My Fibromyalgia Journey

     In recognition of Fibromyalgia Awareness Day (tomorrow), I want to share with you my fibromyalgia story. It's on the long side, but my journey has been a long and arduous one, so I think that's rather fitting.

     I started noticing there was something wrong with me the spring of my senior year of high school; I was 17.  The funny thing about having something wrong with your body is that for the most part, you think it’s normal.  For instance, I’m pretty sure that my knees have always hurt when I run, even back in elementary school.  I thought that’s why people didn’t like to run or exercise, and that was the pain they referred to with the phrase, “no pain, no gain”.  In my senior year, I took a pilates class at the community college, and found myself in pain with certain positions that others seemed able to do without difficulty.  I had noticed for a long while that it was weird that I could crack my back, hips, shoulders, fingers, wrists, ankles…  I brought it up to my primary doctor, who ran some blood tests and found nothing unusual.  She recommended I see an internal medicine specialist. 

     High school graduation came upon me quickly, and I didn’t see the next doctor as my life moved on and I started college.  In my freshman year, I went to see a chiropractor.  I felt better after adjustments and the wonderful experience of a heating pad and massage table combined, but the relief didn’t last long.  My pain had gotten bad enough I was taking ibuprofen (Advil) every four hours, all day, every day.  My chiropractor recommended I get custom orthotics (shoe insoles), and I found them to be very helpful, acting as shock absorbers and correcting a mild congenital misalignment.  I continued to see the chiropractor and later, the massage therapist, for as many visits as my insurance would allow.  I thought that, while the visits relieved some pain, I still had no answer for what was causing these issues.      

      So, in my sophomore year, I saw the internal medicine specialist.  She took x-rays of my joints to check for inflammation and did another blood test to rule out rheumatoid arthritis and lupus, finding nothing.  She told me to see a rheumatologist.  The first time the rheumatologist saw me, he said, “I know what you have.”  He told me I had benign hypermobility syndrome, which made all my ligaments too lax to do their job properly, leading to all the joint popping.  I was thrilled to have some kind of answer, but not satisfied, because didn’t “benign” mean I shouldn’t be having so much pain?  After some research, I agreed with the diagnosis, but didn’t think that was all there was to it. 

     Over the course of that year, I saw a neurologist to check out my balance and proprioception [the awareness your body has of itself in space – mine sucks] issues, and he couldn’t determine anything neurologically wrong with me.  Then, finally, a breakthrough!

     In the fall of my junior year, I saw a pain management specialist, who listened to my story and poked at different parts of me (tender points), and told me, “I think you have fibromyalgia”.  He gave me some samples of Lyrica to try, and I skeptically took them home.   See, I had tried various methods of pain management, to no avail.  I had ruled out Tylenol, Aleve, Celebrex and another more unusual drug, (both meant for osteoarthritis) and decided to stick to my Advil.  I had also tried Flexeril and Robaxin (muscle relaxers) to help my muscles relax when I slept.  Being in the middle of my first semester of nursing school and the start of a new relationship, I took awhile to research what the heck ‘fibromyalgia’ was and whether or not I thought it fit.  When I did, I felt like I was reading about my life.  Things jumped out at me, like “pain with excessive activity, and pain from lack of activity” and commonly related sleeping problems, balance issues, forgetfulness, and fatigue.  I agreed with my doctor that I had fibromyalgia.  As an aside, I do probably also have benign hypermobility syndrome, but that only describes my unusual “double-jointedness”.

     The weekend I started taking Lyrica, my life changed.  It started working immediately (with a little dizziness and a very fun episode of euphoria the first day) and I went from taking a total of six or eight pills a day to just two.  Lyrica worked better than ibuprofen, dealing with the pain at a deeper level, not just taking the edge off.  I was ecstatic to have a medicine that really worked.  I was also very glad to no longer take a medicine that was slowly damaging my stomach and intestines; I had already visited the ER once with severe stomach pain (gastritis) because of ibuprofen.

   The diagnosis itself was less exciting, and more depressing.  I had known there was something wrong with me, and that it probably wouldn’t just go away, but once diagnosed, I hit me how permanent it was.  Don’t get me wrong, I was happy to have an answer, to have a name for the condition that had felt as if it was all in my head, and to suddenly have access to information and online communities of people who dealt with the daily pain, fatigue, and ‘fibro fog’ just like me.  Yet, I struggled, realizing I had truly lost my dream for a “normal” life.  I grieved for the things I wouldn’t be able to do, and those that would be more difficult.  One example: I have always loved the idea of becoming a mom, including the whole pregnancy process.  With fibromyalgia, I know that pregnancy will likely be much harder on me than I ever pictured; if nothing else, I can’t take Lyrica while pregnant.  It felt to me as if fibromyalgia had ‘ruined’ parts of my future, and continued to screw up my present.  I started counseling through my school, partly to deal with this whole process. 

     With counseling and the support of my family, excellent friends, and my incredibly understanding then-boyfriend Andrew, I made progress.  I was encouraged when I found an online community of fellow fibro sufferers, and when I visited a local support group.  I still deal with some of the grieving process today, being frustrated when something is harder because of fibromyalgia, or feeling angry that I have to deal with pain all the time, and more frequently, wishing I could have a day off from my symptoms.  These feelings will probably always be around in some form, but they are less frequent now than several years ago, and will likely continue that way. 

     As far as my physical health, I learned before I knew I had fibromyalgia that I could feel better with more sleep and a consistent sleep schedule, regular, low impact exercise, eating a balanced and nutritious diet, and reducing my stress level.  The difficulty in college was actually doing any of those things.  Nursing school certainly didn’t help with the sleeping or the stress.  Since I graduated last May, I’ve tried to do better with all of them.  Before I moved to Mississippi and started working here, I had to deal with the stress of working three part-time jobs, applying for nursing jobs, and planning a wedding and cross-country move.   These days, I’m doing much better.  I protect my sleep more vigilantly now that I have to do 12-hour shifts, sometimes five days in a row, and I’m trying to consistently do pilates or swim.  My stress level can be higher at work, but the rest of the time it’s far lower than it was three months ago.

     One of the most frustrating parts of this journey with fibromyalgia has been dealing with my medical insurance.  I have been and still am covered through my dad’s work, which means I have no say in which insurance I have.  For the last year, however, I’ve been with Kaiser Permanente.  Even before I was with Kaiser, it was frustrating to deal with everything in the medical field – I visited ten doctors in about eight years, explaining my situation countless times, and getting a wide variety of responses.  One of the doctors I’ve seen through Kaiser, upon hearing of my diagnosis, told me with a skeptical look, “but you’re so young!”, because most people who have fibromyalgia are typically women in their 40’s.  I could deal well enough with doctors who don’t believe me, though; I really don’t care, because I know I have fibromyalgia.  What’s worse is that Kaiser has refused to pay for Lyrica because it’s not part of their formulary of drugs (Read: because it’s expensive, and they’d rather put you on something cheaper, regardless of how well it works).  So, for over a year now, I have struggled to pay for my medicine because it costs me $180 for a 30-day supply. Later this month, I will be switching as soon as I can to the insurance offered through my new job, which covers Lyrica to some extent.

    So that’s how I found out what was wrong with me, and what I’m doing about it now.  What hasn’t been included in this story so far is the positive things that have come from fibromyalgia.  It’s hard for some to understand why I would have any good things to list, but fibromyalgia, like any challenge in life, has come with its own lessons.  I have grown in my faith in God and my reliance on Him for strength, endurance, and patience.  I have had to learn to trust in His goodness and plan for my life, and that has been a wonderful thing.  I have become more understanding of my patients who are in pain, and who deal with chronic illness, and that has made me a better nurse.  I have seen and have become more appreciative of how incredible my friends are, and have been blessed to have found a man who knows better than anyone how to help and support me in my pain.  I have learned more about what is important in life, and have had to rearrange my priorities.  Through fibromyalgia, I have become a stronger person, and my character has been shaped for the better.  As crazy as it may sound, I have said before that, although I would like a day off from fibromyalgia at times, I would not ask God to take this away from me until I have learned all I can from it.  I know that I would not be who I am today if I had not gone through this, and I believe that I can become still better.

Life in Mississippi, through the eyes of a transplant from California

I could write a whole series of posts on things I’ve noticed that are different here in the Delta, but here are a few:

Oh, the humidity! It is April, and 74 degrees outside. In California, this would be a lovely day.  Less so here, where it is also 71% humidity.  Andrew’s going to have to live in the pool in the summer.

Our water is brown, even after going through the Brita.   Apparently, there are so many cypress trees around with roots in water, they have stained the water brown.  I’ve been told it’s been tested for safety over and over and it passes every time, it’s just still brown.

People acknowledge each other in passing, and say “hi”, “good morning”, “how you doin’?”, or simply nod (it’s a specific kind of nod, too).

Employees of Walmart are occasionally friendly and helpful.

Kroger is the only grocery store.

If people are talking about a meal that involves meat, chances are it is either barbecued or fried.

There’s a bank, a money-order/check-cashing place, nail salon, and photo studio in the Walmart Supercenter.  You can tell it’s Friday because there is always a line of people at the check-cashing place.

(Maybe this is true elsewhere too, but I first saw it here.) About half the mannekins at JC Penney are “plus-size”.

I don’t think we ever really have patients who don’t have diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, or some combination thereof.  I’ve also seen several patients in the two months I’ve been here who are having open heart surgery (CABG) and are in their 40’s, early 50’s.

There are far more birds around (or maybe it’s partly that I can hear them chirping and singing more with less traffic noise?).

People (my age!) have never heard of Groupon.

The traffic lights are all on a schedule, none of them are triggered.  This also means that what time I get to work varies, sometimes significantly, because of how I hit the lights.

Jackson is a little over 2 hours away from Greenville.  San Diego is usually about 2 hours from Orange County.  The difference?  Driving to Jackson consistently takes about 2 hours and 15 minutes, and you’re moving the whole time!  Also, there are highways, but no real freeways til you’re basically on the outskirts of Jackson.

A Dictionary of the Delta

     I hope everyone understands that I write this post for the amusement of my friends, both in California who will see these as strange or different, like I did, and for my new friends here, who can feel free to laugh at the basic, common things I didn’t know or understand at first.  This is in no way meant to offend anyone, nor do I claim to be an expert (clearly) on the language or culture of the Delta.

“Nabs”
As in: “I have some nabs in the car if I get hungry.”
     My theory is that this word is derived from “Nabisco” because nabs refers to sandwich crackers, like the Ritz-&-peanut-butter kind, or the cheese-and-cheese-crackers kind, etc.

“Tee-tee”
As in: “I really have to tee-tee!”
This is the phrase used where some might say “pee”.

“Boo-boo”
As in: “I had a boo-boo today.”
     My patient told me this, and I started trying to ask her what kind of accident she had had or mistake she’d make, but that’s not it.  It’s also not the children’s “owie” phrase, though I’m not sure if kids say that here too.  This is a phrase meaning bowel movement.

“Take me a bath”
As in: “I’m gonna take me a bath, and be back here at 4.”
      An easy one to figure out, this phrase means to bathe, though I’m fairly certain most people (including the person quoted) shower, rather than take a bath. Go figure.

“Route 44 Sweet Tea”
As in: “…then she found out how many calories are in a Route 44 Sweet Tea…”
      When I asked what this meant, I got two dropped jaws and silence.  Sonic, the drive-in restaurant, is very popular here, and fairly rare (though heavily advertised) where I used to live, so I didn’t know that this just means a 44-oz sweet tea from Sonic.

“Use it”
As in: “I want to use it before we go.”
I asked, “Use what?”.  This phrase just means to use the restroom.

“Ma’am?” / “Sir?”
     In addition to being used to get a person’s attention, this is used as a way of saying, “What?” or “Excuse me?” if you don’t hear someone, only it confused me in the first weeks I was here because it is often spoken as nearly a statement, not a question.

“Snowball”
     Although I hear that this term is more common in other parts of the south, like Louisiana, some people in the Delta use it too.  This is what many people know as a snow cone (they’re quite popular here).

Repost: Mississippi, Here I Come!

     This post is a re-post, written in January 2012, from a blog I contribute to, a way to keep in touch with my former classmates. I want to make my blog more about things happening in my life as well as thoughts and ponderings, so here is a bridge.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
     So I think most of you have heard by now via Facebook that I got a job! I wanted to write a post to update you, though, to give you guys the full story.
     As you know from my previous post back in September, I have been applying to jobs and was turned down by the military. I pretty much just applied everywhere, barely noticing where I was applying except to keep track of how many apps I was putting in. I found that helped me feel productive while I was getting nothing back but rejection emails.
     In November, I got a phone call from a hospital in Greenville, Mississippi. At that point, the positive responses I had had were an in-person interview with CHOC and two phone interviews with other out of state hospitals. All of them had said no. This hospital, Delta Regional Medical Center, wanted me to come out for an interview. In the first conversation, the concern was raised that I was not from the rural South, and might come out to start a job and then leave after less than a year. (They have had problems with losing new grads to bigger cities after 3-6 months.) I was hesitant to spend the money to go out there, but I had few options and couldn't be picky.

     I planned a trip for the first week of December, and basically hoped for ANYONE else to offer me a job so I wouldn't have to go on my trip. I was so not interested in moving to a small town in Mississippi if I had the choice to be... well, nearly anywhere else. It didn't happen, so I left for my trip, anxious but trying to see all the positives about Greenville.

     When I got there, I felt overwhelmingly sad. This is a community that has been hit hard by the recession, with businesses closed on nearly every block and an unemployment rate of 13.5%, significantly higher than national average. That day, I visited apartments and stumbled upon a small nature preserve. I sat there and prayed and processed and it basically hit me, "Maybe this is why I have my public health nursing certification". I still felt sad, but almost instantly passionate about making a difference in this community, and ready to pour into it everything I learned from our community health semester. That night, I talked to Andrew [my husband] and he was right on the same page with me, ready to go for this adventure if that was what God had for us, seeing it as a mission field.

     The next day, I interviewed with the director of Med-Surg, the director of ICU, and the CNO (no pressure!). They all went well and I was amazed at how God gave me such a calm where before had been so much anxiety. I flew home that night and the next day I got a phone call. Not only did they offer me a job, but both departments had given good feedback so they let me choose! I chose the ICU. They have been very understanding about the license transfer process and me getting married, so they are letting me start after the wedding, and didn't even tie me to a specific start date!

     So here we are, just over a month from my wedding, and a move across country only 2 days after that. (Literally, we're getting married on Saturday and leaving Monday! Aah!) Andrew is amazingly supportive, just wants me to get this experience even though his job prospects there are limited and grad school options nonexistent. Since we should be able to do fine on my salary alone (Thank the Lord for lower cost of living! Also, Andrew has NO school debt, incredibly.), he is going to be looking for internship or volunteer opportunities related to his field, but really just planning to volunteer wherever there are needs, full-time.

     We are getting very excited about this new adventure, and I'm thrilled to finally have a job, and in the ICU at that! I'm glad to be just three hours from Clara and Luis as well as Cory and Joe. I am applying to a federal loan repayment program because Delta Regional meets the requirements, so please pray for me to get accepted as I could have 60% of my loans paid for a 2-year commitment! Oh, and I will most definitely have a Southern accent in about 2 days since I started to pick it up while I was there for not even 36 hours!

So that's the long version of what's new in my life.
Blessings,
Jacy

A Certain Uncertainty

     Well, it's been longer than I thought! Here is my newest, long overdue, next post:"The only certain things in life are death and taxes."

     Tax Day is April 15. Death, however, doesn't set a date. We never know when death will come, and we never know how much time we have to enjoy our lives as they are. This reality has been brought home to me in recent months due to two situations, as follows.I have had a client, in her 80's, through my caregiving agency, we'll call her Edith. I started working with her last summer after she was given a terminal cancer diagnosis and was in pretty bad shape. Her doctors gave her six months to live, so she began preparing for her death. She was on hospice care, she addressed all her assets, she said goodbyes to family and friends, and waited to die. Edith expressed feelings of frustration and helplessness to me, hating her pain and limitations, and wishing she knew when death would come. Through the consistent care of our agency's caregivers and hospice, I saw Edith improve. She started feeling better, doing more, and her spirits were up. By Christmas, she was going off oxygen support and even out of the house. Still, we thought she was dying inside, her cancer silently (though, wonderfully, painlessly) undermining her outer picture of health. Then, in February, that changed. I worked with Edith one day, helping her get ready and go to a doctor's appointment. She walked out of the exam room with a smile on her face and excitement in her voice - remission. That one word changed all of our perspectives. Now, Edith wasn't dying, we could practically count on her living to 100! She was cured, and immediately started planning her next vacation. Certainly, she was reasonable in recognizing her current physical limitations; after being home-bound for so long she has lost strength, but she told me how her whole outlook had changed. She described a new appreciation for small beauties and joys in life, and renewed interest in making every day count.  Her experience with death made her grateful for life.

     For me, this experience with death, expected within a certain time-frame and then still uncertain, brought me to understand how little we humans actually know and the complete lack of control we have over death. Even when our respected experts predict impending death, we can be so very wrong.

     The other situation that has brought the subject death to the forefront of my mind is the recent and unexpected passing of my boyfriend's grandfather. Up until three weeks ago, Mr. Carlson was a very independent, functional, and apparently healthy 87-year-old. Longevity is in their family, so no one thought much of the fact that he was fast approaching ninety. I had the opportunity to do a nursing school project with him and his wife last fall, and was blessed to spend several weeks getting to know them and hearing the story of their lives. Personally, I have lost several grandfathers, so I had, in a way, adopted them as my grandparents in my heart. In a moment, everything changed. One minute, he was attending a church function, and the next, he suddenly collapsed and he and his family were catapulted into the stress and emotional rollercoaster of the ICU. During the next week, he deteriorated and recovered, up and down; he coded and was intubated, he was extubated and then rallied. He went home on hospice, cheerful and chatting, and then he went downhill for the last time and went home to heaven, less than a week after the start of his health problems.

     His life was active, full, and lived to its best. In our conversations during my interview project, he expressed a desire to avoid the troubles and severe limitations of 'old age', to live as he was, and then die when it was his time, preferably painlessly and quickly. He expressed a calmness about death, because to him death meant going home to the Lord. For this reason, I am so glad he died the way he did, as hard as it is for his family, and as much as he will be missed.
     This experience made reality come crashing in: we never know when it's our time to go, and we never know how much time we have.

     It's been incredible to have these two situations bring death, life, and my own mortality into sharp focus. I am reminded to be grateful for every day, taking in the beauty of each moment and each stage of life. I am reminded to not take any of my loved ones for granted, to spend time with them because it is precious, and they will not always be around. Most importantly, I am reminded to never expect my life to be a certain length as if I am entitled to it, and to accept each day as the gift of life from God that it is.

My Parent, My Friend

     For this second installment in my parenting series, I’d like to expand on the partnership role I mentioned in my last post.

     At this point in my life, I’ve passed a good portion of that difficult transition stage. Thankfully, I’m no longer a teenager, overwrought with emotions, hormones, and other things I didn’t understand. Yet, I live with my parents for some of the year, and I’m still under their authority. The difficulty now is determining how much I’m under their authority, and how much I can have them next to me in an advisory role.

     We still argue, because there are times when my parents want more control than I’d like to give them, times when I want to tell them to leave me alone and let me do it my way. For the most part, however, I consider my parents my friends. They are my advisors in life decisions, my encouragers through all sorts of struggles, my resources of practical wisdom, my unconditionally loving and reliable foundation, and my examples of all I want to be as a parent (and some things I don’t want to be). I have said many times, and had many friends concur, that I probably have the best parents ever. I admit that I do not know a lot about parenting, because I am not a parent. I would contend, however, that I have a very good idea of what it looks like to be a good parent, because of the examples I have. When I think about my relationship with my parents (now, granted, not when I was a teenager), I can honestly say that I want my relationships with my children to be just like ours.

     How does one get there? I’ve certainly wondered why my relationship with my parents looks the way it does, especially as compared to several friends. For instance, I have a close friend whose parents want to be deeply involved in her decisions, including those regarding her relationship with her boyfriend. This type of parenting led to anxiety and stress for both sides, and a very strained relationship, even after the couple broke up. Another friend has expressed envy of families with parents who want to be involved in their children’s lives at all. How involved is too involved? How does one cultivate a good relationship with an adolescent child?

     My answer comes to mind in several parts: trial and error, contained failure, and it’s up to the child.

     The first part probably needs no explanation. Every parent makes mistakes, and every kid grows up and realizes (or should realize) that his or her family has issues. This is why I think everyone should go to counseling at some point in their lives, but I digress. Parenting is difficult, and no one has the perfect way all figured out. Being able to see one’s errors, acknowledge them (especially to the child, when appropriate), and learn from them in order to move on is the take-home point here.

     The principle of contained failure is one my parents were told when they were young parents, and one that has carried through the years. Essentially, it’s a “pick your battles” principle which says, if it’s not harmful to the child or others, let them do it. I have many memories of saying to my mom, “But I want to do it this way!” and her saying, “Okay, contained failure”. I can still picture her hands going up like she was physically letting go of the issue. It told me that she believed she had the better way, but that she would let me try it my way if I really wanted to. Interestingly, that was often all she needed to say for me to give in and do it her way. Recently, I had an interaction with a 4-year-old I babysit which affirmed my belief in the benefit of picking your battles and, more importantly, listening. I had in mind one way of doing things, and he wanted another, and started to whine and argue. I told him I didn’t want to argue with him, but I did want to hear why it was so important to him. This stopped him in his tracks. We calmly discussed both ways, and I decided it would be fine to do it his way this time. Yes, my way had better rationale, and his way ended up being more of a hassle, but the open, calm method of communication I initiated was worth it.

     The third point in having a healthy, low-stress relationship with an adolescent may be the most important: it’s up to the child. No parent can make a child want to talk to him or her by requiring it. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve seen this tried, and seen it fail miserably. The mother of one friend in high school made it clear to her daughter that she was not allowed to have secrets from her parents. Instead of fostering a relationship in which her daughter could tell her anything (which I’m sure was what she wanted), her daughter kept more from her. Another friend was required to come home from college for the entire weekend, every weekend of the first two years. He hated it. I’m certain that, once his parents no longer required it, he would almost never go voluntarily. I am absolutely convinced that the best way to encourage a child to involve her parents in her life is to allow her the freedom to decide when and how that happens. When I was a freshman in college, my parents told me they would enjoy seeing me home for a weekend when I could make it, and they would look forward to hearing from me often. There were no requirements, no guilt-trips, there was no emotional manipulation. The result? I called my parents every day, even for five minutes here or there, and went home about every other weekend. I adjusted to college, got busier, and relied on them less and less. The content of my phone calls changed from “what laundry setting should I use?” to “I got a great score on my test; how’s your day going?”. Now, in my fourth year, I don’t make it home very often, and I make many more decisions without needing my parents’ answers. Do you know what hasn’t changed? I still call them every day or every other day, just to say hello and to catch up. My parents know what’s going on in my life, have met (and like!) my boyfriend, and know many of my friends (and my dad is friends with them on Facebook). [As an aside, my dad is not on Facebook to stalk me, and I willingly became his Facebook friend.] If I don’t call for awhile, they’ll call me or send an email, but they don’t sound worried about me, upset with me, or say I’ve hurt their feelings. Sadly, I don’t know very many other people who can say that.

     Some people may think that this sort of relationship is bad in relation to respect and authority, but they couldn’t be more wrong. In my case at least, I respect my parents immensely, and honor their authority because they do not force it upon me. At 21, I feel blessed to have the kind of adult relationship with my parents that many people do not have until their late 30s, if ever.

     True, my parents aren’t perfect, and my family has issues. At the same time, I can truly say that I love my parents dearly, and I know with all my heart that I can tell them anything, and they will love me and accept me. I’m proud to call my parents my friends.

Remember?

     Although September 11th was last Friday, I have no life outside of school and sleep, so this is late. Hopefully, its reflections are worthwhile even on a less significant day.

     It was an ordinary morning, a Tuesday at the beginning of the school year. I was 13 years old, and in the eighth grade. The first thing I remember of that fateful day, now imprinted on our national memory, was my mom, waking me up urgently. Later I would realize that those first moments reminded me of another strange day in my childhood, in which my mom woke me up and asked me if I wanted ice cream for breakfast. The freezer door had been left open overnight and the ice cream had melted, so my mother thought it might as well not go to waste, but it was quite surreal. It was a similar feeling when the first words I heard that morning were, "Get up and come watch the news - there's been a terrorist attack."

     Through the course of that day, I was confused, stunned, fearful, sad, and numb. I was struck by so many things out of the ordinary. When I went downstairs, my dad was still there, dressed for work but his gaze locked on the news. That afternoon, I went to the first day of choir practice, and all the kids were abnormally quiet. My mom told me that, "this will be for your generation what JFK's assasination was for mine. Years from now, people will ask you where you were."

    
     As far as I can remember, I started watching the news just before the towers fell. It's hard to say, because it was difficult to determine what was live and what was replayed over and over. Before that day, I had never even heard of the World Trade Center, but now the images I saw are burned in my memory. The towers, smoking...the shaky amateur video from the ground of the first plane hitting the tower...the skyline of New York City obscured by a huge cloud of smoke, ash, and debris...people on the ground, covered in white ash...bodies falling out of the towers -- jumping, I realized later. I remember when the news anchors realized the significance of the date.

     I remember being afraid, because LAX and Disneyland were possible targets, and our home was within the danger zone if that attack was nuclear. Afraid, because no one had any idea how many people had died in the towers and the surrounding areas, and I wondered if anyone I knew had been there, or lost family members. I felt terrorized. One of my coping mechanisms was to pull out my sister's Christian magnetic words set, and along the stove top I placed something to the effect of "God is in control".

     I remember feeling strangely more a part of the world of adults than children, when I realized that my 4- and 6-year-old neighbors would have no clear memories of this momentous day. I remember watching the rescue effort, and hearing some amazing stories, and many sad ones. I remember seeing the missing person boards, and all the American flags. I remember when they found the steel girders that formed a cross at "Ground Zero", and the thousands of people flocking to churches.

     Looking back, now eight years, I remember thinking then that "9/11" would be a day that changed everything, the Pearl Harbor of my generation. I remember that the American flags everyone put on their houses and cars faded, and were eventually taken down, and not replaced. I remember that of the thousands of people who flocked to churches, so many returned to normal life, and to attending church at Christmas and Easter. I remember the country fired up about fighting terrorism, and seeking justice, and then losing vigor and determination in the face of the difficult and long-term task of war. I remember forgetting we were at war, because it felt like something so far away, something I heard discussed, but never comprehended. Even numbers of deaths and prayers for soldiers my friends knew was unconnected to my normal life, the idea of war meaningless in my everyday reality.

     I remember stories of heroic deeds of civilians on a plane now known as United 93, and T-shirts and hats honoring New York City's firefighters, and policemen. I wonder now, how many have been truly inspired to be courageous and self-sacrificing in less obvious, more continuous ways.

     I remember the first wave of "9/11/01: We Will Never Forget" bumper stickers, freeway posters, and more. I wonder if we content ourselves with having "not forgotten" by holding memorials every year, and watching TV specials on how the tragedy could have been prevented, instead of learning what it looks like when the country comes together, when communities support each other, when people give blood and their time to heal and rebuild. I wonder if we have forgotten after all, less than a decade later, because I'm not sure that we know what it truly means to remember.