Category: gratefulness

Patrick C. – AA speaker – You Don’t Keep What You Have Unless You Give It Away. Alcoholism/Alcoholic.

My husband spoke last night, and I want to share his words with you. If you are struggling with addiction, whether that be alcohol, “outside issues” (drugs, shopping, food, etc), this message is for you. It is also for those of you who have been walking a road of sobriety but find yourselves struggling, feeling alone, getting to the end of your rope. If you are struggling, and you feel alone, download the AA “Meeting Finder” app and get yourself to a meeting. Be with others who KNOW you without having met you. Be in the fellowship. Save a life – your own perhaps – and perhaps the one of the person who needed to hear you honestly talk about your lack of control, your desperation, your loneliness, your truth … we heal together. Patrick says, “You don’t keep what you have unless you give it away.”

I asked AI for a summary of Patrick’s talk. Here is what it created, though it is NO replacement for hearing this message from my husband’s mouth. He has 39 years of sobriety and has walked this path for a long time. He is wise, and I am proud to be his wife.

Patrick shares a deeply honest AA lead centered on Experience, Strength, and Hope, reflecting on long-term sobriety that did not come easily or quickly. Although he entered Alcoholics Anonymous in 1987, his first five years were marked by surface-level participation: frequent meetings, repeated sponsors, and memorized language, but little internal change. He remained sober yet deeply uncomfortable with himself, unable to feel peace, ease, or authenticity.

The turning point came when Patrick reached an emotional and spiritual dead end—unable to return to drinking and unable to continue living sober in the way he had been. Under the guidance of a sponsor who insisted on being fearless and thorough, Patrick worked the steps directly from the Big Book, examining his life before alcohol and recognizing that alcoholism was present long before his first drink. Alcohol was not the cause of his problem—it was his solution.

Through this deeper work, Patrick came to understand alcoholism as a spiritual illness characterized by fear, insecurity, disconnection, and self-centered thinking. True sobriety required surrender, humility, and continued spiritual growth—not just abstinence. Over the decades, Patrick endured profound personal loss, including the death of children, financial hardship, and ongoing internal struggles, yet remained sober by staying connected to AA, sponsoring others, and relying on fellowship. His message emphasizes that sobriety is not about time or years, but about ongoing spiritual action, service, and connection.

Main Takeaways

  • Sobriety without inner change is unsustainable. Meetings and slogans alone did not bring peace.
  • Alcohol was not the root problem—it was the relief. Fear and emotional pain existed long before drinking.
  • The steps must be worked thoroughly and honestly, guided by a sponsor—not self-directed.
  • Time sober does not equal spiritual growth. Change comes from action, not years.
  • Long-term sobriety requires continuous surrender, especially during hardship.
  • Service is essential to survival. Giving sobriety away is how it is kept.
  • Isolation is deadly; connection is lifesaving.

Lessons About Sobriety

  1. Sobriety is more than not drinking
    Patrick underscores that simply staying abstinent left him miserable. Real sobriety required confronting fear, insecurity, and self-centered thinking through the steps.
  2. Alcoholism is a spiritual condition
    His story reframes alcoholism as something present from childhood—marked by fear, inadequacy, and emotional pain—not something created by substances themselves.
  3. Discomfort is part of growth
    Remaining sober means learning to be “comfortable being uncomfortable.” Growth happens through surrender, not ease.
  4. Hardship does not mean failure
    Loss, grief, and suffering continued in sobriety—but they no longer led him back to drinking.
  5. Spiritual growth requires action
    Patrick identifies service, sponsorship, and helping others—not intellectual understanding—as the primary ways to grow spiritually.

Lessons About Fellowship

  1. You cannot do this alone
    Patrick repeatedly emphasizes that his survival depended on sponsors, his home group, and sober friends.
  2. Newcomers are essential—not optional
    Long-sober members need newcomers just as much, if not more, than newcomers need them.
  3. Sponsorship is not optional for long-term sobriety
    He challenges members with many years sober who are not sponsoring to examine what might be missing spiritually.
  4. Fellowship sustains sobriety during crisis
    Fellowship carried Patrick through unimaginable loss when personal strength alone was insufficient.
  5. Connection—not perfection—keeps people sober
    Patrick remains sober by showing up even when he doesn’t feel like it, staying plugged into AA rather than relying on self-will.

My Husband’s Thoughts After Helping a Woman Loading Salt and Water Into Her Car at the Gas Station. – He’s Not Going to Let What You Might Think of Him Stop Him From Being Him.

Greetings. As you all know, I don’t use social media. My lovely wife enjoys it, but I decline. However, this one time, I will. – Patrick

I had an experience today that I would like all of you to know about. While I was out, I stopped for coffee at a convenience store, and on my way in, I saw a lady who was loading cases of water into her trunk. It was more than obvious that this woman had MS, curled hands, and a clear limp.

I thought about asking her if she needed help, but for some reason, I walked in and went about my business. On the way out, after paying for my coffee, to my surprise, she was still loading her car, only this time, with 20 lb. bags of salt. So I asked her if she needed help. She said, “Yes,” and I loaded the bags. She said, “Thank you, and may God bless you, Sir.”

I sat in the car and couldn’t help but wonder, ‘Why did I hesitate to begin with?’ I thought about it and realized I didn’t ask initially because I didn’t want to offend anyone. I thought, ‘What’s happening to me?’

It dawned on me that the people I am currently in the world with have had an impact on me as a person. I want to address those people. If the shoe fits, wear it; no filter with me.

If you are one of those people who have found it necessary to sew division merely due to who you voted for, or one who cannot live in society until the rest of the population agrees with a man being able to be a woman, or just flat out Will NOT treat other people with respect until they adopt “your” way of thinking, do a cowboy a favor and GROW UP!

I almost let these types of people in society alter me today, but I think from now on, I’ll be a little more diligent and watchful to make darn sure I don’t become someone I am NOT.

Wife here: I love this man’s heart, and I’m proud to be his wife!

19 Months Post Open-Heart Surgery. Still Waiting On The Return of My Hair.

There were a few months of soaring hope while I took Viviscal – hoping that my hair would return to its pre-surgery state! Those months were in the spring and summer of 2025; my hair thickened, and I enjoyed fixing it for work and outings, grateful for its “return.” In the fall, I started to notice the thinning again. Life was stressful in the fall with Patrick’s abscesses and hospital visits (7!), so I’m aware that I’m experiencing a double-whammy. My body is still in recovery; believe me, this has been a topic of research of late. I am 19 months post-open heart surgery, and I am still in recovery – we have also been close to having our own suite in the emergency room at St. Francis South. So, I have to remind myself that not only did my body go through a traumatic experience less than 2 years ago, but my stress levels have not been good either for months on end, though I have kept an eye on my blood pressure and my INR. Despite all of this, my spirit says, “Okay, let’s be normal,” while my body says, “Nah, not yet.” My body is still in flight-or-fight mode from all that the last two years have thrown at us.

I am also a 53-year-old woman who had a hysterectomy in 2018. My ovaries stayed in … and I am fairly positive they’re going kaput. It’s menopause time. The weight I lost after surgery is all back with a vengeance – you know, the meno-belly. I’m more conscientious now of my diet than I have ever been in my life! I drink protein drinks for breakfast, eat Greek yogurt, and nutritionist-approved granola for lunch. I snack on dark chocolate. I only drink water and sparkling water. We eat turkey, chicken, and pork in this house. I never eat fast food or junk food, except for tortilla chips and salsa. I do a blood check for my INR every week and report results to my cardiologist’s office. I mean, I’ve never eaten this well – and I am a plump little chicken. Grrrr. One of my goals has always been to weigh less than Patrick, and currently, that’s not the case. Of course, he’s been sick since September, off and on and off and on, so there’s that, too. Probably, I’ve eaten a bit more of the items I mentioned because of stress over his health – the uncertainty of the last few months has been emotional and exhausting. But there’s also the hot flashes – and they come at night! Holy moly. I need it cold in the bedroom. Midway through the night, I’m sweating and throwing off covers. Last night, I got about 4 hours of sleep. I was too hot to sleep. So … 19 months post-surgery, husband has been terribly sick, and menopause/peri-menopause (how can you tell with no uterus) … triple whammy! But, you know what? I am alive.

How does it feel to be 19 months post-open-heart surgery? Glad you asked. For the most part, I am feeling great. I hear the ticking of my mechanical valve often, and I remember what I’ve been through. As soon as I start to feel “normal,” I’ll hear that, and I find myself reliving portions of the experience. Not in horror, but in gratitude for the space I’m in now as compared to where I was pre-surgery and immediately following – those first 12 weeks after surgery were intense. I’m not bothered by the ticking, though I see some folks in the support groups I’m in on Facebook complaining about the incessant ticking. Heck, it means we are alive! Recently, the living room was silent, and I could hear my ticking, so I recorded it. Wild to have a recording! I’m grateful for it. There are some nights when I have to adjust because, in certain positions, the ticking is loud and keeps me awake. Not a bother. I just move my head or flip onto my side … which I can do now!

Mostly, I’m comfortable on my side in bed. It took months to be able to put my left arm up and under my pillow so I could sleep on my left side. I still feel “pain” when I’m on my left, and if I don’t keep my right arm up on my body, if I let it fall down in front of me, then I’m squeezing my chest together, and that doesn’t feel good. I wouldn’t call it “pain” – hence the quotes. It is a bothersome feeling, an ache. Whatever it is, it is unpleasant, so I have to find just the right position so that I can drift off comfortably. Now, on my right side, I could put my right arm under my pillow for months and sleep on my right, but lately it hurts when I do, similar to how the left arm used to. I don’t know what that’s about, and I’m not headed to the chiropractor at this time. I just, a lot of the time, choose to lie on my back, which is something I never used to do. I have been a belly sleeper for most of my life, but not anymore. Probably that’s psychological. I just don’t do it. Lying on my back is when I hear the ticking, so I have to get my head in just the right position so I do not hear it quite as loudly, though most nights I have a YouTube ocean storm for sleeping playing on my phone next to the bed. Who would have thought that 19 months later I would still have sleeping issues?!? It’s all good though … I am alive.

Occasionally, I have chest pain. Sometimes on the left. Sometimes on the right. Sometimes it is sharp. Sometimes it is dull. It’s always near the surface, near my skin. Right now, at this moment, I feel a tightness across my entire chest. If you’re ever around me, you might see me put my hand on my chest in whatever area I’m feeling something funky. It’s part of me now – these aches and pin-pricks. There’s metal in my body – and it does what it does, and my body reacts to it. In my heart, there’s a mechanical valve, and there are wires that held my ribcage together as it melded back together over lengthy months. And when I feel these things, I touch my chest where I feel the pain/ache/tightness, and it tends to alleviate. It’s all good. I don’t set off metal detectors, and I’m alive.

My hair … yeah, I want it back. But now, I wonder about the medication regimen I was on in the last five years – the oral Rogaine – and, though I’m not curious enough yet to have researched it, I wonder if it contributed to my mitral valve’s severe regurgitation and put me into congestive heart failure. Maybe one of these days I will look into that, but I’m not there yet. The medication combo I was on, which included the oral Rogaine, is something I cannot take again due to my current health. I’m just missing my hair and wearing a lot of hats. I mean, a lot of hats. I have so many hats, and here’s crazy information: two more will arrive in today’s mail! You know how some people collect stamps or coins? Well, for me, it’s cowboy boots and hats. Actually, both Patrick and I collect these things, but for me, the hats are more in effort to cover up my hair loss. I really like some of them now, and I’m getting quite comfortable wearing them. Heck, last fall, one of my students drew me, my hats, and my outfits every day and gave them to me as a gift at the end of the semester. That was pretty cool. I like being ‘that’ professor who is ‘unafraid’ to be herself. Secretly, though, I ask myself whether I am really unafraid to be myself. If I were fully unafraid, I wouldn’t have this great need to wear hats every time I leave the house. I would just let my lack of hair be what it is – and who cares what a single solitary person out there in the big wide world thinks! Because you know why? Less than 2 years ago, I had major open-heart surgery, and I am alive!

My intention here is to be a voice for others struggling post-major surgery with body changes and life continuing to roll at you like a barrelling train on icy tracks. Recently, I read that it can take 24 full months before the body is “healed” from the type of surgery I underwent. So, I’ll tell my story, talk about my experiences, and hope to be a voice of hope and also reality for those facing similar types of surgeries – and for folks who just need a reminder to be grateful for life. We all face different traumas/experiences – and what I’ve learned is that the key is gratitude. I’m grateful for the Chief of Cardiology as my surgeon. I’m grateful for my husband being the best caregiver I could ever ask for. I’m grateful for my work and for their love and care during my healing. I’m grateful for friends and family. I am grateful for sobriety through all of this. I am grateful to God for allowing me to remain here on this earth for a little longer. In that operating room, I felt perfect peace when I prayed, “Jesus, I either wake up with you or with work to do.” Well, I woke up in the ICU, so I have work to do.

And how I do that is, I wake up each day and thank God for the day. I thank Him for my marriage, my husband, my children, my friends, my work, and I ask Him to let me be of use to Him each day. Then, I go out the door and step into the day. Grateful. Each step I take is a gift. And in lieu of this … (see, I learn constantly – and I just caught the lesson here in my own words) the hair on my head is a gift. Whether it is thin or it is thick, I am alive, and I have work to do – wearing a hat or not wearing a hat! Heck yeah! BE ME! Be real. Be authentic. Be grateful! Thank you, Lord! So … let’s do this.

Scolded By My Son – and I’m Grateful.

Joshua 1:9: “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go”. 

This morning’s blog post; I want to share with you.

Yesterday, my 19-year-old son, Klayton, spoke truth to me, and I am humbled that God speaks to us through the means He chooses.

Klayton and I talked about many things, from philosophy to my thinning hair, and I told him how sad I am that it has become so thin since surgery, and that I can no longer take the medications that had been thickening it before surgery. We talked about how stress can be a cause of thinning hair, and I shared the level of stress and anxiety I’ve been in since Labor Day, when Patrick’s health took a sharp decline, and the peritonsillar abscess started. 6 ER visits. Multiple doctors’ appointments. Talk of Sepsis. Doctors refusing to do a tonsillectomy because they surmised it would kill him (he’s 62 and a smoker), but also making us aware that antibiotics would stop working at some point. It felt hopeless. We are now 10 days past the tonsillectomy, which a second opinion doctor assured us would not be a problem, and Patrick is still in pain, though it is lessening. Some days are better than others, but he is healing, and I feel on pins and needles. Have felt on pins and needles just waiting for the bottom to fall out for months now. In this past year, I’ve taken him to the ER (3 times calling an ambulance) 9 times. 6 since September 4th. Klayton listened, and then, he said (and I’m paraphrasing), he didn’t want to come across as scolding me, but he said that anxiety is fear-based. And fear is a lack of trust in God. I’m trying to fix everything myself and not resting in God’s provision. Fear. Anxiety. Bad health. These things come from not trusting God and living in the knowledge that HE will provide for me, for us, come what may. Wow. Just wow. Wisdom from my son. I did not feel scolded; I felt seen. Seen and called out truthfully and lovingly.

Later in the night, close to midnight, Patrick asked Joey and me to come to the table, and he handed Joey the “Jesus Calling” book.  Joey opened it to December 10th, and he read out loud, “Make ME (God) the focal point of your search for security. In your private thoughts, you are still trying to order your world so that it is predictable and feels safe. Not only is this an impossible goal, but it is also counterproductive to spiritual growth. When your private world feels unsteady, and you grip My hand for support, you are living in conscious dependence on Me.

“Instead of yearning for a problem-free life, rejoice that trouble can highlight your awareness of My Presence. In the darkness of adversity, you are able to see more clearly the radiance of My Face. Accept the value of problems in this life, considering them PURE JOY. Remember that you have an eternity of trouble-free living awaiting you in Heaven.”

The book goes on to share Isaiah 41:10 – “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

Psalm 139:10 – “Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”

James 1:2 – “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds.”

We sat and discussed what the passage meant and how we can apply it to our lives, and as I sat there, I kept hearing Klayton’s words in my head, and I found myself grateful to God for His message to me throughout the evening. I even made a little “hmmm” noise as it dawned on me that was precisely what was happening – through Klayton and through the “Jesus Calling” book.

The night’s message did not stop there. Patrick followed me back to our bedroom when I went to bed, then sat in a chair and asked me to sit in the one opposite him. He said, “If you go to bed with something on your mind, it will still be there in the morning. Get it out. What’s going on?”

I ugly cried.

Shared how scared I’ve been, how high my anxiety has been, and we discussed the necessity of reliance upon God in our lives. We are here to be HIS vessels – to show Him to the world, despite our circumstances. Come What May. That JOY comes not from things going the way we want them to, but rather it comes in resting in the knowledge that I belong to God and that HE will use me for His kingdom if I get myself and my need to “control” out of His way. If I continue to try to control things, He will allow me to make a mess of myself and my life, but if I rest in Him, if I trust that He has my problems, and that my task is just to be about my day – looking for opportunities to be of service to others and to be His light in this dark world – He will take care of the hard things.

I’m humbled this morning, and I’m grateful.

Grateful that God can speak to me through my son, through words in a book, through my husband – all saying the same thing. Trust God, Dacia. His ways are not my ways. His ways are not our ways.

So today, my focus will be on serving others as I can, and doing so with a smile, knowing that all else is outside my pay grade.  I will also be grateful for the good things in my life. I will focus on gratitude and service. This is the crux of God’s gift of Joy and a life in AA.

I’m grateful for:

  1. The fact that my 6 bio children know God, some closer than others, but that He is and has been a part of their lives.
  2. That my bio children love each other.
  3. That God has given me non-bio kids to love and cherish as well.
  4. That God put a man in my life who would love me still if I looked like a potato and had no hair.
  5. Worship music that keeps me grounded; I need to listen to it more often.
  6. God’s word, which I make a point to read each morning. Some mornings with more attention than others, but making it a consistency in my life.
  7. Lifelong friends who are more like sisters – who are part of my very being.
  8. Knowing that my sweet momma would be so happy that Patrick and I have Daddy living here in our home with us. Making her proud always filled my heart.
  9. Knowing that God loves me despite me.
  10. Today, I get to make “Grandma Snare’s Sugar Cookies” for my kids and for whoever else God leads me to give cookies to – and each cookie will be made with love.

I’m sharing this because I love you; I’m grateful for you, and I do not want you to spend your life fighting to control all of your circumstances yourself. I want to remind you, as I needed reminded, that if we keep our focus in the right place, and that is being God’s vessel, His hands, His feet, His love, His directness, His light in this dark world, that HE will take care of the rest and give us JOY. Joy that is far beyond happiness, which is fleeting. Joy is a state of being. It is peace knowing that God’s will is higher than all else, and if we remain in His plan for our lives, we will know that Peace That Passes Understanding. Amen.

Hate and Kindness Rambling

Never will I understand the hate that exists in this world. Actually, I can’t say that because I do understand it. That statement comes from a place of naivety inside me, but I know precisely where hate comes from. The devil is alive, and he hates God. He hates all who love God, and he wants to destroy all that God loves. So, the hate that exists in this world is at his stirring. The selfishness of humanity is him in his ‘finest’ work … and I understand, but it baffles me that so many people blindly follow along. I know some choose his ways with intention, and so be it. Go that way and reap the consequences. “Let them.” But those that so blindly follow, who are led foolishly by utter selfishness and allow themselves to hate anyone different from them … that hurts me, confuses me, and bothers me. I want to stand on a mountain top and yell to them all that there is another way to live! It is possible to live in peace with others! That you can hold different perspectives and opinions and still have respect for one another! It is possible not to hate! It is possible to love … It is possible, but only with love that comes from God. God’s love is selfless. It puts others first; it seeks the best for many over self. It is about service and kindness, though firmly standing on principles. Jesus hung out with sinners … not to do what they did, but to show them love and another way to live. He called them to a higher plane of existence, and many who encountered him chose to change. Not all … some didn’t like the love and selflessness that Christ preached because it would cause them to have to give up what they perceived as their ‘control’ and power, and they (the religious leaders of all people) plotted to kill him. He was messing with their ‘thing,’ and they plotted, and they killed him. And the devil thought he had made the ultimate play against God.

Only … the temple veil tore in two, the earth shook, the sky went dark, and three days later, Jesus Christ beat the chains of death and rose from the dead! There are many eyewitness accounts in Scripture and in historical documents. Believe it or don’t. I choose to believe, and because I choose to follow Jesus, I also choose to follow His leading in the New Testament —those to blessed words in red. I started reading to understand in Luke 11 two weeks ago, taking it in manageable chunks, and I’m now in chapter 17. I’ve encountered Jesus in a completely new way. What I know now is that in regard to faith and religion, He did not come to bring peace but to bring division. He came to show hypocrisy for what it was/is, to make it plain. He said to be ready. He said to be watchful. He said not to be the cause of someone else stumbling. He said to be shrewd. He said to be in the present moment. He said to be kind. He said to share the good news of eternal life with God the Father in Heaven, that our time on earth is short, but that heaven is eternal. What we choose here determines where we spend forever. I choose eternity with God the Father, Christ the Son, and the Spirit, who God has placed inside our souls, guiding us daily toward what is good, what is true, what is right, what is lovely, what is self-controlled, what pleases God in the human heart. So, for me to say I’ll never understand the hate that exists in this world is not a true statement. I do understand it, but I don’t like it. I choose not to live that way—in hate and selfishness. I choose to love people despite themselves and despite myself. I will not hate someone for being different from me. I’d rather understand why they’re different and look for opportunities to have productive conversations, to be kind, to be loving, and to be a light for Jesus, so that He can draw more people to His Father. In that, there is much rejoicing in Heaven! I understand the assignment. Be in the moment. Stay in the Word. Pray every day. Be kind. Be principled. Know why I believe what I believe. Be shrewd. Be watchful. Be discerning. Shake the dust off my feet when necessary. Always seek to be pleasing to the Father. Amen.

I intended this to be a piece about why so many perceived Charlie Kirk as being hateful … but I’m not going there fully. He wasn’t. There’s evidence of that. He was principled. He was shrewd. He was kind. He was watchful and discerning. He knew what he believed, and he stood on it, but he, like Christ, also chose to be among the people who were different from him and to have conversations. He never called people who disagreed with him ugly names. He didn’t put them down. He loved opposing opinions and debate. And he was killed for it. This puts us as a nation on dangerous ground. I see it, and it shocks me, though it shouldn’t. That’s that naïve part of me that wants all people to be kind and to be critical thinkers, although I know that is not reality because the devil roams like a roaring lion seeking those he can destroy – and he does so with selfishness and hate.  Some schools are opting not to have Turning Point USA chapters because of the perceived “hate” that many claim it espouses. See, here’s what I know … most who choose to hate something they’ve not truly researched are in Cognitive Dissonance, and there is no point in arguing with them. So, start a Critical Thinking Club; call it something else, and it will be okay. Ah, people. The “Let Them” theory comes into play here, and I know to keep moving forward, shake the dust off my feet, and find those who can participate in true argument, and have those kinds of conversations, where opinions can vary and kindness shared. Where respect reigns and wars can end. Some will find this light. Some will not. And I find myself saying, Maranatha again and again. Come, Lord Jesus.

Self-Control. I Thought I Understood It. I Realize Now, I Did Not. New Perspective.

A new perspective hit me when I listened to this message yesterday, and it is filling my spirit this morning. I keep wiping tears – grateful and humbled. The idea that practicing self-control is an act of service to God blew my mind. I printed it on a piece of paper and hung it in my kitchen this morning. Serving God is self-control. Serving self is NO self-control. I want no part of that … serving and worshipping myself. That hits new today. I’m struck by the fact that my lack of self-control means I am worshipping myself. Serving God does not just mean doing things for others; it means surrendering my desires to Him under His control. The message comes from multiple Scriptures, but centers in Galatians 5.

One of my dear friends listened to the message this morning, and she said what struck her is that “when you seek pleasures rather than living in God‘s word, you are saying God is not enough to fulfill you.” And also, she said, “True freedom is not a license to do as you please but rather is a liberty to do as we ought to do.” Another friend said, “I loved his analogy about the sirens and the harp and that the song of Christ is louder and greater than anything else. So powerful. “

If you have 46 minutes available today, please take a moment to listen to this message and consider the ideas it presents. Pastor Begg also discusses addiction in this message, which is reflective of steps 3, 6, and 7.

The Edutainer in Heaven

If money didn’t matter, I would still do precisely what I do now for a living. That is my first response to the ‘daily prompt,’ and it is sincere. I love what I do. Being a professor who facilitates student engagement and learning of communication skills through writing techniques, exploring creativity, and promoting critical thinking is a dream come true. I’m one blessed girl, and for as long as God has me doing this thing, I will do it to the utmost of my ability.

Now, while I do love being a professor, I confess that I have daydreams of living in the mountains – in a cabin tucked away in the woods. There must be a cedar wraparound deck that overlooks a clear mountain lake, lined with pine trees and surrounded by snow-capped mountains. The occasional fish should burst through the water and send ripples through still, quiet waters. The birds will soar overhead and tuck themselves into trees, where they nurture their young and sing their sweet songs, and I’ll guess at their conversations as they sing back and forth to one another across treetops. On my deck, I will sit in a comfy reclined chair, taking deep breaths, and allowing the fresh air, the scenery, the songs to fill every one of my senses. A table will be on my right, and there will sit a hot cup of peppermint mocha latte. My MacBook will be nestled in my lap, and I will write. I will write novels. I will write short stories. I will write poems. I will write how-to books. I will write songs. My dog will recline happily near the base of my chair, and we will pass the day away with no spoken words, only the stories in my soul making their way through my fingers and onto the page. The sound of a drill will break the silence from time to time, and I will smile, knowing my husband is nearby and doing what he loves as well. Building, creating, living every moment. We two, in the mountains, doing what we love. Ahhhh.

The daily prompt wants three possibilities – and I can do that. I also want to be a motivational speaker. What fun would that be?!?! For me? A lot of fun. To get to travel and do what I already do in the classroom, but for companies and organizations? Wow, are you kidding me? Heck yeah. And then, I could write a book or five about those subjects on which I love to motivate people! Like career education and the fact that everyone can be a writer! I could travel and do speaking engagements on the subjects I love, but also about the books that I’ve written … and I could also have that mountain cabin because this girl needs some downtime here and there. On personality tests, I’m 53% extroverted and, well, 47% introverted, so I’m middle of the road, and some days, I need quiet to recharge. Other days, I need a crowd of people to talk to. A microphone and a crowd and a lot of space because I am active in front of a group of people. That sounds like a heck ton of fun. Yes, please. Something happens to me when I’m in front of a crowd. I get funny, and my brain clears. It’s wild. One-on-one, I tend to fumble and cannot get my words out, but put me in front of a roomful of people, and I come alive. Absolutely alive. An ‘edutainer’ is what I like to call myself and what I do.

I love being a professor.

I love writing.

I love talking about what I’m passionate about.

Combining all of those things sounds like heaven.

September Can Dip. October, Hurry. Two Hospital Stays in One Month are Plenty – Too Much.

The month of September, even though it is my beloved birthday month, can go ahead and dip into October; Patrick is on stay 2 in the hospital, and we are over September. No offense to September, it’s not September’s fault. October, though, we’d like a smooth sail. Thank you in advance.

A peri-tonsillar abscess decided to take up residence between Patrick’s left tonsil and his jawbone. Who knows how long it was there before reaching volcano stage. On September 1, he started to talk about pain in his throat, couldn’t get up, fevers began that broke and left him needing to be mopped with towels, and then, the fevers began again. COVID was starting to go around, as was a nasty strain of strep throat, so we thought rest would do the trick. On September 3, Patrick still could not get out of bed; he could not swallow, he was sopping wet from fever-sweat, weak, dehydrated, and he said words he never says, “I need to go to the hospital.”

We headed to St. Francis South because it’s not as busy as St. Francis Main. During triage/in-take, the nurse saw immediately that his sore throat was not strep or COVID but that it was a large abscess near his left tonsil. She set the ball in motion quickly. He was placed in an ER room, tests were run, including a CT scan of his throat and bloodwork. The doctor reviewed these and took a look in Patrick’s throat; he straight up told us that at St. Francis South, they are not equipped to handle Patrick’s specific situation and that he would have to be moved by EMSA to St. Francis Main. The ambulance took him there, and I drove in the car to meet him there. Long story short, an ENT came, took a look, and immediately set about draining the abscess, which is a grueling process involving numbing spray, long needles, draining, and incisions all while the patient, Patrick, is awake, which he was – and he felt it all. But, he, in true Patrick fashion, took it without a whimper or a flinch. He was put on a strong antibiotic, and on the 5th of September, the hospital let him go home.

For 10 days, Patrick faithfully took his antibiotics. The pain in his throat lessened somewhat, but swallowing food remained painful.

On day 2 post-antibiotics, Patrick’s throat swelled again, and the pain worsened. We went to the ENT’s office, and he took a look, saying that some days are like that – sometimes it’s worse, sometimes it’s better, and that the healing was going to take a while. We left glad to know that he was okay – and that it was ‘normal’ to feel how he was feeling; it was healing. We thought. That was September 18th. On the 19th, he progressively felt worse throughout the day, but he didn’t say much about it. I could tell something was off. We had smoked ribeye for dinner, and Patrick had a hard time swallowing it. That was different from the previous hard-to-swallow days.

Through the night, he did not sleep.

He tried to doze, but his neck swelled more, and the pain grew in intensity.

When he got up around 2:00 p.m., he came into the dining room, soaking wet again, and he said, “I think I need to go to the hospital.” In under 5 minutes, we were in the car headed back to St. Francis South. Hoping that we’d be told it was healing, all was well, here’s some more antibiotics, but that was not what happened.

The doctor took a look in Patrick’s throat and said, “It’s back.”

Worse than it was the first time. It had spread.

Two days before, the ENT, in his office, had said it was getting better, and now it’s worse than it was on September 3rd. They loaded Patrick into an ambulance again and sent him to St. Francis Main. I followed, as did a large number of our family members. Shout out to Joey, Carolynn, Madison, Zackery, Maureen, Veronica, Joe, Nana, Harley, Josh, Max, and my Daddy. They all gathered in the lower level of the Emergency Room waiting area, and Joey and I went back with Patrick who was kept in Trauma C. The large room held large lights and surgery tools. Our concern levels rose at his being placed in the space where they do surgery in the ER. Now, we expected they were going to open his neck and dig out the infection, which had, at the beginning of the month, been told to us was a potential option. Joey and I both held Patrick’s hands, and he tried to sleep. He was going on hours with no sleep, no food, nothing to drink, and he was in excruciating pain. After 40, minutes we were told that a regular room was ready for him, and that he was going to be moved there, that the ENT would get with him either in the morning or on Monday, they didn’t know which. Okay, at least he was getting antibiotics.

Joey went with him as the techs moved Patrick to his regular hospital room.

I moved the car.

The family scattered – some walking through the hospital to Patrick’s room, some of us moving vehicles to be closer to the main entrance. We all reconvened on Patrick’s floor. Carolynn and I went in, and the ENT was there, ready to do the draining! So fast! And wham-bam, she numbed him, gave him a shot, and began draining the abscess and its fingers, which were creeping down into Patrick’s neck. She worked thoroughly, making incisions into the fingers and spreading them wide to ensure they would also drain. Patrick was in pain the entire time, but he told her to keep going, to get it done, and he bore it like a beast. He amazes me.

After she was finished, he felt better and wanted coffee and food. The family all crowded into the room, and we had a nice time of fellowship. Once everyone disbanded, I walked to one of the several Starbucks in this massive place and purchased some chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. The nurse got Patrick some coffee. He ate and drank it all. This was good news! We were pleased, and we hoped for some rest. That did not happen. Loud beeps. Vitals checks. Blood draws. The changing of antibiotics. The night passed slowly, and with both of us awake, dozing occasionally – sometimes hot, sometimes cold, always interrupted. But such is a night in the hospital.

This morning, we wondered whether we would see the ENT as she had said she and her attending doctor would be here. It’s a Sunday, though, so we weren’t sure. We thought maybe they’d wait until Monday. I went home to change and pack an overnight bag, which contains a much softer pillow than any this hospital has to offer, as well as some sparkling water. I grabbed my medicine and a change of clothes for both of us because I know my husband, and he would not want to stay in the hospital any longer than necessary … in his mind regarding what’s necessary. I also made my own cappuccino at home and brought it in an insulated cup; these Starbucks in the hospital will drain your bank account. Patrick’s coffee comes from the floor we are on, and the nurses keep it coming.

The ENT arrived just as she said she would, and right on time. Her attending physician was with her, and they set to work looking in Patrick’s throat at the work she’d done yesterday evening. The doctor said she had done good work, but he saw three pockets of infection that were still there. He gave Patrick the option of just allowing antibiotics to try and get the infection that was in those pockets, or to do one more draining right then and there to get as much as possible dealt with on the spot. My husband said, “Let’s do it.” And the doctor asked if he was a veteran. I proudly said, “Yes. He was in the Coast Guard.” The doctor said his grandfather had been in the Coast Guard. They set to work in Patrick’s throat, and my husband, being the beast he is, bore it all without complaint, though there were tears in his eyes. I saw that he was in pain, but he took every bit of it, as he says, “like a man.”

The doctor cut into the pockets and spread them, allowing them to drain.

Patrick spit up lots of fluids, which I won’t describe.

The doctor told us that Patrick then had two options. One was to go home today and be on oral antibiotics or to stay another day on IV antibiotics, which are stronger. Patrick asked which one he would choose. The doctor said to stay one more day, and he laid out a good case for why. Patrick agreed to his reasoning, and thus, we are here until tomorrow.  The doctor also said that after we get home and the antibiotics they ordered for Patrick to take at home run their course, if the infection returns, then it will be tonsillectomy time. He was direct and told Patrick that at his age, a tonsillectomy is not what it is for a 6 or 7-year-old. They bounce back quickly; a 62-year-old will not. He said it will be a very painful recovery, but the infections are coming from the tonsils, and removing them will stop their recurrence. We are hopeful that the antibiotics and the drainage of the past two days will alleviate the need for a tonsillectomy, but we do know that it is an option in the future if needed.

The local that they’d put into the area for today’s draining has worn off now, and Patrick is in immense pain, but he’s trying to sleep, and he doesn’t want painkillers if he can keep from taking them. Again, he amazes me. His 38 years of sobriety are something he refuses to risk by taking substances into his body. I’d be like, “Hydrocodone, please.” He doesn’t want to tell the nurse just yet about the pain because he’s sure it’s from the basically-what-was-surgery done in the throat earlier this morning, and the local anesthesia is wearing off. I’m sure he’s correct as well, but she could give him something for the pain.

Ah, this man.

He will push through the pain, and he is. He finally found a somewhat comfortable position, and  I’m sitting here listening to him snore now. Except the beeping just went off, indicating that the antibiotic is out, and it woke him up.

Sleep is not something that happens in a hospital. Sigh.

September, we are tired. You still have my birthday in store for us, and turning 53 seems whack  – so, that, we can pass quietly at home in our jammies, curled up under blankets and grateful for more time together and October’s imminent arrival. May it bring cool weather, beautiful sunsets, breathtaking leaves, and lovely evenings of conversation on the front porch.

Brands and Boots I Identify With

Giving an answer to what brands I identify with is easy. Those that flash to mind are Ariat, Dan Post, Shyanne, and J. B. Dillon. These are bootmakers, and I love boots. Western boots, not fancy, swanky dress boots. No, I wear Western, cowboy, and cowgirl boots. Whatever you want to call them. Personally, I just call them boots, and I have 37 pairs. Not bragging; I realize that is a bit extreme. Facts are facts, though, and I do indeed have 37 pairs of boots. Actually, I brought home 2 more pairs yesterday after shopping with two of my dearest friends, who each bought me a pair of boots for my upcoming birthday with their BOGO discounts at a shoe store. Woot! My husband bought me a beautiful pair of Ariat boots for my upcoming birthday as well, but I have not worn them yet. They’re on a shelf smiling at me each time I pass them, and my feet cannot wait to slip inside them on my birthday.

Now that I think of it, and I’m not a mathematician, I may have 39 pairs of boots; I’m going to have to catalog them. First-world problems here. Not sorry, though. I love them. We all, well, maybe not everyone, but I’m going to say it anyway… we all collect something. For me, it’s boots. I have a variety of colors and styles, different toes and heights of shafts and heels. Every evening, I select my clothes for the next day and stand in my room, deciding which pair of boots to wear with my chosen outfit. Sometimes, there’s a pair of boots I really want to wear, and I plan my outfit around them. I love it. My husband spoils me … he has just as many cowboy hats as I have boots. Our house looks like you’ve entered Boot Barn because hats hang all around, and we have shelving for boots as decorations when they’re not being worn. I never thought I could have a closet that decorates my home – but here I am living that boot life. It is good.

There are other brands of boots like Circle G, Lucchese, Tony Lama, Justin, Laredo, Durango, Corral, Free People, Rank 45, Miranda Lambert, Twisted X, etc. – and they’re all fine and dandy for other folks, but not for this girl’s feet. I’ve tried. I worked at Book Barn when it was Drysdales and in the boot department. You better believe that when we were slow, I tried on boots. I found what fit, and I haven’t looked back. I did try to love Corral because they’re so dad gum pretty, but my feet do not love Corral. They’re made for looks, not comfort. Ariat, though … girl. Those are like walking on clouds. Ahhhhhh.

I highly recommend that if you haven’t tried wearing boots, get a pair. Give them a try, but make sure to start with one of my favorite brands first – specifically Ariat. You’re welcome. 🙂

Vatterott College Taught Me to Work Harder Than You

When I hear folks who work in a community college environment or a state college/university environment complain about their workloads, I disingenuously smile; internally, I roll my eyes and think they’d have never survived at Vatterott College, a high-stress, high-stakes environment.

Big boy pants, people.

At Vatterott, we were expected, as faculty, to retain our students. Every one of them. Any student who missed class had to be called, messaged, and recorded in our data system until an actual connection with the student was established. All communications (including attempts to contact and actual contact with the student) were to be documented in CampusVue for all staff and administrators to access. If you did not contact each missing student (and in our general education classes, we had 30 students per class; most terms I taught 7 classes, giving me 210 students every 10 weeks), your position at the school became endangered. If too many students dropped your classes, your position at the school was jeopardized. Retain. Retain. Retain. Talk them into returning. Keep them in the seats. Make them stay for 4 1/2 hours each day and don’t sit down while you’re teaching. No calling 911. (One day, one of my students threatened to shoot the place up, and it was determined, after he calmed down, that he would remain in the classroom … I put my foot down on that one and said, No. I took a risk even after being told there would be consequences if I canceled my class that day. I canceled the class. Student safety was worth it.) We were to note all interactions with all students in the system. High expectations. Fear of losing your job. Negative critiques. Walking on eggshells around corporate-level employees. Always knowing you’re being watched. Convincing students who are just trying to stay out of jail that they can and are students and can achieve – partly so you can keep your job by keeping them in the classroom, but also because you grow to care about the students who have complicated, unbelievably hard lives and drama in their lives. I learned how to connect, engage, and reach students in that environment. I believe that those of us who worked there developed a trauma bond with our students and with one another. Those of us who stayed, anyway.

I’m a survivor. I navigated 8 years and 2 months at Vatterott, collecting various positions (instructor, program director, member of the interview committee, registrar, retention officer, and subject matter expert) and recognitions (2013’s Most Innovative Instructor) until Vatterott closed its doors forever on December 17, 2018, at 4:00 p.m. I’ll never forget going home at 4:00 that day, sitting on my couch, and staring at the Christmas tree. What now?

Had it not died that day, I’m sure I’d still be in the Vatterott family; I grew to love it – probably that trauma bonding. I’m privileged to know so many wonderful people from those days. Bobby, Sam, Colleen, Brandi, Katie, Marcy, Shane, Ric, Craig, Scott, Virilyaih, Cheryl, Rhonda, Patrick, Maria, Charles, Al, Keegan, Cody, Melanie, Gonz, Rich, Jessie, Suzanne, Julie, Juan, John, Michelle, Velma, Velma, Celeste, Melanie, Barbara, Beth, Casey, Veronica, Brian, John, John, Rich, Jeff, etc. I’m smiling as memories flood my mind as I just write their names down. Strong people. Tough environment. #survivors #grateful #vatterottcollege

The opportunities since those years have been a blessing of ease; it is normal to hear me say that people who complain about their workloads should be required to spend a minimum of 2 years in a trade school environment. Then, they can come back and hit the ground running with gratitude for environments/schools/campuses that give autonomy and do not have the red-tape expectations that for-profit education places on their employees/teachers. Perspective is essential. Sometimes I think that colleagues who have only worked in a particular type of educational bubble don’t realize how blessed they are, how free they are, and, really, how spoiled they are. Me? Puh-lease. I know exactly what I have now and how blessed I am, and I could not be more thrilled to be an Assistant Professor of English at Tulsa Community College. It is a beautiful school with a beautiful mission, and I’m two feet in – Community Unites Us!

Two of my former Vatterott coworkers and I get together from time to time, and we laugh about how ‘easy’ our current positions are in comparison to what life was like before. We swap stories of the types of complaints we encounter in workplaces since our time at Vatterott and try to imagine those complaining folks working in the environment that the three of us survived—and not only survived, but thrived in. We know that the majority of these complaining individuals would not have lasted long in those roles we held and grew in. We are strong women, tough women, who can handle adversity and rise above it, who will work harder than most – we have proven this. And speaking of strong women, sometimes I think about reaching out to our former CEO and saying, “Thank you for being tough on us all.” Actually, the language I joked that I’d use was, “Thank you for being a tyrant.” I know, though, she was doing what she believed was best for the entire Vatterott system, and I’m beyond grateful for the lessons I learned there. I am the employee and the professor I am today because of my time at Vatterott College.

Some people say they’ve been to the school of hard knocks. Others attend Universities. Some choose state colleges or private schools when they desire higher education. Me? I attended a private Christian college for my bachelor’s degree, then a private University for my second bachelor’s degree and my master’s degree. But the school that taught me the most was the first school that took me in as an instructor, Vatterott College. I am grateful for a demanding work environment and a CEO with high expectations. I think everyone should have at least one experience in a place like that.

A Vatterott reunion would be ‘tops.’ Does anyone say ‘tops’ anymore? Probably not. A Vatterott reunion would be welcome. Good to have some trauma-bonded hugs. Perhaps one day.