Swimmer Sam at County Finals

When all was said and done.

He sat at the kitchen table eating a plate of pasta. The high school county prelims swim meet had finished only an hour before and he had made it to the finals. But the cough was back. "Sam don’t you think I should take you to the doctor in the morning?" "I guess so,” he mumbled without much of a fight.

By eleven thirty Saturday morning it was clear we’d made the right choice. After months of chronic coughing and sinus issues, Sam's blood oxygen levels registered a little low. They weren’t scary low. But they were low enough that the doctor ordered steroids and extra asthma medicine and sent Sam went home to rest for county finals.

Sam told me later he almost didn't go. He sounded so bad that I wouldn’t have blamed him. But he was on a relay team and didn't want to give up. So by 4:30 in the afternoon, he was back at the pool, preparing to swim.

Compared to most kids with (and without) mito, Sam is a thriving teenager. But ever since I can remember, he's wanted to be an athlete. He’s played baseball, basketball, lacrosse, and even run cross country. But he found his place when he started swimming. He's a good swimmer despite numerous setbacks. But I've watched him struggle all season as his times lagged behind his personal bests set last spring. I know he hasn't felt well. But it's been hard to know what to do. Saturday's doctor visit brought the most clarity we'd had in a while. But he still had to swim.

So I prayed. I texted my family and asked them to pray. I contacted friends on Facebook and asked them to pray.

So when Sam's relay team took second in County, I knew it was more than just steroids. And when I stood by the pool and prayed in earnest as he swam the hundred-breast, I pleaded with God to just let him make that state cut one more time.

And he did. One more time.

A lot of swimmers had victories Saturday night. Sam didn't set a new record or swim the fastest. But he fought against his body… and won.

And this mom was thankful and proud.

Sam and his cousin Zac Schreer, Pope's assistant swim coach. Pretty cool family ties.

KMHS 200 yd medley relay team 2nd place in county

Proud Papa Schreer, a long time official!

Yo Yo Living, God, and Dementia

The beauty in this photo is my 91 yr.old Grandma. She's supported our family, attending school functions and shows for her grandchildren (and great grandchildren) since she moved to Atlanta over thirty years ago. Last Sunday she attended my nephew's Suzuki graduation recital at Spivey Hall, even though she struggles to walk... and to remember what day it is.

A little over a year ago, my son was involved in a small traffic altercation. The damage wasn't bad, but the air bags went off, totalling the old car. So I bought Grandma's 1996 Nissan Maxima since she hadn't driven in over a year. We signed papers at a Mexican restaurant a week after the check cashed. Within a month, however, the calls started.

Grandma wanted her car back. She needed to go... somewhere.

She called my sister. She called my dad. She called me. One day she'd want the car back, the next she'd remember she sold it. After a month of panicked calls, I decided to give her the main set of keys. They didn't work and I hoped they would offer a sense of security. My plan worked until she remembered she sold the car. Then she'd want me to drive back and take the keys.

This yo yo living went on for six months. She'd have the keys, then want me to come get them. One time I showed up to retrieve them and she changed her mind.

As I pulled out of her assisted living place that night, I realized I was getting a taste of what the God of heaven goes through every day. We give Him the keys. Then take them back. Then beg Him to come take them again only to keep them close to our vest. Thank goodness He never tires of our demented ways and patiently waits for us to call to Him again.

I really want Him to reign supreme in me. I want Him to have the keys.

"Oh to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be..." (Robert Robinson)

A Medieval EMG

Last November, my neurologist suggested I undergo another EMG.

I hate EMGs; those robotic looking, steel contraption, medieval, torture EMGs

I've had several of them, and only one, performed by a pediatric neurologist, confirmed myopathy. Dr. Goldstein, Sam's neurologist, offered the answer to years of wobbly legs in June of '09, after he stuck a few needles in my muscles - the same day he performed a full body EMG on Sam, consisting of at least twelve needle inserts from cheek to foot.

Goldstein is still my hero.

I took a record of his findings to my internal medicine doctor, sure a referral to Emory would get things underway. Two months later, Emory docs ignored his findings and insisted on doing their own study. More needles. After inserting and wiggling six or seven needles deep in my muscles, they decided their findings contradicted the former doctor's analysis. I'll never forget the head doc hypnotically repeating, "Mam, You Do Not Have A Myopathy; Mam, You Do Not Have A Myopathy." Four or five times.

Of course they couldn't tell me why my legs didn't work. But they were confident I didn't have a myopathy. I wept as I hobbled out on confused, wobbly legs.

[Personal awareness moment: I've cried a lot leaving doctor's offices.]

Within a few months, Kaiser hired their own neurologist and she decided to stick me with her own needles on her own EMG machine. I sang to her. Actually, I sang to the Emory docs. But they didn't appreciate it like my Kaiser doc did.

Amazing Grace, Be Thou My Vision, On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand. They help.

Neither EMG confirmed the pediatric doc's findings. But a muscle biopsy in July '10 did. So I thought my EMG days were over.

But last November, that same Kaiser neurologist suggested I try one more EMG to determine if my latest back pain is muscle deterioration or nerve damage. Wanting to do everything I can to keep the body I have, I made the appointment and showed up last Monday for the procedure.

Turns out I was the first patient for a neurologist just back from four months of maternity leave. As I crawled up on the gurney and handed her my left arm, I couldn't believe I'd waited two months and driven through rush hour Atlanta traffic for a torture test by someone who'd been out of pocket for a while.

But she was nice.

So when she cranked up the voltage to begin the nerve conduction portion of the test - forget the needle muscle part - I gave her the benefit of the doubt. When she asked if I'd dropped things lately, I answered, "Yes!" cause I drop things almost daily. When she explained she was having to double the voltage to get a response on the machine, tears flowed from pain and from the fear that my hands were deteriorating.

She poked three needles in my arm for the muscle portion soon after. The third hit something so painful, I fell apart. Having been unnerved during the nerve conduction portion of the test, I didn't have much pain tolerance left for needles being wiggled in my muscles. We agreed to stop the test and I went home.

The memories made for a long day.

The next morning, the kind doctor called. Turns out the machine was broken. (Audible sigh.) I've been invited back for another round on the doc's lunch hour. Whenever I'm ready. But I've decided to pass on another medieval, torture EMG.

I'm just going to live for a while.

Another doc affirmed that for me this week. It's time to stop searching for answers and live with what is. I think medical science knows all it can know. It's time to let the God of the universe be all that He is. The Creator of every cell and the true power source for every ailing mitochondria in my body.

Less poking from the outside. More healing on the inside.

Whatever that may be.

A Stained Glass Healing (part 2)

I submitted the original version of this story to an editor back in 2005. Lifeway's Journey Magazine surprised me by publishing it a year or two later. It's now saved on my website. So for a full read, check out: A Stained Glass Healing

For an abbreviated, updated version, continue here.

In January of 1996, about ten months before my first husband died, we started attending a church that was constructing a new building. A talented artist, Jason offered to design and construct a stained glass window for the new structure. Having never done stained glass work, he found a class, signed up, and was soon joined by his artistic father. The duo attended classes twice a week.

Within a month, however, brain tumor symptoms intensified and Jason began a ten month neurological decline that took him to heaven's door before the church window could be constructed.

As his hands grew weak and unsteady that spring, he designed and almost finished this piece for me; his father completing what he could not. It has hung in my kitchen ever since - one last Mother's Day gift from the father of my children.

As we held to hope during that long summer, Jason's dad purchased the necessary tools to have a stained glass studio in his home. The tools lay silent for over a year after Jason died the following November. But in time, Papa not only started making his own pieces again, but he worked side by side (for no compensation) with a local stained glass artisan who installed windows in churches all over the Atlanta area.


He crafted this piece as a house warming gift after we moved into our new home in February of 1998. This angel watched over my boys and me - a reminder of healing and strength.

As school came to a close last May, Nathan called from UGA, "Mom! I know what I want to do this summer during my free time. I want to learn how to do stained glass with Papa." And he did. Nathan spent a lot of time in Papa's basement studio cutting glass and crafting his first piece of work.


I don't' have a photo of it here. But I do have a photo of the three angels he came home with today. Cause he's been busy working with Papa during Christmas break, making gifts for friends at school.

For a moment this afternoon, three generations of stained glass hung on my kitchen windows.

And it was good.