One Foot In Front of the Other

"You are not a failure." My dad was trying to console me during our phone conversation.  I couldn't stop crying, and I had been crying for several weeks.  I felt totally overwhelmed.  My depression was such that I wanted to go to sleep and never wake up, but didn't have the energy to do anything.  Everyone was worried about me, yet I couldn't communicate my deep pain. Lacy was spiraling down and down.  He couldn't stay at school for more than a few hours without having a meltdown or becoming violent.  He put his fist through walls, stole food and drinks from others, and wasn't sleeping.  He was 15 years old. Yes, his behavior had been tough to handle all his life.  Several times he had wandered away resulting in frantic hours searching for a young man who became totally silent when his name was called.  Yet, God had been faithful and we had found Lacy every time.  This was different.  Kenny and I worried that he'd never be able to function in a s

I've been listening to Bob Dylan this week.  In the 1980s, Dylan made three Christian-themed albums.  The third was "Shot of Love."  This is the one I have had on repeated shuffle for the last few days.   I find all the songs on this album intriguing and comforting.  "Property of Jesus," "Lenny Bruce," and "In the Summertime" are great, but "Every Grain of Sand" has been the song running through my mind during the day. In the last few weeks, HD has begun to take a bigger toll on Lacy.  He is falling more, and these falls now result in serious injuries.  A month ago, he tore a ligament in his shoulder with a permanent separation of the collar bone from the shoulder.  This week, he tripped and was catapulted over his walker landing on his face on the hard floor.  He has a broken front tooth and torn lip.  We spent a couple of hours in the ER where Lacy had 4 stitches in his lip.  He's suffering more with this fall and actually c

After initial diagnosis, and the difficult weeks and months of accepting our new reality, our family has settled into a sort of floating routine.  I think of it as floating down a river.  We have lots of moments of relative calm punctuated by the necessity of getting through unexpected rough water. As with any chronic disease, we are finding ways to live in the moment while knowing that there are troubled waters ahead. Occasionally, we have to discuss our future.  What do we want and how do we want to plan for Lacy's needs?  We know what is ahead, and even though we've settled into a predictable pattern, the truth of what we are facing is always at the back of our minds.  As difficult as it is right now, this is easy compared to what we have to look forward to.  I don't mean looking forward in terms of happy anticipation, but of accepting the progression of HD as a reality we must face. When I was still in college, my friend and I used to project into the future year