy, but at some points I was even able to enjoy the intensity of contractions. I began to view them as a force for good. I started saying random things out loud that came into my head- I couldn’t stop saying, “I trust you Annie.” The farther I could get away from fear, and the more I could trust the process, and my baby, the better it went. Later on, my husband would reflect on our labor and say, "labor really is just about staying away from the dark side, isn’t it?" When it comes down to it, what in life isn't about staying away from the dark side?

When I was 9 months pregnant, I asked friends to tell me good stories. I was tired of hearing negative birth stories and about the sleep deprivation that follows. As a society, we really do like our campfire tales, don’t we? My friend Rene Perez, who is also a writer and an educator, (please find his fabulous books HERE) sent the following about his experience with his newborn, which he has given me permission to share: 

My older daughter was a light sleeper, very hard to put down. For the first 6 months, my wife and I split nights doing feeding/walking/rocking. She (my daughter) used rubber Soothie pacifiers, but only very rarely. Usually, I ended up with the handle end of it in my mouth. 
One night, she just wouldn't go to bed. She also wouldn't even let me sit to rock her. She just cried and cried and screamed if I sat. She wouldn't take the pacifier, so it was in my mouth, and I chewed an angry hole through it. 

I can't describe exactly why the thought came to mind, but the thought flashed in my head because of biting through the damn thing that everyone who is alive was a baby, and not all of them had someone to stay up calming and soothing and loving. The school I teach at serves a girls' home, and I thought of a couple students in particular who are wards of the state, and for some damn reason the idea that, of course everyone was a baby once and everyone always at some point no longer is really set me at ease. 

I honestly don't remember how much longer it took for her to fall asleep. I don't remember the actuality of any of those sleepless nights. But I remember the realization….

I love what Rene wrote so much. I’ve thought of it often when up with Annie at night, and it makes me aware of how privileged I feel to get to be the person that takes care of baby Annie. The thing is, birth is not your worst nightmare, although I know that there are labors and births that are traumatic. But for the most part, it’s not labor that’s actually terrifying, and it’s not the sleep deprivation or the diapers, it’s the realization that the work of faith is never done. As soon as I got through labor, the thing I’d been focusing on and mentally preparing for for 9 months, I realized that a whole new world had unfolded where I had to choose love or fear, every day, while caring for and worrying about my newborn. I shared my anxieties with another mom friend, who said wisely, “welcome to parenthood.” If you do not have children, please know that I think “welcome to life,” would have been just as appropriate. 

In Howard Zinn's essay, "The Optimism of Uncertainty,” he says "An optimist isn't necessarily a blithe, slightly sappy whistler in the dark of our time. To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something.”

Yes, we live in scary times. And yes, life in itself as a sentient being is scary- the fact is, we will say goodbye to almost everyone we love in this lifetime. And we don’t get to know when or how that will happen. And of course, any kind of darkness calls for campfire tales, because maybe if we speak aloud the worst of what can happen we can somehow thwart it. And then, once we’ve preemptively scared ourselves to prepare for the worst, we can choose the smallest acts of faith. Call it optimism, if the word faith scares you. It might be caring for an animal we love, knowing that we will be without them after awhile. It might be taking good care of ourselves, greeting our own faces in the mirror as warmly as we’d greet a friend. It might be a hum in your throat that you offer to a friend in pain, a genuine, resounding mmmmmm-hmmmmmm that slows down the world for a moment. Don’t you want to try it, just now, where ever you are?

Burn Site In Bloom

I'm so excited to share that my poetry chapbook, “Burn Site in Bloom,” was released by Musehick Publications! Pat Clark, founder of Atelier 6000 (now housed by Bend Art Center) provided a beautiful piece of art for the cover. The book is available online from Amazon. Be sure to check out other releases from Musehick, including Jim Churchill-Dicks debut collection, "Wine Dark Mother and the Trapper's Son." 

To purchase: Amazon

To purchase: Amazon