Dora and Life
I know I haven't posted on here for a while. There are many reasons for this, but, on a blog about life with fainting, I thought I'd post some of the good reasons for my absence.
Life with Dora- The Amazing Fainting Alert Dog!
On August 20, 2012, I drove to Auburn and picked up the newest addition to my family, a 3 year old black lab named Dora who could detect the fainting. She completed training on October 20, 2012.
This dog has completely changed my life. I am still fainting, but not nearly as much as I was- she has cut it by more than half. It has been an adventure for both of us. Here are a few things I have learned about living with a service dog.
1. Dora is far more popular than I am. Half the neighborhood refers to me as Dora or Dora's mom.
2. Dora is the best icebreaker I have met.
3. I am now the current neighborhood expert on all things dog- people will actually come up to me and ask where I got the dog and what kind of dog they should get.
4. Dora is able to calm passengers down in the airport and using the famous puppy dog eyes, able to weasel chicken out of other passengers.
5. Next to the wedding dress, Dora's bow is the most talked about piece of attire at the wedding.
6. You have learned that your dog is a good judge of character- if she doesn't like someone, there is a reason.
7. You will get up at strange hours to take your dog out.
8. You have to acknowledge the very real possibility that Dora may be smarter than you sometimes.
I have learned so much from her. She has helped me in ways that I can't even name. I am lucky to have you.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Elegy for Baby N
A good friend of my brother's lost his baby last night. I don't know what to say to the parents, (for the purposes of this post I will simply call them ND, NM, and BabyN). The only think to say is that Baby N is in a far better place and that my prayers are with them.
Baby N was only with us for six short months. He was born prematurely, on a cold December night, but was due in March. He spent his brief life in the hospital and in the NICU. Everyday, his mother, like all mothers, was with him. She shared him with us- every joy and every struggle and pictures on facebook. She walked for premature babies- not just her own, but all the other children who were in the nicu, too. She was his biggest cheerleader and greatest admirer. His father was too. Now this family, has lost its baby. I don't know what to say.
I don't know what to say to my brother- who is scrambling to get work done to be at his best friend's side during this horrible time. (ND is my brother's best friend and has been for years.) I don't know what to say to NM, except that she will always be a mother, thank her for sharing this journey with us, and give thanks that BabyN is now whole and free in that place "where he will walk and not faint, run and not be weary." I can pray and I can write and so that is what I will do.
So, dearest boy, this poem is for you:
You came into this world on a cold night
refusing to wait any longer to see the light or hear the keys on your father's calculator, you couldn't wait to see the parents you were given.
On that night, you knitted together a family and you, though, you were fragile and young began your own fight to live.
You charmed nurses with your smile.
Your mother was proud of her little boy and with every picture she showed it. Soon, you were charming the rest of us from your cradle in the hospital. Doctors were baffled that you were here at all- but determined and strong you fought with all you had. You proved many wrong.
But, eventually, you heard that other song, you saw those other lights,
you heard that other voice.
This voice was the one you had heard once before, the one who brought you here, the one who, like you was born on a cold winter's night.
His light was too strong, his voice so warm, and you knew that it was time for you to see him again.
You fought to the last, but went to the one who made you.
It wouldn't surprise me if you told him to keep this family together.
And now, dearest child, you are at peace.
All we can do is give thanks to God for you, and ask that you give the family you made that same peace.
Go with God and be thankful.
.
A good friend of my brother's lost his baby last night. I don't know what to say to the parents, (for the purposes of this post I will simply call them ND, NM, and BabyN). The only think to say is that Baby N is in a far better place and that my prayers are with them.
Baby N was only with us for six short months. He was born prematurely, on a cold December night, but was due in March. He spent his brief life in the hospital and in the NICU. Everyday, his mother, like all mothers, was with him. She shared him with us- every joy and every struggle and pictures on facebook. She walked for premature babies- not just her own, but all the other children who were in the nicu, too. She was his biggest cheerleader and greatest admirer. His father was too. Now this family, has lost its baby. I don't know what to say.
I don't know what to say to my brother- who is scrambling to get work done to be at his best friend's side during this horrible time. (ND is my brother's best friend and has been for years.) I don't know what to say to NM, except that she will always be a mother, thank her for sharing this journey with us, and give thanks that BabyN is now whole and free in that place "where he will walk and not faint, run and not be weary." I can pray and I can write and so that is what I will do.
So, dearest boy, this poem is for you:
You came into this world on a cold night
refusing to wait any longer to see the light or hear the keys on your father's calculator, you couldn't wait to see the parents you were given.
On that night, you knitted together a family and you, though, you were fragile and young began your own fight to live.
You charmed nurses with your smile.
Your mother was proud of her little boy and with every picture she showed it. Soon, you were charming the rest of us from your cradle in the hospital. Doctors were baffled that you were here at all- but determined and strong you fought with all you had. You proved many wrong.
But, eventually, you heard that other song, you saw those other lights,
you heard that other voice.
This voice was the one you had heard once before, the one who brought you here, the one who, like you was born on a cold winter's night.
His light was too strong, his voice so warm, and you knew that it was time for you to see him again.
You fought to the last, but went to the one who made you.
It wouldn't surprise me if you told him to keep this family together.
And now, dearest child, you are at peace.
All we can do is give thanks to God for you, and ask that you give the family you made that same peace.
Go with God and be thankful.
.
Friday, April 19, 2013
In honor and memory of all those hurt during the bombing at the Boston Marathon earlier this week, here is the poem about one man, who rode through there night to warn others of danger. This week, the Boston public, just like the minutemen over two hundred years ago, has taken the call in helping to find the culprits.
Paul Revere's Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,–
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Paul Revere's Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,–
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
5 ways people respond to fainting
Five ways people respond to my fainting
Over the past four years, I have noticed that others respond
to fainting in different ways. Here are the five most common responses.
Chicken with its head cut off- This person sees you fall and
has no clue what to do. They refuse to believe you when you say you are fine.
They call someone. When I recover, they say things like “You might hit your
head on that corner. You should wear a helmet- Wait, let’s just wrap you in
bubble wrap.”
Liability eagles- These people are concerned about one
thing- a lawsuit. They are usually managers and want to make sure things are
ok, but still go nuts. This person will tell you not to walk upright in the
store, or even worse, “if you faint, you shouldn’t be doing anything.”
Good Samaritan- Notices you on the floor. Immediately offers
to help you up and asks if you need anything. They will usually bring water or
Gatorade, should you need it. They will also go in search of whoever is
supposed to be with you. They calm down.
Mr./Mrs Reason- these people realize that I am on the floor,
but quickly move on as soon as they know you are ok. Will ask about the
disorder.
Used to the fainting- these are the people I know best. They
are used to seeing me fall. In fact, eventually, most will say-“Step over her,
she’s fine. It is just SS.”
I think this sums it up quite well.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
HAPPY NEW YEAR & EPIPHANY!
Ok, so I haven't been posting a great deal. I know I should post more, keep thinking of them in my head and well, sometimes, they just don't make it to the blog.
For your enjoyment here are a few good Dora stories!
Setting: Kindergarten Classroom
I faint while reading to the class.
Child A: "Look, She passed away!"
Child B; "No, she didn't"
Me: "The term is 'passed out,' not passed away!"
Kids: "Ok, now can we hear the rest of the story"
Friend's three year old to Dora who is standing over me after I have fainted: "Dora, tell her to get up!"
Ok, I know I probably tell way too many Dora stories here, but she is great.
So to all- I hope the year is starting out well. May it be a good one.
Ok, so I haven't been posting a great deal. I know I should post more, keep thinking of them in my head and well, sometimes, they just don't make it to the blog.
For your enjoyment here are a few good Dora stories!
Setting: Kindergarten Classroom
I faint while reading to the class.
Child A: "Look, She passed away!"
Child B; "No, she didn't"
Me: "The term is 'passed out,' not passed away!"
Kids: "Ok, now can we hear the rest of the story"
Friend's three year old to Dora who is standing over me after I have fainted: "Dora, tell her to get up!"
Ok, I know I probably tell way too many Dora stories here, but she is great.
So to all- I hope the year is starting out well. May it be a good one.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Service
Dogs and fainting
I
have posted a number of times about Dora, my amazing service dog. I have posted
several times about how Dora has helped me and how I got her. Today, I thought
I’d answer the two questions that top the list about Dora and service dogs for
fainting and other invisible disabilities.
Why
do you have a Service Dog?
Short
answer: “I have a fainting disorder.”
Dora’s
response to fainting:
I
look perfectly normal- in fact you wouldn’t know that anything at all was wrong
with me unless you saw me faint. Dora can tell when I am about to faint- she
either sits down in front of me if I am walking or blocks my path. If I am in
my house, she will get clingy or start acting up to get my attention. When I
fall in public, I usually have time to sit down before falling down. Once I am
down, she rolls me over so that I am face up, licks me, and stands guard until
I am ok. Many people still freak out about the fact that Dora is standing over
me until I explain that the dog is doing her job.
Over
the past four years, I have seen countless cardiologist and neurologist for the
fainting, tried tons of medications, done everything I could think of to little
or no avail. In fact, Dora has been the best treatment- she can warn me and exercise
has been known to help this condition- and dogs must be walked.
Where
did you get her?
A
few years ago, my father saw an article in the New York Times about a service
dog who was able to alert to a fainting disorder. Once I got the idea, I began
contacting organizations. Many places don’t train for fainting disorders-but I
found several that were willing to help. The only problem- the wait for a fully
trained service dog, even after acceptance into the program is usually between
18 months and 3 years. This is a long time. It feels even longer when you know
that a dog can help you with independence. The waiting is the hardest part. The
cost can be prohibitive as well. But it is worth it. I learned many things
about Service Dogs and programs while waiting. If you think a service dog can
help you- do your homework. Call the organizations, visit if you can. You can
train your own dog as well.
Dora
came from the Auburn University Vet School. I know I have posted several times
about how Dora picked me. I then had her trained by a professional trainer who
was willing to work with me. I couldn’t have gotten a better dog.
In
fact, she has given me a new lease on life. I am no longer afraid to walk down
the street alone. I’m not afraid of being kicked out of stores. I feel
confident enough to have taken on a freelance tutoring job.
In
short, that service dog you see might be for the blind, it might be a seizure,
diabetes or fainting alert dog. All I can say is that she is a great dog and we
are a pretty good team.
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Sunday, December 2, 2012
The Sock Monster
Dora: the Sock Thief
I have always thought that the dryer was the only thing in my house that ate socks. This may sound strange, but I swear it has happened with every dryer I have ever used.
As I was scrambling to pack to go the beach for Thanksgiving, I noticed that I didn't have a single pair of socks that matched. My supply of socks was very low. I began to wonder just where my socks had gone. Then I walked into the living room, looked at Dora's bed and found most of my socks piled on her bed. So, the culprit is no longer the dryer, but my service dog.
The good news- it is pretty much her only vice. Bad news, I need new socks. Even superdogs need at least one vice.
Go with God!
I have always thought that the dryer was the only thing in my house that ate socks. This may sound strange, but I swear it has happened with every dryer I have ever used.
As I was scrambling to pack to go the beach for Thanksgiving, I noticed that I didn't have a single pair of socks that matched. My supply of socks was very low. I began to wonder just where my socks had gone. Then I walked into the living room, looked at Dora's bed and found most of my socks piled on her bed. So, the culprit is no longer the dryer, but my service dog.
The good news- it is pretty much her only vice. Bad news, I need new socks. Even superdogs need at least one vice.
Go with God!
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