TSA Adventures

Traveling for any normal person comes with many challenges. 

Traveling across the country for 10 days with multiple medical conditions is really rather difficult.

I must be prepared for any situation that may arise while I am away from home. I need everything that will make me as comfortable as possible. I need medicine, equipment, etc. So for this 10 day trip, I had to pack…

• 15 different medications, all in original containers, packed in gallon size baggies (two of them because it wouldn’t all fit in one), in a bag that goes on the plane with me. Because that much medication CANNOT be let out of my sight. 

• A tens unit. This is to electrically stimulate muscles and joints which helps with chronic pain. mainly, I use this for my back and shoulders. 

• Two knee braces. One that is a sleeve, which easily fits under clothing. Another, bulkier brace which is tighter and better when I am on my feet a lot. 

• A heating pad - but one that plugs in because who knows when/where I will have access to a microwave for my other ones.

• A taping kit. This is to help stabilize my ankles on days when we have a lot of walking. Surprisingly, tape works better than any brace I have tried. When I say tape, I mean super strong, medical tape that takes like 3 washes to come off. It’s the good stuff.

• A letter detailing my condition. Just in case we have to make a stop at the ER. This letter for my cardiologist outlines my medical issues and explains what precautions/treatments the ER doctors should take. 

• Theragesic. Which I often refer to as “Thera-Jesus” because that stuff is miraculous. It helps sooth muscle aches, kind of like icy hot.

Whew. That’s a lot of important stuff. This on top of ten days worth of clothing, shoes, toiletries, swim suit, bedding, towels, etc. It’s a little stressful to make sure I don’t forget anything. If I forget a toothbrush, I can easily run to Wal*Mart. If I forget pain medication, we are in trouble.

The day before the trip, I had to visit the doctor for medication refills, count ALL my pills. (Fun fact: I will take about 110-120 pills during my 10 day trip.) And I had to pack and weigh my bags and then move medications and other items to mom’s bag because I was over the weight limit. Mom’s are great for those sorts of things.

So fast forward to security check. Here comes the girl with the small box attached to the inside of her waistband with wires going to her back and a knee brace with metal in it. The machine didn’t like it and found three “hot spots.” So the nice TSA lady explained that I needed further screening, which included a slight pat down and rubbing my hands with some sort of something. I still am not sure what she did, but I was cleared to go. 

It made me wonder about people with more serious conditions. What about people that need assistive devises to walk? Or people with prosthetic limbs? I’m just glad the TSA people were accommodating, with only a few strange looks. Let’s hope it goes that smoothly on the flight home.

I could have left my tens unit and brace in the bag and put them on after security, but I knew we would be rushed. And why should I have to change what I need for my medical conditions to accommodate the airport security. It may be my sassiness coming out, but I decided that they could accommodate me. I need to be as comfortable as I can be for being smushed in a plane for four hours. 

So here I sit, somewhere over what I am guessing is the midwest, hoping for a smooth, stress-free, and (almost) healthy adventure.

Las Vegas, Phoenix, and Las Cruces, here I come.

A calling to things I can't fulfill

The past three or so months have had such a concentrated amount of engagement, wedding, and pregnancy announcements - more than I remember there ever being at any point in my life. I think something is in the water, especially with all these new babies.

For the announcement of my sister's pregnancy, I couldn't have been more thrilled. After begging for a niece or nephew for five years, my sister was sitting in front of me telling me that I soon would be an aunt. I sobbed hysterically for a good five minutes repeatedly asking, "Are you really pregnant?" I could not have been more excited. Now, in about 13 weeks, I will get to hold sweet little Chase for the first time.

For all the other announcements/photos/cute proposal videos... it wasn't as fun. I felt emotions I didn't know existed. People reading this will probably say, "well of course you are jealous that it isn't you." Maybe, but I don't think that is entirely the issue. It could be jealousy, but a different kind. Because if I am experiencing jealousy, it is jealousy of something that may never happen.

Yes, I do realize that I am 21 years old - am I even a real adult yet? I realize I have my whole life ahead of me. I realize that just because everyone else is doing something doesn't mean it is the right thing for me in the moment. I know all of these things. It really isn't that.

It's that with every new life update or progression I see someone else experiencing, I am reminded of the struggle that I will have to overcome to reach that milestone.

(Clearly these baby announcements and engagements and weddings and family photos are about me. [Sarcasm.] I never said this post wasn't selfish.)

You see, from the time I was a toddler, one of my favorite games was house. One of my favorite toys was baby dolls. I carried a doll around all the time. I remember one time crying in the mall because a little boy picked up my baby doll, not in a proper way to hold a child, swung it around, and screamed, "IT NOT REAL!" I was in hysterics because to me, it was real. When I played house with my friends, I was always the mom. While everyone else wanted to pretend to be hungry babies, misbehaving children, or sassy teenagers, all I wanted was to be the mommy. (Either that, or I never let anyone else be the mom. I was kind of bossy too.)

My whole life, anytime I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I gave whatever career was most exciting at the time, and then followed it with, "and a mommy."

A princess...and a mommy.
A teacher...and a mommy.
A singer...and a mommy.
An actress...and a mommy.
An astronaut...and a mommy.
An astronomer...and a mommy.
A 4-H agent...and a mom.
A journalist...and a mom.
A Spanish teacher...and a mom.
A PR professional...and a mom.
And a mom.
A mom.
Mom.

It's always been important. But let me tell you something: I can't have kids. Let me clear what I mean when I say can't...

With current medicine and technology and my body's current medical state...

• There is a 50% chance of serious complications in pregnancy due to my aneurysm. This could be as simple as bed rest or as extreme as death by childbirth or anything in between. 
• There is a 50% chance of passing on my heart condition to my child.
• There is a 50% chance of passing on my connective tissue disorder to my child.
• I cannot, currently, deliver a child. I would have to give birth by scheduled c-section, possibly earlier than normal, and complications are highly possible.

Those numbers aren't fantastic. Knowing all of that, I cannot be at peace with the decision to naturally conceive and deliver a child. Because there are millions of what if scenarios...

What if my baby has every medical issue I have?
What if I die during pregnancy/birth leaving my child motherless and my husband a single father?
What if my baby has a worse form of my heart condition and needs surgery right away?
What if there is a complication during the c-section?
What if I need open heart surgery during my pregnancy?

There are a lot more of these swarming around in my head.

At 17, a doctor, not knowing I had never been told this, told me that I should not have children with my heart the way it is. Immediately tears brimmed my eyes and I looked to my mother who, wide-eyed, told the doctor that I had never been told that before. He apologized for the tone in which he said it, but he didn't seem to understand the hurt that he caused. Because as a junior in high school, I was now faced with something that I shouldn't have even had to think about until my mid-twenties.

This has affected my life more than you would think. In any serious dating relationship, children are brought up, and I have to tearfully explain why I may not be able to have children. This decision is one that should have been made with my future husband, but I feel that I made it alone at 17 years old. I know medicine could improve drastically, a cure could be found for my EDS, and I could have heart surgery... I know it could, but I know there is also another option: adoption.

Because somewhere out there will be a child or two or six who need my love. They won't come from my body. They won't be announced by a baby bump photo. I may not even know them until years after they are born. But oh, will they be loved. Because since before I could talk, I knew I wanted to be a mommy. Since before I even began seriously dating, I prayed to experience motherhood. I think God gave me this strong desire to be a mother because He knew if He created me wanting it badly enough, I could help Him provide love and home to some sweet baby or child who doesn't even yet exist. This is my calling. Not one I can fulfill, but only one that God, in His time, can make happen.

This is often one of my prayers, and this particular one was written down and placed in my adoption book about three years ago:

"God, I want to be a mother. Whether it be through childbirth, adoption, or some other way I am unaware of. I give this to you to do what is best for me."

So until my time comes, I have many things I can do...

• I can be happy for the newlyweds and new parents. Yes, they are one step closer than I am now and maybe further than I will ever be, but it is their time. Not mine. I will smile and say congratulations because this is one of the happiest moments of their life.
• I can remind myself that this is only the beginning. I am 21 years old. My friends are JUST now starting to have kids. As I get older, I have a feeling that this won't get easier for me. Because when my friends are all having babies #2 and #3, I may still be struggling to adopt.
• I can live in the now. I have a wonderful life and I want to enjoy it - this season, this moment. I don't want to waste my time wishing I was in another season of life.
• I can spoil my nephew. Since I found out my sister was pregnant, I have continually referred to Chase as "my baby." Stephanie has let me - because she knows my excitement and understands my struggle. She has invited me to be a part of the delivery - for which I am both thrilled and grateful since her experiences with childbirth and labor may be the only ones I get to have as well. This little boy is going to be so spoiled and so loved. Even if I never get to be a mommy, I will be the best aunt ever. 
• I can pray. For my future husband and his family - that they have a heart for adoption, as I do. For my future children - that God will work out His plan in His time. For my heart - that I will not be bitter while I wait for God, that I will become the type of woman who can be a godly and loving mother, and that I will feel happiness in every area of my current life.

This isn't an easy topic to talk about. It's sensitive, emotional, and real. I can talk about being sick anytime, but when it comes to babies, my heart is so full that my body has nothing else to do but let the tears fall from my eyes. I'm obviously not the first person to deal with this issue, but this is my first time dealing with it. 

So I'm just doing the best I can and I will let God do the rest. 

Do you want to get well?

We have all probably heard the story of the man who was healed by the Pool of Bethesda. There was this magic pool and when the water stirred, the first person to get into the water was healed. Jesus visited this place one day and he notices a man off to the side. This particular man had been sick for 38 years. 38 years of lying by this magic pool, watching everyone else be made well. So Jesus approached him and asked him a simple question, "Do you want to be made well?"

Duhhhh. Right? Of course he wanted to be healed. Who wouldn't after a lifetime of a crippling disease? Who wouldn't want to walk again? Who wouldn't want to not be sick? In the end, Jesus heals him and he goes on his merry way.

I recently read this story with a Bible study that I attend and our discussion leader brought up an interesting point: What did healing mean for this man? Because the moment Jesus healed him, his life was never the same. All he knew how to do was to be sick, lay by a magic pool, and rely on the kindness of strangers to survive. But as an able bodied, perfectly healthy man, what changed? Did he get a job, have a family, travel, go to school, learn a trade, accomplish the things he had always dreamed of, and do the things he never could because of his illness?

If I were given this same choice, what would change for me? What does a healthy Stacie do? I think a healthy Stacie would take more risks. She would stay out later. She would eat more ice cream. She wouldn't take almost 100 pills a week. She would travel, oh she would travel: to Arizona, Washington, Iowa, Colorado, Alaska, Mexico, Costa Rica, Paris, London, Spain, Africa; she would see the world. A healthy Stacie would get married without the fear of health concerns, money to pay for medications, and the fear of a pregnancy that could kill her. She would have babies - three, and then adopt two more; because she has a lot of love to share. She would live.

But if Jesus himself asked me, "Do you, Stacie, want to get well?" what would I say? Would I drop the life I know and love for one that appears to be full of promise and health? What would my new life bring? Would I forget all the turmoil I have been through, all the pain I have felt, all the tears I have cried? Would I forget the fatigue, the chronic pain, the ER visits, the nausea, the needles, the tests, the loud MRIs, the cold stickers on my chest, the wooshing of my heart on the echo machine, the prayers sent up for healing? What would become of all that I have lived so far? Would I be a story of hope or would I take for granted my new found health?

Even if Jesus himself asked me this question, I don't know that I could say yes.

Despite the pain, the medications, the fatigue, the nausea, the popping and aching joints, the blown ligaments, the heating pads, the ice packs, the constant sickness, the ER visits, the bi-monthly doctor appointments, the sadness, and the tearful prayers, I love the life I have been blessed with. I have a wonderful family, supportive friends, the intelligence and ambition to go to school, the ability to have a part time job, multiple Bible studies to attend and learn a lot at, amazing Christians surrounding me in encouragement and prayer, love, laughter, happiness, and an all-powerful, merciful, compassionate Heavenly Father.

My illness gives me a unique perspective on life: thankfulness for each day that I wake up, appreciation for every moment with low pain, a love for life, a desire to do my best at everything I am able to do, a longing to share love with those around me, constant awe over medical innovations, a hope for my future, and the comfort that I am right where I am supposed to be.

I used to pray for physical healing. In the last year or so, I have stopped, and instead now pray for peace of heart and mind, patience to deal with my struggles, and a desire to never give up. It's not that I don't believe God can heal me; I know He is more than able. It's just that I don't know that He will. This is the life I have been given. Things can get better, things can change, but struggles may never fully disappear. God must think that I have something to gain through my illness and something to share through my struggles.

And so unless He decides, in His time, to make me well, I won't be wasting mine wishing my less than healthy days away. This is my life and I will embrace it.

The life of the chronically late

I am typically 5-10 minutes late every morning This is not because I have poor time management skills or for a lack of planning. Anyone who knows me well has probably seen my planner at one point or another. It is color coded with stickers and post its and has every single activity, class, social outing, date, and Bible study written in it. I sometimes even write in time to do nothing. Yes, I plan to do nothing. I have a Google calendar that is synched up with three other people's, I use my paper planner, I use spread sheets, I hand write schedules, etc. So where do i go wrong? How is such an organized person so late? Well, here are five reasons why I am almost always late.

1.) My body does not function before 10 am. 

No, really. I purposefully do not schedule class or work before 10. It's terribly unfortunate that my church has an earlier service (9am Sunday school, 10am worship). I've never been a morning person. When I was little and I had to go somewhere early in the morning, mom would just wrap me up in a blanket like a burrito, put me in the car, and drive me to wherever we were going. Everyone was much happier this way. Unfortunately that is no longer an option. When I do have to get up "early," I am greeted with nausea, stomach pain, and headaches. I will sit in the bathroom in tears for up to an hour just trying to pull myself out of the autonomic crisis my body has awoken in. It isn't fun. All my life, people have teased me about how late I sleep and about not being a morning person. The fact is, my body is made differently. It's not that I'm lazy; it is that I need extra time to even begin functioning.

2.) Half hour bathroom trips happen daily.

I will spare you the details, but having EDS means having stomach and bowel issues. Most often, these issues present themselves most troublesome first thing in the morning. The earlier the time, the worse the problem. It is not uncommon for me to sit in the bathroom, trying really hard not to get sick, for around 30 minutes. Don't worry though, my cat keeps me company.

3.) Unforeseen circumstances happen often enough that I should see them, but I don't because they are always different. 

This isn't necessarily related to the time of day, but you know that bad things always happen when you're in a hurry to start your day. So maybe I can't find my pain medication. (NEVER leave the house without your pain medication!) Or my knee dislocated and now I need to wrap it. Or I have a headache so I have to figure out which medicine I last took and pick a new one, rotating between ibuprofen, tylenol, and aleve. Or the day's activities require a crockpot of food or a heavy bag, neither of which I can carry, so I have to ask dad to load my car for me. Or maybe once I finally leave the house I can't find parking on campus, a problem for a normal student, but a worse problem for a student with handicapped parking. And once I finally park, I have to find a friend to carry my crockpot or heavy bag. Orrrr I get sick at school (that's a FUN one). You see, I just never know what the day holds. Life is always an adventure.

4.) I have to be slow and careful.

When I'm running late, I can't always hurry. I can't run up and down the stairs, throw on clothes, hop in and out of the shower, brush my teeth in two seconds, or eat the first thing I see in the fridge. No, I have to think about each decision, even when I am running behind. I plan my routine to minimize how many times I have to walk down the stairs. If I take a shower, do I have time to dry my hair? Because if not, I will pay for the wet hair when I am sick in a few days. If I take a shower, I have to eat first because standing up in the heat could make me dizzy and pass out or throw up. Wait, what do we have to eat? Eggs take too long to make. Orange juice hurts my stomach unless I have something else with it. Nutella is too sweet. Granola bar it is. Every decision counts and I try not to waste bad decisions on things that will make me have an awful day.

5.) Sometimes, I just don't wake up.

Sleep and I have an unsteady relationship. Sometimes, I can't fall asleep, even after lying in bed for hours. Other times, I am so exhausted, I fall asleep on the couch watching TV. I can sleep anywhere when I don't want to. Once, I fell asleep in the library on some chairs I pushed together and was late for class. And yet, this morning I woke up to go to the bathroom after only five hours of sleep and just couldn't sleep more, no matter how hard I tried. So when I actually do fall into a deep sleep, it's as if my alarm doesn't exist. I don't hear it. I don't remember it going off. When I finally do hear the tenth alarm, it's way past when I wanted to get up and I am already late. I set alarms in ten minute intervals for an hour an half. Not kidding.

So all you punctual people, this is why I, self proclaimed sufferer of OCD,  professional organizer, and planner extraordinaire am late, almost daily. It's not because I don't care. It's not because I am lazy. It's not because I just lay in bed for an hour every morning. It's because most days, I really can't help it.

Aside from just annoying those around me, I have actually learned a few things from being late. You have to ignore people's judgments, or what you perceive as judgments. How many of us actually care when somebody else walks into class or church late? I don't automatically start thinking about what an awful person they are. Most likely people aren't thinking those things about me and if I think they are, I am the one putting that pressure on myself.

Get over yourself. Yes, it's awkward to walk into church 10 minutes late or to walk into class after your professor has taken roll. But I benefit more from being there, even if it isn't the whole class or service, than from staying home. Again, I have to forget what people think and focus on why I am there.

Appreciate what you get to do. Some days, I don't make it to class or church. So on the days I do, even if I am late, I appreciate being there. Walking in late and feeling awkward for a minute is worth it to hear beautiful singing and have fellowship with other Christians, or to learn something that will make me a better professional someday.

Make the most of each moment. Along with appreciating each opportunity, enjoy and make the most of it. I know class gets boring, but some people can't afford an education. Sure work can get annoying, but some people are wising for a job. Maybe you don't find the sermon that interesting, but in other countries, Christians are meeting in secret to avoid persecution. Each moment isn't the best of your life, but it doesn't have to be the worst. Just be happy.

Life is better lived with a smile.

Snowed in = slow down.

I've been awake since 6:30 am.
I can't breathe because of my sinus infection (which I get every two months).
My legs are aching because, yesterday, I decided to actually get out of bed.
My head is throbbing from a lack of sleep.
My stomach is turning because being up before 8 am always created nausea.

So I turn on Netflix.
I sit in the bathroom for a half hour.
I lay in bed, wishing I could go back to sleep.
I share saltine crackers with my cat.
I blog.
Because what else can you do?

While many of you have been complaining about the snowy tundra that has taken over our Kentucky home, I have secretly been thankful for the "bad" weather. See, I don't let my illnesses slow me down. If school is in, I am there. If my activities are on, I participate full force. I only stay home when the physical pain of getting out of bed is greater than emotional pain of missing out on life.

I started feeling bad Saturday night with sinus issues. (Which could be fixed more easily if my doctors would only listen to me, but that is another story for another day.) Sunday, I was having difficulty breathing and sniffled all through church, but I was fine. When school was canceled for Monday, I was happy because I was thankful for a day to rest. I woke up Monday, around noon, feeling awful. I barely left my bed all day. Tuesday was basically the same story. Yesterday, I finally felt well enough to clean my room and bake, but apparently it was too much for my body to handle.

I literally cannot leave my house because of the weather. It is just now a possibility, but with the sub-zero temperatures today, I think I will stay inside. I've never heard of a university canceling classes for a week, but I am so grateful for the time off. I know I am sick for a variety of reasons: the ever-changing Kentucky weather, my inability to rest, my overwhelmed schedule, my weak immune system, and the millions of germs going around right now.

If I would have had a normal schedule this week, I know I would have been much sicker. I would have been miserably gone to class, work, Bible study, church, SAA, and other activities. Sometimes, I think God provides these opportunities to make me slow down. Maybe He didn't flood the entire state in snow and close down a university just for me, but I still count it as a blessing.

Don't feel bad for being lazy while you're snowed in. Rest, relax, bake, watch Netflix, play with your cat, take a bubble bath, do whatever makes you feel better. Never feel bad for taking care of your body and for enjoying the slower times. They don't happen too often.

A glimpse into my future...

Today was the last day of my physical therapy program at Cardinal Hill. Since it is a 45 minute drive and school is starting back, I am transitioning to independent therapy and will continue in Richmond on my own. After my last exercise, I went into the locker room to shower and change and a lady followed behind me. I had seen her many times before, but we had never really spoken. While I was changing in a stall, she let me know she was borrowing the sink area where I had plugged in my straightener to use her hair dryer.

When I emerged from the stall, I saw this lady drying her short blond hair. Sometime during the five minutes I was changing clothes, she had managed to get dressed and do her makeup. She wore a black and white striped shirt, jeans, and a maroon pashmina scarf, an outfit I often wear. I often get ready in the locker room, hair and makeup included, since I drive such a long way and usually have other activities or appointments in Lexington. The older ladies often stare or make comments about me getting all dolled up. Not this woman. We chatted about the weather, doctors appointments, and then she mentioned to me and another lady in the room about visiting Gatlinburg with her family this spring.

None of this seemed out of the ordinary until she said that she will probably take her wheelchair along to make her trip easier. Not many conditions allow you to choose when to utilize certain equipment - either you're wheelchair bound or you're not. But with connective tissue disorders like mine, some days you need a brace, cane, or chair, and some days you don't.

As she picked up a cane, about to leave the locker room, I wrestled with myself about whether or not to ask what medical condition she has. But my encounter with Deborah briefly entered my mind and so I asked. "MS and mixed connective tissue disorder." As this woman spoke of her issues, symptoms, doctors, and medications, I nodded in agreement and my eyes brimmed with tears because this woman standing before me was my future.

I wasn't crying because I didn't want to be her. The opposite, actually. This woman was strong, brave, and happy. She had struggles. Just that day she had been to the doctor for several hours, followed by physical therapy in the pool. She uses a cane when needed. But she was there. She wore makeup, she fixed her hair, she looked happy. She looked like someone I would like to grow up to be.

Her name is Melissa and she is my mom's age, making her the first person I have met with a connective tissue disorder that is over 25. Being a relatively new diagnosis, not many middle-aged people have been diagnosed with these issues or if they have, it was after years of suffering.

Melissa spoke with such wisdom and understanding. She is obviously a woman of faith and that was evident in the way she talked with me and of her medical journey. She told me of the struggles and scares she has had and of how she was revived after dying from a reaction to a medication. She said, "I still feel like God had a job for me to do here. I don't what it is - maybe it is witnessing to you today."

As tears streamed down my face, Melissa wrapped her arms around me and told me that everything will be okay. But she didn't leave it at that. She told me it will be hard, that sometimes it gets worse before it gets better, but to never give up the fight or let other people, even doctors make me feel bad about who I am and what I have been given. She gave me her contact information and promised we could talk if I ever needed anything, had questions, or just wanted to talk to someone who understands and has made it through.

With this condition, I often meet or hear of people who are on this journey with me, but very rarely do I meet people who have already surpassed where I am and won the battles I am facing. Melissa put a smile on my face, tears in my eyes, and wisdom in my mind, but most importantly she filled me with hope. A hope for a future, an uncertain future, a future with maybe a cane or wheelchair, but a future of happiness, love, and life. That's really all I could ever want.

Meet my therapy cat, Tigger.

For approximately three years, I have begged my parents to get me a kitten. Their response was that I already have a cat. While there is a cat who lives in my house, everyone knows she loves my dad the most and is, therefore, his cat. Her name is Cassie and she has lived here for about seven years, since she was a kitten.

Ironically, I was the one who asked if she could live inside. I would run down the hallway and she would chase after me. She would curl up in my lap and sleep. Her first night in the house, she slept in my bed. That was when the warning occurred. When I woke up the next morning, my sheets and pajamas were covered in cat poo. I still adored Cassie, but that may have been her first time telling me that the feelings were not mutual.

Cassie was sweet and playful for awhile. After about a year, she had a tragic accident with a recliner. Her little neck got caught in it, as the recliner was lowering back down. We thought she wouldn't make it. We put her on a little pillow, surrounded her, crying and praying during what we thought would be her last moments. The next morning she awoke and acted as if nothing had happened. Except that the nice sweet cat was no more and instead we had a little hissing and growling machine. We like to say the niceness got knocked out of her that day.

Don't get me wrong; Cassie has her moments. But you must love her on her own terms. Pet her when she wants to be petted and only for how long she wants to be petted. Play when she wants to play. And never, ever, under any circumstances do you touch her tummy. But despite all this, she is our dear pet and we love her. Especially Dad.

When he goes to bed, she runs down the hall after him and sleeps under the bed or near the window. When Dad wakes up in the morning, Cassie runs into the bedroom again and lets dad pet her while she plays with his socks. When she hears the Windows computer shut down noise, she gets up because she knows Dad is about to change rooms. They have this routine together and nobody else seems to understand what Dad did to receive all of Cassie's love.

So it is understandable that I wanted a kitten. I wanted a cat that was mine. One who would let me pet it whenever I wanted, pick it up and carry it, play with it, and have it actually like me. I used every possible thing I could think of to get my parents to buy me a cat. I reminded them of each of my medical conditions several times... I mean if playing the heart card won't get me a kitten, what will? I begged, pleaded, tried to convince, and each holiday I just pretended like I was getting a cat. Dad told me to keep dreaming and Mom always said I was making her feel badly for not getting me a kitten.

But the beautiful and magical holiday season of 2014 brought wonderful things to me. The kittenless hearts of my parents were melted and somehow through the magic of the season, a kitten appeared under our Christmas tree.

I immediately figured out that it was for me. His little orange face was poking out of the cat carrier, a bow laying on the floor that had been tied around his neck. He was small, only 5 pounds, and had such a sweet face. My parents told me that he was a rescue, who had been abandoned by his mother, and had been hand fed the first few months of his life. He had been given the name Tigger and I decided it fit him perfectly.

We quickly bonded and once he got comfortable, the purring started... and wouldn't stop. This cat has the loudest purr I have ever heard. The only time he doesn't purr is when he is eating or sleeping. Sometimes when he curls up next to me at night, I can't fall asleep because he is purring so loudly. Tigger is also a patient little guy. I can pick him up and carry him around the house with no complaining. He will play with me, let me hold and pet him, and he even takes naps with me. He has just the right temperament to be a good fit for me.

Individuals with certain medical conditions often have service or therapy animals. Recently, I had been telling my parents that I want to get a therapy dog when I am living on my own. Therapy animals visit places like hospitals, schools, nursing homes, and colleges to help people with emotional support and stress relief. For those in the nursing home, having a furry friend come to visit can provide some joy to their lonely day. As a college student, I love when the therapy animals visit us during finals week. It is so nice to take a study break and relax by petting a dog.

Once I got Tigger acclimated to our house, I began to realize that he has the type of demeanor needed by therapy animals. I looked up information on how to train to be a therapy team. We have to wait until Tigger is older, but we then can attend classes together and complete an evaluation and training. For now, I bought a harness for him to practice wearing, since that is a requirement. I have high hopes for this little guy.

Until he can help others, he is my own personal therapy cat. He is already bringing me so much joy. Today, after a particularly hard day at physical therapy, I scooped up little Tigger and we took a nap together. Just relaxing next to a furry friend can make you feel so much better.

Oh and for those of you wondering, Cassie and Tigger aren't quite best friends yet. I think we may get there eventually. For now, they can be in the same room without a fight breaking out and I am grateful for that. Tigger is determined to play with Cassie and although she protests with hisses and growls, he just keeps on trying. As I said, he is a very patient cat, and apparently wants to be everyone's friend.

"What greater gift than the love of a cat."

-Charles Dickens

Debora.

Recently, I started pool therapy. You know how you see the elderly ladies at the YMCA doing water aerobics? Well, I am still working up to that. Mostly I do different walks with ankle weights and other resistance equipment. I practice balancing exercises. I step on and off a step/platform. I do bicycle and scissor kicks. And I watch as the elderly patients swim laps past me.

My fellow EDS friend tells everyone she is 80 years old on the inside. The same goes for me, so I guess this is why we both get along with old people so well. Having pool therapy at a place where the majority of patients are 60 years and older makes me stick out like a sore thumb. Sometimes people look at you like "Why are you here? You look perfectly healthy." While I do appreciate not looking sick, I also wish I could more easily explain my condition to others, especially the elderly, so they could understand why I don't look sick, but am.

After my second PT session, I was in the locker room attempting to undress, shower, and change clothes. An older woman sitting in the locker room thought this was a perfect time to strike up a conversation. (I really prefer to be fully dressed when talking with strangers.) The conversation went something like this...

Old lady: You're awfully young, why are you here?

Me: I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, it's a connective tissue disorder that affects my collagen, making my joints unstable and causing a lot of pain. I'm here to work on balance, stability, and manage pain.

Old lady: Ohh, so it is like Arthritis? I have Osteoarthritis.

Me: -Thinking to myself- No, not really. -Out loud- Yes, kind of like arthritis.

Old lady: Well this is the best thing you can do. I come several times a week. I hope you get better.

Me: -Thinking to myself- Not going to happen. -Out loud- Thank you very much, have a good day.

This is how conversations, particularly with the elderly, often go. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE talking with people, especially older people. I have tremendous respect for them and their wisdom and advice. But when it comes to medical developments and rare diseases, it's difficult to get anyone to understand.

Last PT session, I got in the pool and began my walking laps. My therapist wasn't there yet and the pool was empty aside from one woman. She came over to me and said, "Hi baby, how are you?" So welcoming and friendly. We began to chat and I soon discovered that this woman was not only sweet, but had more sass in her little finger than I have in my whole body. (If you know me well, you realize how surprising this is.) She said the funniest things, some of which I can't repeat because of the level of sassiness. Man, was she a character.

But it wasn't all funny, she had some wisdom to share as well. She asked "what I have." As I gave a quick explanation, she nodded, not in understanding, but in empathy. I asked her as well, COPD. Even though we know nothing about each other's conditions, it was as if there was this connection, simply by the fact that we are sick, we were both in PT, and as she said, "We didn't ask for this crap."

She went on to tell me not to let this disease control my life, to maintain my independence, to enjoy my good days, and push through the bad, and to never let people feel sorry for me. Most importantly, she didn't say I shouldn't feel sorry for myself or be sad because I'm sick or different. She said, "When you have a bad day and you feel sorry for yourself, you lay in bed and cry your tears, but then you dry your eyes. You get up out of bed, look yourself in the mirror, and say, 'Alright, girl. Let's go.'"

She didn't tell me I was strong, as most people do. She didn't build me up to be some sort of martyr for withstanding what I don't have a choice in. She told me to deal with it. She told be to be a big girl. She told me I'm normal.

I mentioned to her that I was heading out on a date after PT. As I emerged from the locker room, showered, hair done, and real clothes on, I heard, "Ooooh girl! You look FABULOUS." I thanked her for talking with me, told her I hoped to see her again soon, and finally remember to ask her name - Debora.

I believe that God allows people's paths to cross at just the right time. I had seen Debora at the pool several times, but we never spoke. I always felt out of place in a room of senior citizens, but really my body probably works just as well as theirs. Maybe I just need to make some older friends, that I can keep up with. Or maybe talking with Debora was a one time thing. Either way, I was encouraged by her advice, sassiness, positive attitude, and kindness.

Maybe we should all be less afraid to speak up, to say hi to stranger, to offer a smile. Sometimes the simplest of acts are so important and encouraging to others. Sometimes what you might shrug off as a small gesture is remembered for years. You never know how you might help someone, who you might be helping, or who might be helping you.