Some people sleep walk, others sleep eat, my slumber disability is partially awake sleep destruction. Tuesday night was normal, no major change in activity, food or work. After Given went to bed, and Mom and Glenn went to their room, I wrote in a jornal, ate my snacks, watched the news and went to bed.

I had been asleep no longer than two hours before I heard Given's cry from the next room. I sat up immediately and set off to see what was wrong. My feet shuffled across the floor, the house pitch black and Given's volume rising. I began to tell her I would be in their soon, but before I could finish, I felt a cold, smooth surface slammed in to my face. Surprised and confused, I backed away from the object and turned toward the door. SLAM! Face plant in to the wall. Where in the world did this wall come from? After a few tries, I made it safely out of my room and one step closer to my daughter, whom I was trying to console in between the injuries.

Now I was out in the hall, free from the booby-traps of my room, I make a quick left and, BAM! As I blamed my lack of direction on a broken, non-existent. internal compass. After peeling my nose off the picture I walked in to, I placed the collage of photos on the floor and went in the opposite direction of my poor path decision. FINALLY I found the door to room, opened the door and piratically threw myself in to the room, telling Given to calm down Mom is here

Inside Given's room, no longer than five seconds, I heard a noise of bed sheets and two startled people... Mom and Glenn. Mom asked what I was doing and all I could say was, "I can't see". Glenn's immediate reaction was to say, "No kidding, maybe because the light are off?" Suddenly I am aware that this is not Given's room and I have made a grave error. Mom, worried about me (not sure if she meant physical or mental stability). threw on some clothes and hurried to help if I needed The only thing I begged for was light. The world would seem less chaotic if I could visually witness my trail of medically induced fatigue destruction. Mom turned on the light in the bathroom, asked if I needed help and went back to bed once I declined. I pulled Given out of bed, laid her in mine and waited for the explanation of why this happened. The answer was nothing spectacular, just woke up believing I was in or San Dimas house from 22 years ago.

The kicker in this 4am fiasco is I had the same psychotic episode the next night This time, however, I was trying to get out of my room and somehow, I have idea how, wedged myself between the door and closet. This time I walked over, bruised some toes on the way and turned on my lamp for better viewing of what attacked my foot. TA-DA! Nothing on my feet, and I'm Given's room. Another ambulance ride saved.

Though I'm extremely exhausted & still can't see much of anything, this story needed to be told because I love a good dummy story to laugh to, especially at my own expense.

The Stairs Come Full Circle

In this world, there are obstacles that just seem to bring a person down. For my daughter and self, this nemesis comes in the form of stairs. Not just any staircase, but the steep, narrow building blocks to the upper floor in my father's house. Whether the fall is up, or down, the pain factor appears to be the same. Given learned this first hand last weekend while she "patiently" waited for me to finish my project of lessening the disaster that was my hair and skin.

Given spent a good majority of Saturday afternoon either playing in the backyard or climbing up and down the stairs. I didn't worry much about the stairs because of her incredible balance and strength (the balance cannot be accredited to me). Even if she did lose a step, I was ignorantly sure she would catch herself in time to avoid injury, as she does on everything else she climbs. Mother's instinct proved to be wrong, as I heard my baby thump-thump-the-thump-thump-clank-a-ti-thump down the stairs and land on the tile below. I only caught the last few rolls with my eyes and ran down to grab her in my arms and make sure there was no major damage. Her head and neck twisted as I watched and I thought she may have broken an arm, too. Thankfully she only had a bruised foot, but her fall triggered a memory about her life. Given's existence was the result of these stairs and I was reminded of that fact on the day she was born.

In 2003, I moved in with my father and step-mother, Larry and Patricia. My health was the main reason to move in. The manifestations of porphyria were ruling my life. I had no control over my body's movements, I was a menopausal 26 year old and my mind could never grasp hope because the disease cloaked my dreams with darkness. I knew I would never have children and if I did somehow become pregnant, there was a good chance I would not survive. I moved in with the expectation to die as an aspiration, not despair. I drank to excess, popped every pill I found and lost the desire to be on top in the world. I was done. There was nothing left that I could see was worth such energy.

Within a couple months of living with the family, I had the brilliant idea to carry multiple dishes from my room upstairs, down to the kitchen. Not having any waitress experience, nor should I ever even try, I barely took two steps before I lost my footing, threw the dishes over the banister and body surfed down to the tiled landing pad. Before I could yell for help, I needed to figure out that breathing thing that is supposed to be natural at all times. Luckily my fall was the equivalent to a small earthquake. Dad, Pat and my niece rushed over, scared I had suffered a seizure. Dad began to check for injuries, Pat immediately went in to prayer and Trinity, at 4 years old, placed her hands on her hips and scolded, "Auntie Carrie. You shouldn't carry so many things at once." If I could breathe, I probably would have laughed.

Patricia's prayer was not an ordinary plea for all to be well in my body, but a centralized prayer done in tongues. I could barely wrap my head around the pain I felt, but when her hands went from my head, directly down to my belly, I immediately thought, "Uh, hello! Let's concentrate on the parts that are mangled. Shall we?" God, however, had different plans and instructed her to pray over my womb. Pat had no idea why she was focusing on this area, but her obedience would prove not to be in vain. Within a week after my fall, I received a visitor I had not seen in years and she continued to visit once a month until I had her friends, Ovary 1, Ovary 2 and Uterryus, removed from the premises. At the time, this miracle was embraced as an exit out of menopause, but had no idea they were needed in order for my body to prepare for a child of my own in the future.

I rarely go up those stairs now when I visit, but when I do, I climb them with caution and respect. Given's life is more than just a miracle, or result of marital obligation (another story), but a reminder that following His direction will result in His blessings, at just the right time.

The Greatest Compliment

Watch two women greet one another and within the first 30 seconds they will compliment the other's clothes, hair, figure or how "natural" their most recent body enhancement looks. The man to man version of a compliment is envy based comments about the other's car, house, lawn, job, wealth or full head of hair. Small talk is filled with superficial flattery to fill in the uncomfortable silence when there is no common ground for conversation. Every knee jerk expression of exaltation corrupts the very purpose of a kind word freely offered. There are moments, however, that the perfect words come at the exact moment needed from an unsuspected source, restoring hope in the existence of genuine words of encouragement.

On an toasty spring day in Phoenix, temperature only a cool 95 degrees at 8:00 am, the door to the DES office was unlocked and ready for the morning rush of people requesting financial aid of some kind. My husband at the time, I say as though I'm legally liberated, and I were the first to enter since we had slept on the doormat the night before. Wearing the same Oscar the Grouch t-shirt, tan carpi's and black flip flops that had been my uniform for the past two weeks, I walked directly to the forms, numb from embarrassment of my life. The faded red shirt had small holes throughout, the pants safety pinned because the drawstring was confiscated in jail and the soles of my shoes were melted down from the mid-day, bubbling asphalt. I was filfthy from walking day and night in the soaring heat, my own joy was hair long enough to place in two buns on my head to keep from additional sweat down my back. At times I was sure Oscar was ashamed to be seen with me, let alone a permanent fixture on my body. Even a Grouch has standards.

With the forms complete and submitted, we sat in the school chairs provided and waited to be called. Although no one came in before us, we appeared to be lost in the shuffle or low priority. This delay was a blessing, we were comfortable in a cooled setting and given rest for our feet. A little too much time passed by and I was awakened, complete with drool, to our names called for an interview. Backpacks in tow, we sat with a social worker who, after 4 hours of waiting, was able to deny us any assistance within 2 minutes based on the fact we did not have an address. Hm mm... Homeless people without an address? Just preposterous, I tell ya. Needless to say, defeat set in and the tears began to roll. After I told my husband to suck it up and wipe his eyes, I headed for the restroom to attempt some form of a mock bath, and see why my own tear ducts were leaking, which I'm sure was an allergic reaction to rudeness.

Inside the restroom, I found two cramped stalls, a sink and vanity mirror. Not ready to actually see the mess I was, I headed to the second stall to just hang out and prolong the exit to reality. A few women (I assume) came and went while I lounged in my new abode, but after some time I realized too many people saw me go in, but not come out, and I was not about to take blame for any lingering odor. In order to avoid the outside world a little longer, I stuck my head in the sink and gave my hair a refreshing swirl under the tap. The water felt euphoric against my filthy, sun damaged scalp and I prayed the moment would never end. My prayer, however, was interrupted by the swing of the bathroom door, where a little girl walked in. I had seen her play with her little brother in the lobby. She was no more than six, he was maybe over a year. I couldn't imagine what she thought of this crazy lady with her head in a public sink, eyes red and without hope.

The blond hair girl passed by with a innocent look my way. She entered a stall, and to the best of my knowledge, completed the task she set forth to do. Before long, I was aware of her presence behind me and excused myself to the side so she could wash her hands. Once finished, she turned to open the door, but paused. Very sweet, yet bold, she asked why I was washing my hair in the bathroom. With complete truth, I explained that I didn't have a bathroom to bathe in. Perplexed by such a statement, she asked why. Realizing I should have been more clear, I continued to say that I did not have a home to go to and, therefore, did not have a sink or shower of my own. She was not going to let this go. The next question was why I didn't have a home. Wow, how to answer? I could only say that bad decisions were made, stupid, self-destructive, life threatening decisions that I did regret. This description seemed suffice and she once again turned to return to her family. With the door open, and half-way out, she turned around, looked straight in my eyes and said, "That red shirt looks very pretty on you", then went on her way. Never has an encouragement meant more or impacted my self-esteem like that. Though her face faded from my mind as soon as the day was through, her words are branded in my heart as the greatest compliment ever received. Today, I still wear that shirt and do so with pride.