I’m still sick. The current thought is that I’m just dealing with significant leftover inflammation from the severe infection that I had, and that I’m not contagious, just still feeling kind of miserable. I’m taking anti-inflammatory medication round the clock and it’s mostly keeping the pain in check and hopefully also helping to decrease the levels of inflammation in my throat. I’m back at work, though struggling a bit, since the inflammation has left me prone to coughing and bronchospasm, particularly when I talk – a challenge since I talk on the phone for a living!
But these many weeks of illness (I’ve been sick since July 2nd) have left me grateful for some little things, and I wanted to share a few of those here.
The relief of a cold popsicle on my sore and inflamed throat. I’ve been going through a lot of popsicles, not normally a staple in my diet, and one memory of these stands out. It was about 4 am at the hospital and a very apologetic nurse had just told me she couldn’t give me any pain killers until I saw the doctor. She very kindly offered me a popsicle for my throat and a warm blanket for my body. Nothing has tasted so good as that simple peach flavored popsicle after a long night of waiting for care.
I’m grateful for a family who has been checking in on me and offering help as needed
I’m grateful that despite missing a bunch of work, and being out of paid sick time, my paycheque was still enough to cover my rent and a few small bills, and that the next paycheque will let me catch up the other things
I’m grateful for a freezer full of food so that a small paycheque doesn’t mean I have to choose between food and rent.
And I’m grateful for audiobooks and podcasts that have kept me company during the long hours I’ve spent in bed this month, trying to rest and recover.
Still over here recovering from the plague that was bacterial tonsillitis plus a viral infection of some sort. I finished antibiotics this morning, and my throat is mostly not sore anymore, but I’ve got a lovely lingering dry cough, that is particularly activated when I talk, which is a problem, since as both a counselor and a telehealth nurse, I talk for a living. I tried to go back to work yesterday and only lasted about four hours before I’d coughed so much that my throat felt sore again.
I had a pre-booked follow up to my emergency room visit with my family doctor this morning, and she prescribed an inhaler to help with the cough and told me to take today to use the inhaler regularly, and then try and return to work tomorrow. So that’s the plan. One more day of resting and medicating, then hopefully back to regularly scheduled programming!
Every stage of this silly illness has had moments of despair and moments of hope. The first two doctors I saw, who dismissed my symptoms left me feeling rather despairing, as I dealt with the intense pain from the throat infection. The third doctor who took me seriously and ran some more tests gave me hope. The emergency room nurses, who were all so kind, despite being in the midst of a busy night shift during Stampede gave me hope – one was so apologetic that she couldn’t give me pain meds that she offered and found me a popsicle for my aching throat! The fast action of the steroid that they gave me in the emergency room gave me hope as I found relief from pain for the first time in a week. And the doctor today, who told me in her own way that I wasn’t crazy, I was really very sick, and has put in some referrals to hopefully prevent this from happening again in the future, and then listened when I said a particular inhaler wouldn’t work because it aggravates my anxiety and depression, and found an alternative that will work just as well – that gave me hope too.
In a season that has felt hard, where I’m dealing with a lot of life transitions and stressors, and generally just feel a bit out of control, the glimmers of hope are so good for me to notice. And today, maybe for the first time this week, since I’ve still been feeling crummy, and coughing near constantly, I feel hope.
I’ve been sick for the last week. Like really sick. I saw three different doctors, and then ended up in the emergency room. The first two doctors barely examined me, took one look at my throat, ordered a throat swab or a viral swab, and told me it was a virus, keep doing what I was doing, and go home. The third took me seriously, ordered some blood work, and when some of that came back concerning, called me herself to give me strict parameters on when to go to the ER. I met those parameters a couple hours later, and spent Wednesday night sitting in the ER and eventually getting treated for what they’re pretty sure is a nasty bacterial tonsillitis. I’m grateful for all the care I received – even the doctors who weren’t so great, because at least the tests they ordered ruled some things out, and made it easier for the following doctors to diagnose me.
I texted my family the day after my emergency room trip and told them that I’ve changed my mind about steroid use! I was, of course, joking, but the steroid they gave me at the ER for inflammation was a game changer. After a week of uncontrolled throat pain despite round the clock usage of two different over the counter pain killers, that steroid plus a dose of an IV pain medication brought me so much relief that I’m nearly pain free, and what little pain I have left is being easily managed by the over the counter pain meds that were previously barely taking the edge off.
Over the last few years I’ve done a lot of reading and research on neurodivergence and autism, and have learned so much in the process. I’ve come to the realization that I am most definitely neurodivergent, and quite likely fall on the autism spectrum. I had a conversation recently with a family friend since childhood and somehow this topic came up, and because this person was knowledgeable about the topic, I was struck by his quick agreement to my statement that I’m most likely on the spectrum. I felt seen in a way that I hadn’t in quite some time, particularly because this person has known me since I was a child and has seen all the iterations of me over the years, and offered no judgement or shame in his acknowledgement of my difference.
In the spirit of special interests of the neurodivergent, one of mine is the names of the bucking stock at the Calgary Stampede Rodeo. For years now I’ve kept lists in my journal of the names, because they make me laugh – they suit my sense of humor. I’m so interested in it that I pay for one month of Sportsnet streaming every year so that I can watch all ten days of the rodeo and make my list.
This year here are a few names I’ve loved: A bronco named Cat Nap, A bull named Bon Jovi, A bronco named Erotic Tango, and bulls named Wise Guy, Bad Intentions, Debt Collector, Bubba G, and Bow Before Me.
For many years, back in the heyday of blogging, I wrote a daily post that I called my “Daily 5”. Though it was rarely only five items, it was always multiples of 5, and it was always a list of things from that particular day that had made me smile. You see, I’d heard somewhere that a practice of making a gratitude list had been shown through research to have roughly the same effect on your brain chemistry that a mild antidepressant does, and I was in the throes of deep depression and desperate enough to give it a try. But gratitude felt big and nebulous – hard to come by in the darkness of those days – so I made it smaller. I made a list of things that had brought a smile to my face each day, sometimes struggling to hit five items, sometimes repeating the same item or two for multiple days, because my life was moving at the snail’s pace of mental illness, and things rarely changed quickly.
These days, I tell that story to some of my therapy clients, adding in details about how the things that made the list on a given day could be simple. I give the example of my hot pink crocs. Those were the days when crocs were “in” for the first time, and for Christmas I had asked for a pair of crocs to wear around the house as slippers. My middle brother took this seriously, but, failing to read my mind, which very much had a nice plain black pair in mind, bought me a hot pink pair. It took a minute, but the ridiculousness of that gift, the color of which was more suited to my brother’s personality at the time than mine, never failed to make me smile when I’d catch sight of them. All these years later, I still wear them from time to time as garden shoes, and they still make me smile. I tell my clients the fast version of this story, and then I challenge them to make a list for a bit – keep it in a notebook or the notes app on their phone – and count smiles, even if they only collect 1 or 2 a day.
I was thinking of that today, as I thought about making a list style post. Today’s list isn’t so much a list of smiles or gratitudes, though I still collect those as precious. Today’s list is more of a “top of mind” sort of list. I make no guarantees to show up here daily with lists, but every so often I want to make a list of 5, so here’s today’s top of mind thoughts.
On this rainy Calgary day, I’m praying for two different people who are dear to me, both of whom have loved ones scheduled to have heart surgeries today. As I was writing the introduction to this list, I got a message that one of the procedures has been bumped (the joys of Alberta’s broken healthcare), but still I pray. I’m holding in prayer the people I love, and I’m holding in prayer those who are patients, and all those who love them.
A little treat goes a long way. I was feeling stir crazy in my house this afternoon, but have been trying not to engage in my favorite pastime of window shopping, since I’m not particularly good at sticking to the window part of the description, and often come home with things I’d not intended to buy. In a quest to be more intentional with my spending, and the ongoing quest to revamp my finances, I’m trying not to add too much temptation to the list. But today, feeling stir crazy, I decided to drive to a different dollar store than I usually go to, and walk every aisle in the store. I managed to come out with several things I actually needed, plus a few treats, and spend less than $12. And listening to a podcast while driving home and eating one of those treats was the perfect balm to my cabin fever.
I’ve very much been on an audiobook kick this week. While that’s not unusual for me, instead of listening only for an hour here or there while I drive or do a bit of cleaning, I’ve been listening for hours at a time. It’s bumped my book count for the month up, but has been so lovely as I’ve played a game on my phone, or cleaned or puttered around my house. I’ve lost myself in other worlds, and loved it.
I started reading the First Nations Version: An Indigenous Translation of the New Testament last night. My faith is still very much in flux, but the Gospels particularly are one of the few firm places in that journey. I listen through a recording of the Gospels each month, in a variety of Bible versions throughout the year, but as I’m trying to find more places of firm footing, I decided to pull out the copy of the First Nations Version New Testament and give it a try. I’ve only read a few chapters of the Gospel of Matthew, but I’m loving the fresh eyes this unfamiliar translation is creating towards the text.
And finally, because I know you’re all desperately wanting an update, the first little treat I bought for my read my shelves challenge, the “no bleed” highlighters, actually don’t bleed! I’ve used one of them on the first four chapters of the Gospel of Matthew, and I’m so impressed that the color has not bled through the thin Bible paper pages! Woohoo for highlighters that will improve my ability to annotate books and Bibles to my heart’s content!
And, just because I can, another quick 5 – 5 things making me smile today:
Nerds gummy clusters
No bleed highlighters
Whatsapp for talking to far away dear ones
Audible audiobooks and my past penchant for buying a lot of said audiobooks, which is feeding my current appetite to listen
Cozy fantasy novels with some form of happily ever after ending
In typical Lisa fashion, I’ve read or listened to 6 books for the Read Your Shelves project, none of which are the first book I unwrapped. I’ve been on an audiobook kick lately and have listened to 6 audiobooks from my collection (one of which is also in a wrapped present, which I shall look up on my spreadsheet and unwrap immediately). I’ve also read one novella that I had previously purchased, in the kindle app on my phone.
The titles so far, including format in which I read them, and my rating of them are (with a note that I tend to be generous in my ratings, because I’m largely looking for happily ever after and a bit of humor from my reading life):
The Shippers (Katherine Center), read in audio format, 4.5 stars
The Last Mandarin (Louise Penney and Melissa Fung), read in audio format, 5 stars
Dolly all the Time (Annabel Monaghan), read in audio format, 4.5 stars
The Bodyguard (Katherine Center), read in audio format, a re-read for me, 5 stars
The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches (Sangu Mandanna), read in audio format, 4.5 stars
Save a Horse, Keep the Cowboy (Jessica Peterson), read on Kindle app, 3.5 stars
All in all, a quite successful start to the project. Because I reached the first milestone of 4 completed titles, I gave myself a small reward. In this case it wasn’t a reward off my menu, but rather a set of highlighters that purport to not bleed through even the thinnest paper like that used in Bibles. They just arrived this afternoon, and I haven’t tested their claim yet, but the pretty colors make me happy, and I’m excited to use them in various books, including my Bible.
I’ve currently got another audiobook on the go – one which I also own in paperback (gift wrapped) format. I’ve borrowed several books from the library which I plan to at least make an attempt at reading, and I still have the first book that I unwrapped, which I’m also excited to read, though I admit that I’m struggling lately to read in the hard copy paper format, which is perhaps what has contributed to the glut of books that I’ve purchased and not read, and subsequently gift wrapped to set this challenge for myself.
In terms of rewarding myself every 4 and every 12 books, I’m giving myself credit for reading or listening to anything purchased before June 7, 2026, as well as any library or borrowed books I complete. Basically I’m trying to encourage the habit of reading that doesn’t cost money, and ideally the reading of a more traditional hard copy book, since I’ve got so many of those already purchased and backlogged, waiting to be read.
I’ll be the first to admit that this journey of revamping how I handle my finances, and trying to save money, is well… painful. I recently sent my brother a meme that was captioned, “I think the universe knew that I’d be too bloody powerful if I could do math.” Math scares me, and money is one of those things that I’ve always found deeply stressful. Like, it makes me cry or want to avoid it stressful. Put all of those things together and anything that involves money or financial contracts feels highly intimidating to me, and like the really stressful kind of adulting that I CAN do, but I never WANT to do. I’ve been doing a lot of that kind of adulting lately, while navigating the beginning stages of a career transition, and the associated costs of registration in a new profession, and so on. All that to say, my stress level in that area has been high, and my wanting to tackle it has been low.
I’m working on it, though, and today I went shopping for a new cell phone plan with my brother. I’ve stayed with the same phone carrier for over a decade, because I just hate negotiating and change that much. Conversely, he’s gotten good at that particular task, and offered to help me. So I basically tagged along as we toured the mall, stopping at the various cell phone kiosks, while he asked some basic questions and got some quotes for a plan where I’ll bring my own phone, since my current iphone is not yet in need of replacement.
After all that, we settled on a prepaid plan option that is saving me roughly $40/month over what I was paying with my longtime service provider. It means I have less data (but still more than I use in any one month), but has the upside of making my phone usable for the occasions every year or two where I travel to the United States to spend time with friends. When we finished shopping, we sat in the food court and talked through a couple other big decisions I have on my plate right now financially, and then I came home and took some action steps based on our conversation.
It was that kind of day – an adulting kind of day – but I feel accomplished, and like this win, though small to medium in the grand scheme of my financial situation, and like the other bits and bobs I accomplished today, and the like the reading project I wrote about in my last post, are wins that might actually add up to meaningful change, and that tiny bit of light and hope in the midst of a challenging situation feels amazing today.
It’s been just over three years since I last showed up in this space. I thought about showing up here last month, when the fifth anniversary of my first ovarian tumor removal surgery rolled around, but the emotions and thoughts from that week or two of anniversaries felt heavy and personal this time around, and not the first thing I wanted to use as a foray back into occasional longer form writing.
But the “Read My Shelves Project” feels like a good way to dip my toes back into writing that’s longer than an Instagram caption.
The “Read My Shelves Project” came about because I’m trying to find ways to tighten my budget, while I’m in a space of transition and needing to do some financial rebuilding. The truth of things is that the last seven years or so were a big hit financially – I had several extended leaves of absence from work to deal with either my mental health or with my tumors and the fallout from that journey, and when I did return to work, I worked less, to help manage my ongoing mental and physical health. While I was fortunate to have partially paid short term disability, those leaves in combination with bills from going back to school for my master’s degree in counseling psychology, and a lifetime of struggling with finances a bit, have left me needing to make some changes financially, just as I’m about to start transitioning career paths from nursing to counselling full-time.
All that to say that in the last few weeks I’ve found myself looking for creative ways to cut my spending, or save a few dollars, and one way I settled on is tackling the project of reading the books I’d already purchased. I knew I had a lot of books in the genres that I love to read the most, but I don’t think I had a grasp on just how many I’d purchased until I started looking for ways to gamify reading the books I already own instead of buying new books.
I settled on the following – I would gift wrap all of the unread books from certain categories (fiction, romance, memoir and poetry), keeping track on a spreadsheet of the title and genre. I wrapped each of the three categories in different types of wrapping paper, and numbered each package. If I’d bought a series of books, I wrapped the series together in one package, so I could read them all at once. Each package was numbered so that if I need a specific book that I’ve already bought for a book club or some other reason, I could locate the right package.
Y’all, I ended up with 107 packages of unread books, for a total of 112 books!
The complete pile of wrapped packages
The next step is to motivate me to read them. I found a reading tracker online that I could print out, and decided that I’d give myself a mini reward for every four books I complete, and give myself the privilege of shopping for a new book with every 12 books I read. The 107 packages does not include previously purchased audiobooks or books on my kobo or kindle, or any personal development books, but I will count any book purchased prior to June 7, 2026, towards my challenge, and towards my reward system.
Thanks to AI, I was able to generate this mini rewards menu to post
Also key for me was not feeling too restricted, so I made a list of my favorite authors and named them my auto-buy authors. If those authors put out a new book that seems interesting to me over the course of the challenge, I can buy the book, but other than books for professional development, or books by those authors, the goal is to not buy books.
Again, a quick and judicious use of AI let me build a quick, postable auto-buy authors list
I’ve been listening to an audiobook (Louise Penny and Melissa Fung’s “The Last Mandarin”) this week, which will count towards the challenge, but tonight I decided it was time to unwrap my first package, and tomorrow I’ll dive into the book.
Package #97Book #97!
The first paper book for this challenge will be “The Irresistible Urge to Fall for Your Enemy” by Brigitte Knightley! I’m excited to dive in!
I make no promises that every book or package in the challenge will show up here, but I like the idea of blogging a bit more regularly again, or at least instagramming the challenge regularly. If you want to find me on Instagram, you can find me here.
Two years ago today I woke up in a hospital room after the first of what would be two major surgeries, nine weeks apart. At this time two years ago, I was still waiting to hear what the results of the surgical pathology were, and in fact, what surgery had been done – had I woken up with cancer and in menopause, or just missing an ovary and a fallopian tube, and healthy? The result ended up being a third option they hadn’t prepared me for – a precancerous tumour that would ultimately still cost me my entire reproductive system.
I’m thinking about that day a bit today. Mostly because, two years on, I’m still dealing with daily fallout from those surgeries. I think most people expect that it’s in my past, that I’ve moved on, and I suppose, in some ways I have. But also, I’m in daily pain from an incisional hernia where my surgical incisions never properly healed. I take an extra daily medication to manage the gastrointestinal side effects of that same hernia. And I deal with muscle aches and pain caused largely by my lack of ability to use my or strengthen my core, due to the hernia.
It’s been a bit of an odd few days, with highs and lows. I was accepted into graduate school this week, with plans to start in September. That’s a pretty big high. And, if I’m honest, maybe one that wouldn’t have happened had I not been forced by the reality of a tumour diagnosis to reconsider what I wanted out of life. And this, this is something I’ve wanted for a long time. But also, it’s been two years and I’m still suffering physically, and we never would have predicted that, when it turned out to not be cancer.
I’m holding these things in my hands, the ongoing suffering and the newfound joy, and considering them. I feel curious and maybe a little melancholy today, and as I consider those two things, I think that curiosity and melancholy are probably the right mix of emotions in this situation.
It’s almost the end of another Maundy Thursday. My social media is all over the place tonight. People touting the importance of Maundy Thursday – the washing of feet! the institution of the Eucharist! the institution of the priesthood! And then, then there is the report from Maryland this week. The kind of report that just keeps coming – priests and victims and coverups. The kind that reminds me of stories not mine to tell. The kind of report that reminds me of my own traumas, too.
Fifteen years ago, in a season of deep brokenness, after I came home from Malta, in the midst of relationships coming to an end that I’d never expected to end, I penned a poem that contained the following lines:
goodbye hard words to say not the cry for unity that I’d desired no John 17 goodness left in me
just Abba, Father, my heart hurts “Would you hold me?”
a rosary twined around my wrist fingers caressing the tiny, broken body of Christ
if it be your will let this cup pass from me but not my will yours be done in this in everything a cup to be drunk (and I will drink) a cup of suffering and a desperate cry for hope
~~~
It has been fifteen years since those words poured from my pen. I can still see the chair I sat in as I wrote. I wasn’t Catholic yet, but had brought a rosary home from the Vatican – one I’d chosen for its simple beauty, and in that season of wordless prayers and broken relationships, I sat often, wordlessly, caressing the tiny crucifix, and begging Christ’s intercession.
And now, all those years later, I find myself returning to that line “no John 17 goodness/left in me”. It’s Christ’s prayer in the garden, his cry for the unity of his body left on earth. There are stories that are not mine to tell, reasons why I struggle to see that unity as even a remote possibility tonight.
On a Maundy Thursday evening, 10 years ago this month, I had my feet washed and kissed by a priest, and a few days later, I was confirmed at the Easter Vigil into the Roman Catholic Church. After that confirmation several people greeted me with the words “Welcome Home!”
I wanted to slap them for their trite comments and lack of understanding of what this cost and would and does cost me.
I felt I’d just left home – I grew up in a home where Jesus was honored deeply, where I was encouraged to pursue faith in Christ, where I was, for lack of a better word, discipled. And after all of that, Jesus had led me to meet him in his body and blood, and I chose to follow that leading into a church that believed what my heart already knew – that Jesus was present in the Eucharist. I left a sure thing, a family, a community, to follow Jesus into my own personal wilderness with him.
A lot of hearts broke at my confirmation service, including mine. The cost has been high and I feel it most strongly each year at Christmas and during the Triduum. The high holy days of faith, and I’ll attend services alone. My family has a number of people in professional ministry, so we’ll gather as a family to celebrate Easter dinner tomorrow night when they’re available, rather than Sunday when they’re not – and I’ll navigate again the complex narrative of celebration of resurrection on a day when Catholics fast and abstain. I’ll join them for dinner, but it’ll be my only whole meal for the day, and I’ll skip the meat. And my heart will break as I realize all over again the way the unity that Christ prayed for is lacking on earth – is lacking in my life.
It’s Maundy Thursday again, and my heart is breaking. It’s Maundy Thursday and the cry for unity is strong. It’s Maundy Thursday and the abuses are enormous, the pressure great.
It’s Maundy Thursday and I just don’t know if I have any John 17 goodness left in me, so tonight, as I fall asleep, I’ll twine a rosary between my fingers. I’ll caress the tiny, shattered body of Christ, and I’ll pray for this cup to pass, but only if it’s His will, not mine.
Fifteen years ago today I stood in a field in Malta, balancing my weight precariously as it was freshly plowed and the turned up ground was soft and unstable beneath my feet. The field was surrounded by limestone walls. I was with two others, people I’d asked to witness and participate in that moment.
A stock photo, but so very like the field I found myself in, that it takes me back.
Several months prior I’d had a dream in which I met Jesus at a banqueting table. I ended up seated across from him, but with my head bowed in submission, unable to look him in the eye. But somehow, without words, I knew to cup my hands out in front of me, across the center of the table. He took a decanter of red wine, and poured that wine out into my cupped hands, until it spilled out onto the snowy white table linens. And then I woke up.
I wondered what that dream was about, curious, but not worried. More surprised than anything, because while I often had spiritually toned dreams, this was was more vividly real than anything I’d dreamed before, and, well, I met Jesus in it. Later that day I was listening to a sermon podcast as I walked home from the train station after work, and found myself wondering again about the wine. I rarely drank the stuff, I was from a church that used grape juice for communion, and very few around me at the time imbibed either. Suddenly the words of the preacher penetrated my musings – “wine,” he said, “is about the shalom of God, the healing of God, the wholeness of God.” I remember pausing on the corner of a major intersection, waiting for the light to turn, and asking Jesus, “Did you just pour your shalom, your healing, your wholeness on my hands in a dream?” I didn’t get an answer.
I later shared that dream with a few people in my life, and then set it aside. Until, that is, I found myself in Malta, a place that had been introduced to me as a place with a history of healing tracing back to St. Paul shaking the viper off into the fire and not falling ill, and then carrying Christ’s healing power to the Maltese people. During the trip we’d visited the spot where St. Paul was supposed to have made landfall, and St. Paul’s shipwreck church, which housed two relics of the saint – a piece of the column on which he was beheaded in Rome, and a portion of his wrist bone in a creepy looking silver reliquary.
Something about that time was stirring images of the dream again, and I communicated to one of the people I was there with, that this was happening. I said that I thought I needed to see it played out in real life. She questioned me a little, then helped me make it happen.
And so, there I was, standing in a field of dark dirt, cupping my hands. The two who were with me filled my hands with the rich, dark soil, and some wildflowers, and then began pouring wine over them, washing them clean with the blood red liquid.
It’s been fifteen years since that moment. A moment that ended up being the beginning of a shattering in me, in the relationships of the people with whom I was travelling and praying and serving. A day that was the first of a series of four days, that were traumatic to live, and sad to remember.
It’s been fifteen years, and still I wonder about that moment. I wonder about that dream. I’ve had undeniable moments where my hands have been used in healing, where my hands and by extension the rest of my body, have contributed to bringing shalom, peace, healing and wholeness. I’ve experienced shattering of my own self, moments where I was certain that I’d never again know peace. And I’ve experienced the healing brought by the hands and feet and voices of others.
Fifteen years later and I still rarely drink alcohol, including wine. But also, fifteen years more whole, more experienced – fifteen years further into a life where I really do hope my presence brings with it some form of shalom. I still don’t know what to make of it – what to make of the dream or the shattering, or the healing. I don’t know how to express the trauma, the brokenness, the years that followed, the way that trauma has shaped me into who I am today. But today, I’m pausing to remember it, to remember the impact of Christ’s touch on my hands in that dream, to remember the unstable ground beneath my feet, the scent of the wine mixed with soil. I’m holding it in front of Jesus again, and asking anew, “what does it mean that you blessed me with wine poured out over my hands?”
Lisa From Canada 