I am not going to lie! I really like ghost and paranormal shows that utilize technology to hear voices “from the beyond” or that capture something solid moving on its own. What is it about this phenomenon that fascinates some, but frightens others? Is it because we can’t control it? Is it because it reminds us that life on this Earth is temporary? Is it because most of the phenomenon happens at night when it is dark and we can’t see?
For those of you that love ghost and paranormal phenomenon as much as I do, there is one potentially scary occurrence that can be scientifically laid to rest (no pun intended). This phenomenon is called sleep paralysis. Sleep paralysis can be extremely scary for individuals that have not experienced it before and don’t know what it is. Imagine being asleep and then suddenly waking up and not being able to move your body. Individuals that have experienced this will state that it feels like their body is being pushed down into the bed and that there are dark or shadowy entities within the room. Believe it or not, this is completely normal.
Sleep
paralysis can take place during a stage of sleep called rapid eye movement
(REM). REM is when individuals dream and their body becomes immobilized so that
they do not act out their dreams and harm themselves or others. This is a very
important stage of sleep because body chemicals and neurotransmitters are being
refilled in order to heal the person and prepare them for the next day.
Sometimes, individuals will awaken during REM sleep when the body is immobilized and will begin to panic because they cannot move their arms or legs. If a person believes that they are being held down by a force that they cannot see, it is safe to assume they will begin to believe that something negative is in the room with them. It is unknown if the brain is still partly in REM and if the individual is visualizing something that is not there, but was present during a dream.
Nevertheless,
it is very important for the individual that has awoken in this state not to
panic. If this happens to you, first tell yourself that you have awoken during
REM sleep. Second, attempt to get back to sleep because this is the easiest way
to move out of REM and into another stage of sleep. Third, if you have
attempted to go back to sleep, but could not…it is okay. You might feel a
little out-of-sorts for an hour or two, but please know that your body and
brain will catch up to being awake. Your body may feel numb or tingly, but it
should go back to normal within 60-120 minutes. If it does not, please seek a
doctor as you may be experiencing a medical problem.
Do you have a compromised immune system? Do you know someone with a compromised immune system? Are you thinking about getting pregnant or are already pregnant? If so, then you may want to know about Toxoplasmosis.
Millions of
individuals within the United States have the Toxoplasma parasite within their
bodies, but are not impacted by it because their immune system fights it. A person
can be carrying the Toxoplasma gondii parasite and never even know it. The
parasite is more difficult to fight off for individuals with a compromised
immune system or that are pregnant.
The most common way that individuals get the parasite is through ingesting undercooked meat. The most likely meats to carry this parasite are lamb, deer, mussels, pork, clams, and oysters. This can have dire consequences if it is ingested by a woman that is pregnant. This is why it is so important for meat to be fully cooked, countertops to be cleaned both before and after preparation, and to not reuse knives that have cut raw meat to cut other food items like bread. Make sure that all cutting boards, dishes, sinks, countertops, knives, and utensils that have come into contact with raw meat are sufficiently cleaned before they are used again.
Another way that individuals come into contact with the Toxoplasma parasite is through cat feces via the litter box. Pregnant women are asked not to clean a cat’s litter box throughout their pregnancy in case of contamination. 40 weeks may seem like a long time for someone else to clean the cat’s litter box, but it is worth it to keep an unborn baby safe from this parasite.
The most common
symptom of Toxoplasmosis is the aching of muscles much like the flu, but this
will last for more than 4 weeks. If the parasite is able to get strength, it
can damage the eyes, organs, or the brain of the individual. An unborn baby may
show no signs of the parasite at birth or could have eye or brain damage depending
upon the strength of the infection.
There are blood tests that are available for individuals if they have concerns about the parasite. If a pregnant woman tests positive for the parasite, she will need to talk about the risks with her doctor. Sometimes, there are medications available if the healthcare professional believes it to be necessary. Otherwise, it is just important the pregnant woman to remain extra precautious concerning the risks noted above.
If you do
have a cat, you can limit your cat’s chances of becoming infected with the
Toxoplasmosis parasite by keeping them indoors and not feeding them uncooked meat.
If you are the individual changing the litterbox (while not pregnant), cleaning
it out daily will also reduce the chances of picking up the parasite. You do
not need to get rid of your cat if you are going to become pregnant or are
already pregnant. By following some of the recommendations above, you will be
able to reduce your risk of the Toxoplasmosis parasite.
What is wrong with children, today? After moving schools 3 different times from Kindergarten to 6th grade, I finally decided to home-school my son, Kalan. I was a public school teacher for 10 years and left the field quite exhausted, but anxious to begin teaching college. Let me tell you, teaching college is a breeze compared to teaching public school. When I hear professors complain about teaching, I either turn my head and roll my eyes or laugh to myself thinking, “You don’t have a clue!”
I learned how to teach and manage a classroom from my mother and her good friends who were also elementary and middle school educators. As a child, they seemed strict and scary, but as a young adult I recognized how effective and excellent each of them were. They didn’t put up with bullying in their classrooms, they demanded respect from the administration, and fought extremely hard for anything that would benefit their students. When a new teacher came into the district, they offered their advice and assistance and watched over them to make sure they could be successful.
I’m not sure what the hell is happening in public schools, today, but it sure isn’t pretty. My son Kalan was 10 years old when he received his first death threat at school. I wasn’t informed about these death threats until they had gone on for about 4 weeks. My older son, Gabe, had come to me and told me about how upset Kalan was because he was getting “picked on”. Kalan had asked Gabe not to tell me, but Gabe decided after many weeks and seeing Kalan’s distress to break his promise and let me know.
“What are they doing to you?!?” I asked, trying not to show how upset I was.
“They put a bad note on my back,” Kalan replied, not being able to look me in the eye.
“What did the note say, Kalan?” I inquired, trying to remain calm.
“It said, “Kill me, please!”” He answered and then started to cry.
“WHAT?!?” I screamed, jumping from my seat. Kalan must have thought that he was in trouble because he started crying harder. “You are not in trouble, Kalan. I am just super upset at what those kids are doing to you! What else have they been doing?”
“Every time the teacher turns her back, they punch me in the back or kick me when they walk by. They tell all the other kids to kill me as soon as possible,” he murmured.
“WHAT THE HELL?!? WHAT IS THE TEACHER DOING WHEN YOU TELL HER?” I bellowed. I would have never allowed this behavior in my classroom.
“She tells them to stop it or she doesn’t see it happen. They wait till I am in the bathroom and then they come after me,” he replied.
The stories were endless. I can’t even repeat them because they are still so upsetting. I wasn’t even going to bother with writing the teachers. I was going straight to the top, the principal. The letter was quite long that I wrote and I threatened legal action if this wasn’t taken care of. I was quite happy with the quickness of the principal to take care of the issue. Her resolution was to have a “body guard” of sorts to always accompany Kalan wherever he went including to the school bus each afternoon. Given that there weren’t many weeks left before the end of school, I agreed to the changes hoping things would get better. They did until the next school year.
The first month of the next school year seemed to go alright, but October was a mess. I started getting emails from teachers explaining their concerns about Kalan because he was refusing to take part in any activity at the school. It doesn’t take a genius educator to realize there is something wrong with a “shut down student”, but I guess they didn’t teach that in their education courses at college. It was obvious to me that the bullying had started up again and after a diabetic check-up where Kalan had gained 17 pounds in one month, I realized the problem was definitely back again.
I pulled Kalan from school in early November and it was the best decision I’ve ever made. My son was so shut down by the time I signed him out of school that he could barely complete the questions that I asked of him during home-school. In addition, his knowledge of certain subject areas was very behind for his grade level. After working with Kalan for a couple of months, I realized how intelligent he was and how he was completely being left behind in the public school system. Not only was the public school system shoving 30+ students into a classroom at a time, but new teachers did not have the skills to manage a classroom and effectively teach their curriculum.
My mother’s generation would have never allowed this to happen without putting up an enormous fight. These new teachers had no idea how they could fight for their rights as educators. All teachers in Iowa are put on probation for 3 years so if they attempted to fight for their rights, they could be let go without a leg to stand on. Can you guess how many years (on average) that new teachers stay in education? 3 years! It isn’t hard to believe when you walk into a classroom, today, and see the mass chaos that exists. The students are definitely ruling the school in places where there is a lack of experience given teachers, especially with little administrative help.
When parents find out that I home-school, they are always very interested in learning about how to do it. I can’t believe the amount of parents that have “had it” with the public school system and how it is failing their children. Colleges are now seeking out home-school children as they tend to be very well-mannered, have excellent academic skills, and do well on standardized testing. I predict that Iowa and maybe the rest of the United States will see an enormous increase in home-schooled children as parents realize the abuse their children are enduring.
I am happy to report that Kalan is now happy, is advocating for his learning, is excited about learning, and has not asked once to return to public school. He is already 1/4th of the way through his 7th grade curriculum and will probably finish it by December. He is set to finish his 8th grade curriculum by the end of this next school year. It many ways, public school held him back from his full potential. I do not believe that homeschooling is for every student, but I do believe it has its place with students like Kalan. I will keep you up-to-date and let you know how he progresses through the years.
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It was May 12, 2008 and I had a little over 2 weeks of high school to teach before I would be finishing my 6th year of teaching. My mother who had taught elementary and middle school for 32 years told me to keep the kids busy and this would pass the time easier. She was right. My mom was always right when it came to teaching. Even though it was difficult, I really enjoyed teaching in a small town where I knew every single kid in the high school. There were only 2,200 people living in Postville, Iowa and it never bothered me that many of my students were from countries all over the world. In fact, I saw it as a benefit in my social studies classroom.
It was easy to learn the swear words in Spanish, Russian, and other languages spoken in the hallway because those were the words used the most and with the greatest emphasis. “I heard that!” I declared as I passed groups of students in the hall. “If you don’t think I’ve picked up every swear word in every other language from 6 years of teaching here, you must think I’m a fool.” The Russian students looked up from their loud animated discussion and smiled. “Oh, really Mrs. D. What did we just say?” I stopped cold in my tracks and hid a smile before turning back to the group, “If you’d like, I can call your mother and repeat those words to her, if you’d like.” The other Russian students in the group punched their pal and began laughing, speaking in even more dramatic and loud gestures.
I turned my head and continued down the hall and into my classroom. My classroom sat across from the science room and down the hall from my husband, who taught mathematics. This year I had hung flags about my room, especially from each of the countries that my students were originally from. The colorful and historical symbols of Guatemala, Mexico, Russia, Ukraine, and many other nations hung next to one another. There were only 176 students in the whole high school so it made for an especially intimate setting where I could teach and learn about different cultures and historical events. I also taught Government, which I took very seriously knowing that many of my students would be taking their citizenship tests in the future. I had come to Postville, Iowa a decade after flocks of immigrants had arrived in the community because a meat packing plant had moved from the east coast to our small town.
It didn’t take long to begin hearing the controversies surrounding the meat packing plant and its management as well as it employees. Some of the students in the high school were only taking classes part-time because they worked full-time at the meat packing plant. Many of the students were only 14-15 years old and needed to make money to send back to their families in Mexico or Guatemala. They could barely stay awake through many of the classes at school because their hours were so long at the plant. It was my guess that some of those students worked closer to 50-60 hours per week. I had also heard stories about fingers being cut off and management asking for sexual favors in return for employment and fake identification papers. It seemed to me that the poor workers at the plant were often victimized in ways beyond that of the management. I can’t imagine a 90 pound Hispanic girl who cut the heads off live chickens to mastermind her fake documents so she could earn money in the U.S.
It wasn’t my job, though, to deal with whether or not someone was illegal or to question how they arrived at our school. My job was to teach whomever walked through my classroom door no matter their language, knowledge, or skill-base. I loved my students and it was easy to want the best for all of them. These students worked harder than other students I had worked with in the past. They had goals and they knew their successes at school meant future success within our nation. Even though many of the students were 4-5 grade levels behind (as our school often taught 1-2 grade levels behind most districts) the teachers were bound and determined to make up the gap. Many of us were exhausted and often complained about our jobs when we got to the teacher’s lounge for lunch. I often grew tired of the bitching and would eat elsewhere at times, but often returned knowing that it was our way of dealing with what we were being handed.
I entered my abnormally large classroom with the giant windows that faced my home and began making sure my lesson plans and classroom supplies were in order for the day. The students started entering 1-2 at a time, often before the bell rang, to see what we were going to do and make some small chat. You can always tell if students in the high school like you because they will congregate in your room in the morning. They love to pick your brain about topics that you can’t talk about during class and mine especially wanted to know my political thoughts as I would never share them during a Government class. My philosophy was that if I was going to be a great Government teacher, no student in my class should ever know to what political party that I belonged. They could eventually figure it out, but I wanted to give each of them a fair chance to hear both sides or maybe even a third side if it ever arose.
I think I became a really good teacher because of my students and all of their language deficits and cognitive deficits. I will never forget teaching geography for the first time at Postville in my 8th year of teaching and my student’s pre-test “high” score for naming each state in the U.S. was 9. Every student could identify Iowa, Hawaii (but couldn’t spell it), Texas, and some California, but many could not identify even the states bordering Iowa. These were likable and extremely well-mannered kids that could tell you anything about farming, but when asked where they had gone in the United States, they asked, “What do you mean? Like, where have I gone in Iowa? I’ve been to Waterloo and Des Moines and stuff. We went to Des Moines in middle school.” I just stopped, stared wide eyed, and thought, “What? Do you mean you haven’t left Iowa?” A majority of the class shook their heads left to right.
My family had been fairly poor when I was a kid, but we still managed to see Montana, North and South Dakota, Arkansas, Missouri, Nebraska, and in high school I went to Italy and Greece. We couldn’t afford it, but we made due. Even when I attended public school, the theme at the time in education was, “A Classroom Without Walls”, which meant we went to the opera in Minneapolis, MN and went to Taylors Falls for science to learn about geography and the Earth’s history. My humanities teacher took us to art museums, outside sculpture gardens, and to plays. My own mother had made sure to support local theater organizations and brought in artists and residents as often as she could. Along with other like-minded teachers, my mother had organized black speakers to come to our school to teach about tolerance. I grew up in a small town of 2,000 in Spring Valley, MN with only 1 biracial student. I watched the Cosby Show on a regular basis, but never got to interact with anyone that was black. I didn’t know it at the time, but my mother was doing something so extremely important for all of our futures. She was teaching the value of love for others in the classroom no matter what their race, gender, or religion.
Now, I was thriving in a multicultural classroom of my own, but seeing the deficits of poverty, race, immigration, and a lack of equality. My students didn’t have access to birth control like other students did. There was always an average of 2-4 pregnancies that took place each school year and I even went to the funeral of 2 different babies that had been lost to SIDS by my students. I wanted to show them what was in the world through my classroom and I worked my butt off trying to create magic in the subjects of World History, U.S. History, Geography, Government, Economics, Sociology, and Psychology. Yes, I taught all of those classes and it was exhausting! I created caves out of paper where students could take flashlights through and could replicate the artwork of pre-historic times. I wanted them to FEEL what it would be like to be an archaeologist.
I would bring in boxes of sand with gloves and have the students dig for broken pottery pieces that they would have to try and glue back together, all the while plotting what part of the dirt they had found it in. Alongside of that, my word walls read, ARTIFACT, ARCHAEOLOGIST, SETTLEMENT, FOSSIL, etc. I ran psychological experiments, mock trials, choral reading of Greek histories, drew maps, created charts of Chinese dynasties, watched movies like Alexander the Great and JFK, played review games, and everything else I could think of to help these students remember the words, ideas, and themes I was teaching. I wanted to show them how mysterious and wonderful the world was even if I couldn’t take them to all the places that I had once been able to go when I was in school.
A strange buzzing noise in the distance began humming outside my classroom windows. There was an odd repetitive beat to the sound, which seemed to be getting louder and closer to the school each second that passed. We NEVER heard the sound of airplanes in the sky above Postville except for a few small independently owned crafts that would fly overhead when ballgames were playing. I saw a black helicopter start to appear in the distance and my Hispanic students knew what was going on way before I did. Some of them started to hyperventilate, panic, and cry out in distress, rising from their seats and pacing around the room. Finally, in the shouts of Spanish I heard back and forth between the students, I made out the word, “ICE”.
“Immigration???” I asked. “What are they doing here?!?” I started to pace not knowing what to do. All I wanted to do was to protect my students. Many of them weren’t 18 years old and I wasn’t for sure on who was legal or who was illegal. I didn’t care. I had spent the last many years of my life teaching and mentoring these phenomenal little people that I wanted to see do something with their lives. They opened doors for me, brought me food on late nights at the school, the parents were sometimes afraid to look me in the eyes because they had such high respect for teachers that they learned it was disrespectful in their countries to make eye contact. If I had trouble with a student, I rarely called their parents because I knew there would be such harsh punishment when they got home. Just the threat of calling parents was enough to rectify any issue in my classroom.
A few of my students gave me one long stare and then said, “I have to go, Mrs. D. I’m sorry. My family.” I knew what that meant, but I didn’t. They flew open my door, headed to their lockers, grabbed their belongings, and to this day I have never seen them again. I don’t know how they are doing, if they are alive, if they were deported, or if they were able to hide. I didn’t know what to say to my classroom. We just all stood or sat there and stared out the window or attempted to wipe the tears from some of my students faces. I wondered what my husband was doing down the hall or how my daughter in 3rd grade was doing. Come to find out later, my daughter was on her way to music in the high school with her class when the helicopters flew overhead. She didn’t have any idea what was happening, but she said the ones that spoke Spanish began to panic. Some of the kids ran into the high school and others broke down, grasping onto each other. The minute those helicopters flew overhead, there was definitely a difference between the students that knew exactly what was going on versus those that did not.
I turned back to my classroom window to look for the helicopters again and right in front of my eyes, a man with a huge gun and bulletproof vest ran by my window and jumped over the fence to my neighbor’s backyard, right beside my own. When I looked into the distance, I could see other men and women dressed the same way. They seemed to be all over the town, knocking loudly on doors and snatching people that opened them. I felt like I was in one of those movies where a virus is found within a city and the government goes door to door, snatching people from out of their homes. This time, the people had darker hair and darker skin colors and many were my neighbors, my parents, and even were my friends. At the time, I also served as an EMT and later paramedic on the ambulance crew and my pager went off, “Attention! Postville Ambulance! Potential stabbing at Agriprocessers. Potential Stabbing at Agriprocessers.”
I knew most of the ambulance crew was going to be at work and there would be few staff to man the rig. I ran down to the office and asked the principal if I could go. He looked at me and probably didn’t even comprehend what I was saying given everything that was going on. He just shook his head up and down and I flew out the door before he could ask me anymore questions. I flew in my vehicle down to the ambulance station and our sirens roared to life as we exited the garage and headed to the plant. As we neared the factory, I was shocked by what I saw. There was a sea of black EVERYWHERE! There had to be 500-600 ICE agents all in bullet proof vests with black boots, black hats, and what looked to be huge machine gun looking weapons.
A chill ran through my body. I’d never seen anything like it! As the gates opened to the plant, the sea of black had to shift aside as we drove toward the door that had the man we needed to pick up. The ambulance had to slow down because if it didn’t give the agents time to move, we would have hit them. There were so many! As I looked out the window to my left, I saw rows and rows of Hispanic people on their knees and already chained together. An agent with a gun stood to the back of each chained individual with their weapons ready for any resistance. When we finally got to the back of the factory, I exited the ambulance and headed to the changing room where the stabbing had taken place. The minute I arrived, an ICE agent came to my side and began “briefing me”.
“This was not a stabbing, The suspect ran and we chased him around this bench and he cut his leg across this bench,” the agent replied as if I was stupid and would readily take his story as fact. He attempted to speak in Spanish to the Hispanic man, but the man did not reply back. It was well-known throughout the community that if you were caught doing something, you didn’t say anything until you had a lawyer. “He’s not going to talk to you,” I said, “So, you might as well not even try.” I just looked at the agent like he was stupid and then turned back to the wound.
The laceration was a couple inches long and at a point on the leg where it was impossible for him to have been cut by the bench. I looked back at the agent and raised an eyebrow and pursed my lips. Did he think people from Iowa were stupid? Again, the agent started the story that he had once tried to tell me and I stopped him with my hand. “I’m not stupid! Don’t treat me like I’m stupid. I don’t care what badge you are wearing. I need to take this man into the hospital.” I asked for the cart to be brought out and my patient remained completely silent, while we loaded him into the back of the ambulance. “We have to go with you, to protect you and make sure he doesn’t get away or do anything,” another ICE agent stated as we neared the ambulance. I rolled my eyes again at him and said, “This is my ambulance. Stay out of my way.” I was pissed. I am still pissed to this day. I knew this was going to change everything with our school and community and that ICE was going to leave, believing that they had completed a great task, but yet had ruined the lives of hundreds.
“Hey, are you guys going to the hospital???” Another ICE agent yelled in glee as we loaded up. “I wanna go!”
“Me, too!” Another ICE agent yelled.
Two more ICE agents loaded themselves into the back of the ambulance and I remained quiet while I took care of my patient. The ambulance took off toward a town 20 miles from us to a local hospital and I began taking vitals and covering the wound. I made notations about it and everything the ICE agents had said, all the while one of the ICE agents looking over my shoulder. I didn’t care what he thought of my notes, I wrote the summary as accurately as I could. If I had to go to court someday, I planned on telling the truth.
“Do you have to put an IV in him? I totally want to do it if I can! I totally want to put an IV in that thing,” one of the ICE agents asked. “EXCUSE ME?” I snapped! “You are talking about a human being here! Why are talking about him in such a manner?!?” I was livid. “Ya, totally a great human being,” the ICE agent replied sarcastically. “The man has basically stolen someone’s identity and has broken the law. I wouldn’t call him a great human being!” The agent replied. “I was always taught by my parents to value human life and its sanctity. I’m sorry you weren’t taught the same.” I didn’t care what trouble I got in for responding this way. No one would look at a public school teacher and volunteer EMT/paramedic as a law breaking anti-government criminal! I was female, too!
All I wanted was to take care of my patient and make sure his wound was treated and that there was justice brought to whomever did this to him and to this day, I will never know. This was the day that changed everything for me. I have always remained strong and hard in the face of chaos and emotional times. I think it comes from a long line of women in my family that have consistently fought injustice, believe in feminism, and fight for those that cannot fight for themselves. I could talk further about how some of the children from the elementary school were never picked up at the end of the day because both of their parents were taken by ICE, but I won’t. I could tell you about my daughter’s class and how it went from 17 to 9 overnight and somehow each teacher had to somehow move forward not knowing if they would have a job again next year. 20% of our population was taken overnight! Can you imagine 20% of your town disappearing overnight?!?
I didn’t want to teach Government anymore in high school because I no longer believed that I could present both sides in an equal fashion. I get really angry when I hear people share false information about immigration or state awful things about Hispanic people because those people have names to me. They would have dropped everything to come and help you put on a new roof if a storm came through and blew yours off, without expecting anything in return. They were the individuals that would be walking down the sidewalk and come help move boxes out of car and into my garage because they were taught to always help women move heavy items. These individuals had families and children that were already citizens and an established life in a small town in Iowa. The economy of Postville grew greatly because of these wonderful families and when we lost 20% overnight. It devastated our community.
I stayed only one year after the raid. My heart hurt, I was exhausted, and I needed to make a difference in the world. It has been 10 years and I still don’t like talking about the raid. I have had to turn off the news multiple times hearing about the border and children in cages. Those children have names. They have ideas and dreams about the future. I was proud to serve this community for as long as I could and it taught me so much about love, tolerance, and the United States. I still have hope for the future and I will share this story if it means it will help to make a difference. Life is too short to harm those that only want to better themselves and take care of those they love. Please get to know others that are different than you. You will be surprised at what you learn.
The artist for this piece was one of the students at the high school during the immigration raid in Postville, Iowa. His name is William Toj and he was one of the amazing students from this school.
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Our family’s lives changed forever on January 8th, 2017. It was 10:00 P.M. at night and Mike had already gone to sleep. He had to be up bright and early to teach mathematics at Jefferson High School in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. My daughter was a senior at Jefferson and would accompany him each morning to meet her friends early. My older son Gabe was now in middle school and my youngest son Kalan was in 4th grade. It was a wild time in our lives as I was working from home and was dropping and picking up the boys from school each day. Buses refused to pick up any child that did not live at least 3 miles from the school. How times had changed since I was a kid.
Our family (the Dillon family) had just bought a home for $92,000 and was hoping to flip it within 2 years and resell it. Every single part of the home needed a face lift including a coat of paint, a new kitchen, new doors, a restructuring of the backyard, etc. My husband came home each and every day to half projects after a full day of school. The work exhausted him as it wasn’t his favorite thing to do. He couldn’t stand living in a home that had a “to-do-list” the size of a small notebook. My husband has Autism Spectrum Disorder (what used to be called Asperger’s Disorder) and so does my daughter and oldest son. My family is probably one of the unique anybody will ever meet. We are a family of nerds that love mathematics, science, and neuroscience and could probably do really well on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire or Jeopardy. We are exceptionally good at escape rooms, but if you asked us to be on your softball team you would definitely regret that decision.
Anytime we get a little extra money, our family goes to escape rooms.
I had just settled into bed when Kalan ran into the bedroom holding his stomach. “Oh, my God, Mom! You gotta take me to the doctor! I’m in so much pain! Please hurry, Mom! It hurts!” This was the child that broke his arm falling off the top bunk bed and didn’t bat an eyelash. He ran around for a whole week without us realizing he had broken his arm. By the time my husband brought him to the emergency room, they had to transfer him to LaCrosse, Wisconsin for surgery because his “green stick fracture” wasn’t lined up properly. Those are the wonderful times in parenthood where you believe you are truly the worst parent in the world. “Come on, Mom! Please it hurts!” Kalan cried.
I jumped out of bed and woke Mike up. Mike had this keen ability to know when I meant business and ran to find the keys to the car. I thought for sure Kalan was having an appendicitis by the amount of pain he was displaying and I knew that time was of the essence. My EMT and Paramedic training had prepared me for a variety of medical emergencies and this was one that I knew was very serious. I had gotten a call earlier that week from his elementary school teacher that he had been falling asleep in class. This didn’t surprise me as Kalan refused to go to bed at night. He would pretend to be sleeping long enough for me to go back to bed and then find him up hours later when I had to go to the bathroom. So, to have Kalan falling asleep in class didn’t surprise me given his night hours he kept.
Not only was Kalan falling asleep in class, but he was falling asleep when he got home from school. Maybe he was just growing? What seemed too strange were the black circles that were appearing underneath his eyes. He looked like a character in a movie that was possessed by the Devil and needed an exorcism. It was scary! We jumped into the car and Kalan and I got in the backseat. He wouldn’t wear a seat belt because he was rocking back and forth because of the pain and holding his stomach. “Please! Please hurry!” He cried as our vehicle zoomed down the city streets. In truly “Kalan-like” fashion, he recognized the Taco Bell as we passed it and cried out, “Wait, do you think we can stop for a slushy?” I couldn’t help, but laugh. Kalan’s mind was constantly on food even when he was in tremendous pain.
I ignored his request as we turned toward the hospital and Mike pulled in front of the emergency room doors. I know I wasn’t very nice to the front desk woman, the triage nurse, or the emergency room staff, but call it mother’s intuition. I was panicking and I knew it. It wasn’t difficult to tell the hospital staff that had children and it took about 10 minutes to get back into a room. I paced the small space and kept looking out the door for the doctor to come. A paramedic came into the room and began to ask questions. I asked each one and eventually the doctor came in. One look at Kalan and he knew something was very off. Kalan couldn’t answer the doctor’s questions, was stumbling on his words, and was still rocking in pain. I explained my concerns about an appendicitis and his symptoms and the doctor agreed. Blood tests were ordered and everything was put into “rush mode”. FINALLY! I thought to myself.
What felt like an hour, which was probably only 20 minutes the doctor raced back into the room. “Your son has diabetes.” The doctor didn’t mince words. It just kind of flew out of his mouth. Someday, when I die…I am going to ask God to let me see the doctor’s view of Mike and my faces during this statement. I have never felt my mouth drop so wide open without any control over it. I am pretty sure my husband’s mouth dropped open as well. We were in absolute shock! “Is there anyone in your immediate family that has Type 1 Diabetes?” the doctor asked. “No, not at all! I have a cousin with it,” I gasped, hoping that would help. “No, definitely not what I am talking about. So, no one in the family has Type 1?” He asked again. In the next 4 days, we would be asked this question by a multitude of doctors and nurses and each one of them seemed shock by our answer, “No.”
When I figured out that Type 1 Diabetes was an autoimmune disorder, it made complete sense to me. I have Celiac Disease and so does Kalan. I also have hypothyroidism as does my husband and my oldest daughter. Since getting the diagnosis of Celiac Disease, I realized that that put our family at risk for other autoimmune disorders. I had to explain this to many of the doctors and nurses because surprisingly, they didn’t always understand the connection. I am definitely a Celiac that knows everything about their own disorder. I do the research on restaurants, I grill the cooks and waitresses, and when I can afford it, I am going to buy the machine that can tell whether or not the food has gluten or not.
“Your son is extremely sick and we don’t know if he is going to make it through this or not,” the doctor stated. “His pH is so off that we need to get him a brain scan to make sure his brain didn’t swell to the point where it cut off circulation. He is going to be in the hospital for awhile. Do you see these circles under his eyes? Those are from dehydration. The water going into him isn’t being used for what is body needs it for. We are going to get an IV in him as soon as possible. If we can’t get it into the arm, we are going to try for his feet.” I had been very strong up to this point, but asked to leave the room for a few minutes. I didn’t want Kalan to see me crying. When I reached the hall, I burst into tears. I began calling family and friends even though it was 1 A.M. in the morning, by now. I tried to explain to each of my family members what was happening, but it was too late at night for them to realize what was going on. Mike joined me in the hall, knowing that I wasn’t doing well and comforting me into his arms.
Kalan in the hospital having just been diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes.
We reentered Kalan’s room to find a paramedic trying to find an adequate vein. She knew and I knew that each stick was going to be futile. I had worked in an emergency room department for enough hours as an EMT/paramedic to know this wasn’t going to happen very easily. 4-5 sticks later, the paramedic used an ultrasound underneath Kalan’s arm, almost into his armpit and slid the IV needle into place. I silently thanked God for helping this to happen and prayed for Kalan to make it through this. When they got him into stable, they moved him to the pediatric wing of the hospital and explained to us that they did not have a pediatric ICU. The staff explained to us that they knew the nursing staff in the pediatric unit knew exactly what they were doing and that they were given ICU-like protocol for our son.
They moved our son through the emergency room halls into the elevator and through more halls and floors. It was a maze and I wondered how the staff knew where they were going. The minute we arrived on the pediatric wing, the nursing staff was waiting. We could not have asked for a more caring, empathetic, knowledgeable, and amazing nursing staff that greeted us at the door. They settled Kalan right in like a grandmother would her beloved grandchildren. They whispered to him and nurtured him, telling him that everything was going to be okay. With the comfort they offered him, Mike and I began to breathe again knowing that he was in the best hands possible. The nurses knew that neither of us was going to leave for the night and prepared our beds alongside of his bed. Kalan still couldn’t make complete sentences and we watched with acute attention as the nurses came in and took his blood sugar and answered our questions. Kalan had been close to a blood sugar of 800 when he arrived at the hospital. I couldn’t tell you what he was at by the time that he arrived at his room in the pediatric wing. It was a blur.
In the next 4 days, we would be “trained” in everything Type 1 Diabetes including how to take a blood sugar, what strips were, how to run a blood sugar meter, how to use an insulin pen to inject insulin, how to count carbs, how to mathematically convert this to an insulin dosage, what to do if he had a low, and what to do if he had a high. We received backpacks from a national and state foundation for youth with diabetes that included a stuffed bear with injection points, children’s books about having diabetes, adult books about diabetes, leaflets, and pamphlets. It was the longest and shortest 4 days of our lives. After 4 days at the hospital, we would be expected to take our son home and care for his every need as a diabetic. I felt bad for my husband and daughter that did not have any medical background. I had lived with a Type 1 Diabetic for 6 years as my mother had married again after a failed marriage. He was a fragile diabetic with extremely dramatic lows that even in my 300 ambulance runs had never seen anything like it.
Kalan wasn’t himself for the first two days in the hospital.
I was now going to have to raise a child with that horrible disease? I soon found out that a blood sugar of 60 meant extremely different things to different diabetics. It was difficult to figure out if my son was high or low because he acted basically the same as if his blood sugar was normal. It might take him dropping to 48-52 before he noticed any difference. This left our family in sheer panic. We didn’t have long to get him something to eat before he would completely refuse to eat. Mike and I began settling our alarm each night to every hour and a half to check Kalan’s blood sugar. If he had problems with lows or highs at night, I would stay up with him 24/7 to make sure he was okay. Luckily, Mike’s mother came to help and make meals while we tried to adapt to a whole new life of asking for blood glucose levels every 90 minutes.
This happens more than we want to admit. Children just want to be normal and eat normally without having a shot after everything they eat.
Flash forward 2 years, not much is different than it was when we returned home from the hospital. The nursing staff did their best with preparing us for a life at home with a child diabetic, but there are so many things we had to learn on our own. The first fact we figured out after perusing the grocery store and looking at every label in the place was that there are little to no foods that have zero carbs. Meat and cheese were the only items my child could eat without it drastically changing his blood sugar. What made this even more difficult was that Kalan had to be gluten free because of his Celiac Disease. If you have ever looked at gluten free food, you will realize it is extremely expensive. We had 5 in the family that had to eat gluten free and now we were going to have to pay for insulin and diabetic supplies.
It became obvious very quickly that Kalan was going to cheat and sneak food that we didn’t know about. When we tested him every 90 minutes and found his blood sugar at 400, we would ask what he had eaten and his response was, “Nothing! I promise!” We felt terrible interrogating him about eating food, but we felt like we had no other option. At this point, my job for Western Governors University was falling by the wayside and there was great pressure from them for me to quit. I honestly couldn’t take the harassment and the constant phone calls from my supervisor to “be better than this” even though she had no idea what I was going through each day. I finally decided during a phone call to let it go. I remember after that phone call praying to God to help us financially through this situation. It only became more difficult.
When Mike and I found out that Kalan could get an insulin pump and that he wouldn’t have to wait 2 hours in-between meals, we jumped at the chance. We were shocked to find out we were going to have to fork out $8,000 to attain one. With the help of our family and friends and through a gofundme page, we were able to get a pump for our son. What we didn’t realize was how much we were going to have to pay per month for the insertion sets, the tubing, the insulin, and the containers that hold the insulin inside the pump. Mike and I have always been of the mentality that we could “find a way” financially if it were for the good of our children. To get through the 6 month period after our son’s diagnosis, we had to borrow about $10,000.00 to make ends meet and two years later, we are still paying that back. We had to sell our home and move into a trailer to be able to pay for everything that our son needed. I am still at home taking care of my son who I pulled from public school because they couldn’t take care of his Type 1 Diabetes and because he was getting death threats, but that is a whole other blog.
Our new normal and its high price tag.
When times are tough and we don’t have any money, I remind myself that there are many families that are going through struggles. At least he isn’t in a wheelchair and doesn’t lack the ability to use the bathroom. We are still a functioning family unit that loves each other greatly and still laughs and smiles. We just have tremendous anxiety about the future and how we are going to pay for it all. I get so angry at this disease and how I can’t go out and have a full-time job and be productive, but than I remind myself that my son is alive and I need to be grateful. It is hard to hear about all the adventures that my sister and brothers are doing with their kids. There is no way we could afford the homes and adventures they get to go on.
No matter where we live and how little money we have, we always find a way to have fun and laugh.
It’s hard for me to even spend time with them because they want to go everywhere and do everything and all I want is to sleep without the fear of my son dying while I am “out” for a couple of hours. My son can drop 200 points on blood glucose levels within 45 minutes with no rationale or reasoning. My lack of alertness can be his end, which doesn’t sit too well with me. He doesn’t wake up during his lows or highs like other diabetics. Can you imagine being woken up in the middle of the night 3-4 times to get “fed” food to increase his blood sugar? I can’t stand the looks on my relative’s faces when they see Kalan and how much weight he has gained. They look at me like I am a horrible parent and I have to suck down the anger that I feel and not scream, “Hello?!? How skinny could you stay being fed 3-4 bowls of cereal a night? Assholes!”
If your family can’t understand the situation, who would? Diseases of childhood are particularly tough because they not only affect the child, but they also impact the family. I wish there was more support for this disease, financially and emotionally. My son is truly my hero. He takes his diabetes in stride and does almost everything that we ask of him. His poor little fingers have such tough calluses that he doesn’t even notice the needles that consistently poke his fingers. He has never cried about having Type 1 Diabetes. Kalan has just rolled with the punches and learns each day how to take care of his disease as much as he can without the help of others. I just continue to follow his every move, keeping him alive and wondering how a stay-at-home mom can fulfill her own dreams, someday. I have to believe that there is a reason for everything and that hopefully our own experience will help someone else out someday. I have worked too damn hard to keep this amazing young man alive and I believe he will change the world, for the good.
My hero…Kalan Dillon.
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My second year of teaching high school in 2003-2004, didn’t prove to be much easier than the first. At some level, I knew I had depression, but I didn’t want to get on any medication for it. I was raised in a family where anti-depressants were feared. I heard my mother say, “You know, she’s on anti-depressants.” My father would say, “I don’t need pills. I’m not crazy.” To this day, I still believe my mother, oldest sister, and two brothers believe that taking anti-depressants makes a person weak. At the most recent Christmas (2018), my younger brother had a moment alone with my daughter (who was 18 years old at the time) and she happened to share with him that she was on anti-depressants. Instead of finding out why, my brother began telling her that she needed to get “off those things” and that she could simply think her way through bouts of depression. My daughter left the conversation feeling deflated, unsuccessful, and that she wasn’t good enough. I was pissed when she told me what he said.
When I started my first year of teaching in 2002-2003, I was very optimistic. I double majored in sociology and political science at a 4 year college, only to have no idea of what I wanted to do with my life. I grew up in a nuclear and extended family of public school teachers. Holidays were spent with relatives talking about school administration, funny answers students gave to questions posed in class, and different curriculum ideas that aunts and uncles had attempted in their classrooms. In college, I had met my future husband whose name was Mike and he was a perfect fit for my extended family. He was striving to be a high school mathematics instructor so when I introduced him to the family, he instantly found allies among them. It was during Mike’s student teaching, that I began to substitute teach and realized the talent I had for explaining hard concepts to students. I heard students say, “I wish you could be our teacher. I learned more in this one day than I’ve learned in the last month.”
My hilarious husband at the wax museum in Las Vegas, Nevada.
I substitute taught for a couple months before I returned back to school to earn my teaching license. Social studies had always interested me so I decided to get a third major, which would be called a Social Science Comprehensive Major. I earned this degree at the University of Wisconsin, Platteville, which greatly prepared me for the classroom. I can’t understate my preparedness for the classroom also came from my nuclear and extended family, though. Being raised in an extended family with 17 public school educators provided me with a plethora of classroom management techniques, curriculum ideas, and many role models that I could seek out if I needed help. I took to teaching like a pro. I definitely wasn’t the best instructor at the school, but I was much more prepared than most first year teachers that enter the classroom.
My husband and I took jobs as educators with a small rural school district in the northeast portion of Iowa. The district had taken a risk on hiring a husband and wife to teach within the same high school, but we were committed to excellence and giving the most we could to our occupations. It wasn’t long before we got involved in extra-curricular activities beyond teaching full-time. Small school districts often have teachers fulfill the role of sports coaches, speech teachers, musical directors, prom advisers, student council directors, math teams, mock trial coaches, and field trip coordinators. To say that I worked from 8-3:30 P.M. would be a joke. Those were the contracted hours teachers were expected to be present. Often times, I didn’t leave the school until 6-9 P.M. In 2002-2003, my first paycheck (take-home-pay) for 1 month of teaching was $1,450.00. My husband’s paycheck was nearly the same. Getting involved in coaching or advising extra-curricular activities helped to earn extra money for our family. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
It was during a high school basketball game and in a small concession stand that I started to notice strange changes in my body and my thinking. My husband was the junior class adviser at the time and I had to wait for him to finish running and closing the concession stand before we could go home. It was 8-9 P.M. before we could begin to head home. It is hard to describe (even to this day) what that bodily thought process looked like. It was almost like a casting out or a rejection of all events related to the school. It was so confusing because I had worked so hard to get my teaching license. Why was I now starting to reject being at school and teaching? As the days moved on, the feeling inside my body and mind became worse and worse. I started to reject driving to extra-curricular activities to direct and coach on the weekends. Couldn’t I have 1 or 2 days to myself?
The minute that we were home, my daughter needed my time, but it felt like I had nothing left to give. I resented her. I resented my husband. I just couldn’t get my body or mind to get excited about “going to school” and I began to sit on the couch at home and stare at the television, although I realized I wasn’t watching it. Each day my legs and arms felt more heavy and I wondered how I was ever going to get through the school year? I didn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel anymore because there were still over 100 days left of the school year. If I called in sick too many days, students and community members would begin to talk. The town that I taught only had 2,000 citizens and they seemed to know everything about the teachers at the school as well as aspects of their personal life.
Sick again and my beloved best friend Arnold.
My body refused to care what the citizens of the school district, thought, though. What made the matter so much worse was that I had Celiac Disease and after seeing over 30-40 doctors within the last 10 years, no one had figured out the diagnosis, yet. It wasn’t abnormal for me to throw up once or twice a morning before heading to school and feeling nauseated throughout the day. Feeling terrible with no energy was more my normal than my exception. During my student teaching, I had to hide my throwing up from my cooperating teacher. There were times where I would head to the bathroom or even throw up in the wastebasket next to my desk. No doctor seemed to want to believe me. Even when I arrived at the emergency room and almost passed out in the bushes next to the hospital doors and the doctor found only scants of water in my system, he still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me.
It was time to send me to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN where if they couldn’t find out what was wrong with me, no one could. My husband and I went to the emergency room, were steered to another room, met more doctors and were shifted again, until finally they put me in the hospital so that endocrinologists could look at my case. Mike and I had brought all my records and scans with me and I was told that they would look at these and talk about my case. They attempted to feed me and I picked at a hamburger they had brought and swallowed it, trying not to vomit it up and knowing this food would give me the important energy that I needed to try and get better. The next morning, I was told by a doctor that they had looked through all my records and scans and had decided that I probably had some psychological issue that I needed to see therapy for. Are you kidding me?
We left the Mayo Clinic without any answers. I ended up seeing a psychologist and getting a psychological evaluation only to be told that I was normal. There didn’t seem to be any answers left. This was my normal. I was going to be nauseated, dizzy, and throw up almost every day of my life. When my body began rejecting school, my daughter, my husband, and all other aspects of my life I couldn’t get up anymore. I couldn’t get out of bed or off the couch. My legs were in pain. I couldn’t concentrate. I felt like I was 500 pounds and it was exhausting to get up and go to the bathroom. I thought I was going to die. And this whole time, I couldn’t get over the need to just rest and relax my body. I had to provide for my family. I was going to lose my job. We lived paycheck to paycheck and I couldn’t lose my job.
Arnold is always hyper-aware to how I am feeling.
My husband didn’t know what to do. I begged him to stay home with me because I worried that I would kill myself if left alone for too long. I think many men wouldn’t have lasted what Mike did. He did his best to balance everything out. It became obvious that we were going to need to move closer to the town in which we both worked in order to get through all of this. I finally decided to make one more doctor’s appointment with a local guy that I had heard was extremely good. I knew that something beyond mental illness was wrong with me, but at this point…I couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you think I might have Depression?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. The doctor smiled and asked, “You might. Do you think you have Depression?” I explained to him all the tests that we had been through and that there was no answer. I was truly at my last straw. I asked that doctor a million questions before I took my prescription for an anti-depressant that truly changed my life and its meaningful pathway.
Within 3 days, I could get up from my bed and carry a load of clothes from the washer to the couch. The doctor told me it would take 6 weeks for the medications to fully get into my system, but I was feeling it already. I didn’t know anything about antidepressants other than the negative things my family had said about them. I couldn’t believe that something my family had said was so bad, could be helping me this much! Little by little, I started to move again and not feel the heaviness of my body in everything that I did. My mind seemed to have hope again. I started to have goals and wanted to go back to school and to teaching. I was still nauseated and throwing up almost every morning, but a little bit of strength could take me a long way. I was finally going to go back to teaching and was starting to feel an enjoyment toward it again.
In the 6 weeks of teaching that I missed, I also lost 40 pounds so it wasn’t hard to convince the staff or administration that I had been ill. I wasn’t a big fan of the principal at this time, but he seemed to have an innate knowledge of what was going on. Without saying that he thought I had depression, he asked me to come back half days and then had a teacher within the classroom with me when I started back in case I needed to suddenly go home. I know that he got it and he was amazing with helping me back and feeling comfortable and confident. I don’t know what it was about this time that I started to get really serious about figuring out why I was throwing up every day. Maybe it was the hope that this antidepressant had given me about the future.
Optimistic teachers that believed we could change the world.
It was a couple years later when the doctors finally figured out why I was so nauseated and throwing up each day. I was in LaCrosse, Wisconsin visiting an endocrinology specialist about my wonky thyroid that didn’t seem to want to balance itself. My numbers were all over the board. I remember telling the doctor, “I’m not taking that damn thyroid medicine. It is making me sick!” The doctor rolled his eyes and snapped back, “Fine! We’ll do an absorption test if that will make you happy.” It didn’t. Visiting the doctor for any reason didn’t make me happy. I didn’t have any faith in them anymore so I avoided them at all costs.
I knew that the test was going to be worthless, just like the hundreds of other tests they had conducted on me. From spinning me around in a chair to investigate my vertigo to drinking awful substances for a variety of scans, nothing was conclusive. I was surprised to get a phone call the next day from the endocrinology specialist saying that my absorption blood test was a little off. “What does that mean?” I asked, praying for an answer to three decades of feeling awful. “Well, it means you could have Celiac Disease, but I doubt it is the case. Your blood test showed it was just a little off. We would like to put a camera down your throat and check your duodenum to see if you have Celiac Disease.” I agreed to schedule an appointment and then looked on the Internet to see what Celiac Disease was. The symptoms made too much sense. “Oh my God, Mike! I think I have Celiac Disease!” A week later, the doctor took one look at my small intestine and I remember him saying, “Positive. Celiac Sprue.”
It took another week to meet with a physician assistant who gave me the official diagnosis and was so caring and empathetic that I could have cried. He told me that I would have to follow a gluten free diet and would be meeting with a nutritionist to find out what I could and could not eat. I would now need to avoid wheat, barley, rye, malt, and oats. Excuse me? What the heck was I going to eat, now? I would also need to be concerned with cross-contamination. What the heck is cross-contamination? I dove head first into understanding my own disease. A pencil point of wheat could damage the intestines?
My children Sydney, Gabe, and Kalan.
It took many months to learn about my disorder, but I was determined to feel better again. I told Mike that I wanted 1 more dinner of gluten before I went completely gluten free and that I was going to celebrate a gluten free birthday each year to feel better about my situation. I had Chinese food on my last night of gluten and I never looked back. I wanted to see what feeling healthy felt like. My friends were the first to notice the change. “You are so different. I can’t believe it! You don’t get grouchy anymore and you have so much energy, now.” What do you mean grouchy?
I didn’t want to admit that sometimes I couldn’t handle having people around and would lie in bed and not answer the phone because I thought I was going to “lose it” if I had to talk to anyone. They were right. I did look and feel so much better! The energy was the biggest shift. I couldn’t believe the lack of pain in my body. My legs were the biggest change. It had always felt like I had the flu 24/7 in my legs and the pain was completely gone. I basically now had zero depression and no anxiety. There was no longer any tightness in my stomach or in my neck. I couldn’t believe it! It was hard not to feel so angry, but so blessed. I didn’t realize that I would have to mourn the 32 years of my life that were somewhat stripped from me because of food that I thought was healthy. I was angry, but now I finally had answers. I wanted to share my story with others, but was quite angry with my family’s reaction. “We really thought you were faking all the illness,” they stated matter-of-fact. “Are you kidding me?” I asked, furious. I knew I was getting nasty looks from them each time I told them I didn’t feel good and no one seemed to have any empathy. Nothing is worse than feeling like crap for years only to have those closest to you, not believe you.
My sister and I at her wedding.
I don’t wish this disorder on anyone, but many years past my diagnosis my sister was diagnosed with the same disorder. I got a phone call from her, apologizing for her behavior and stating that she just didn’t understand how I felt or what I was going through. I was glad to have the apology and maybe some much needed empathy, but not in a manner that she would have to suffer. My sister has asked me questions about whether or not cross-contamination brings me anxiety or depressive symptoms and I answer her, “Yes, absolutely.” The most important part of the whole story is that I always believed myself and I always believed the signals that my body was providing me with. I had to fight hard for myself and my needs and it wasn’t easy, but I am proud that I can now help others navigate their journey. I have an empathy for physical and mental illness that extends way beyond what most doctors have and I have given my life to teaching about mental illness and helping to prevent its stigma.
I teach psychology at the community college level, now. I have had soldiers from Afghanistan and Iraq each semester that are struggling with their own depression, anxiety, and PTSD. I do not tell them to get on medication as a solution to all their problems. I teach about the physiology of the human brain and neurotransmitters such as dopamine and serotonin. Then, I tell them about my story and how medication changed my life. In a world where media, some healthcare establishments, and the general public still see antidepressants as “pill pushing” and not dealing with your own problems, I teach about the biopsychological aspects of depression and that it is no different from having Type 1 Diabetes (which my youngest son has). A person cannot think their pancreas to produce insulin just as an individual cannot think themselves to produce more serotonin or dopamine.
My life’s purpose is in direct contrast to what most of society attempts to say, but antidepressants saved my life. I believe they have saved the lives of many of my students and has opened the door to an understanding of the disease that doesn’t seem to be covered accurately. I have recently started a YouTube channel to help spread the truth about mental illness and its stigma. If you are interested in learning more about the human brain, Major Depression, various anxiety disorders, or any other mental illness please check out my YouTube channel below. If you like any of the merchandise below, please consider purchasing it as it helps me to continue my blog and YouTube channel through affiliate marketing. It is greatly appreciated!
Where Mental Health Meets the Road 