Pharmacy Stories

I had to go to the pharmacy today because I actually saw a guy about my sinus infection, and he prescribed me an antibiotic.

Pharmacies are weird, sad little places, aren’t they?

I had to wait about 25 minutes for my script, so I plopped down in a chair with my tissues and phone, and pretended to be reading emails when in reality I could hear everyone who was talking to the pharmacy register ladies.

The lady behind me gave her birth date and leaned in and said not quietly, “I am here for my Wellbutrin. I need it. I ran out and I have to have it.”

Lady, I have BEEN there with my antidepressant. You are NOT alone. (Of course she could be on it to quit smoking or for whatever other reason, who knows).

Anyway, there was some sort of mix up where the pharmacist told her she didn’t have a refill until December 9, and she was like, “but I”m out. I need more.”

I could here the desperation in her voice.

Then there was the line of people behind her. Every one of them looked glum. All of them.

I suppose it makes sense. If you’re standing in line at the pharmacy it’s probably not for something great. You’re probably not there for recreational drug, ya know what I mean?

While I was slumped way down in my seat, another woman argued loudly with the pharmacist about her prescription costing way more this time than the last time. I started to get nervous that things were going to get out of control, but the lady stormed off–without a script.

I felt sad and a little nervous for her.

What kind of prescription wan’t she paying for? Was it that she couldn’t afford it or just didn’t want to pay that money? Was it for her or a loved one? Was this just one instance or was she someone who had to get dozens of meds for a chronic problem, or was this just something small she wasn’t in the mood to pay for?

Then there were the moms with full carts of groceries and kids who were hanging from the blood pressure machine and the wracks of first aid splints while she looked frazzled and totally over it. I have been there too. I imagined that she was picking up a script for a kid with an ear infection, and she really just wants a break.

I also watched as a very small elderly man set at least eight empty prescription bottles on the counter. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but he was shakily holding up one after another and talking to the pharmacist. She took about five of them from him, and he put the others back in the plastic bag.

As he walked away, I smiled at him and said a little prayer that he didn’t just negotiate which were the most important to fill. In my head, those meds were for his wife, but they could have been for him. Or maybe he was returning unused pills. I don’t know.

It was seriously busy, and when they called my name, I tried to smile at the tired looking pharmacist even though I had a horrible headache from the sinus pressure and I just wanted to lie down. I admit, I grabbed my antibiotic, and walked out head down, though.

No one wants to see someone they know at the pharmacy.

Sinus Infection?

I think I have a sinus infection.

I’ve had this head cold thing for what will be two weeks tomorrow. It started last Thursday with a bit of a scratch in the back of my throat. The next day my entire head was all blown up and feeling awful.

I slept a lot of the weekend.

Last Monday I maybe should have stayed home.

I didn’t. I worked all last week.

I tried to sleep a lot this weekend.

My nose has been running nonstop and now my nose is all chafed and red and raw and sore.

This morning when I still felt like a pile of snotty garbage, I messaged my doctor because come on. I’m supposed to road trip my way to St. Louis next week Thursday evening and then share a room with two other people. No one wants to share a hotel room with a mouth-breathing mucus face.

Also I lost my voice today, and that is just not a good thing for someone who has to do three presentations next weekend.

So, I messaged my doctor.

He thinks it’s probably a sinus infection and that I should be seen.

That is easier said than done with my doc, but the stars aligned and his office was able to get me in with the PA on Friday just after lunch. Yes, I will have to take the afternoon off on Friday (which I don’t like because I have three days off coming up and I’m trying NOT to leave my students with a sub more than I have to), but at least (oh please let it be at least), I’ll be able to get some meds to get rid of this nonsense.

I’m going to hobble through the next day and a half of work and beg my afternoon classes not to be poop heads for a sub on Friday, and I’m going to get better.

Because snot is dumb.

Continuing Education

Since telling people that I am applying for a PhD program I have gotten a lot of astounded looks and even more comments that sound roughly like, “GOOD FOR YOU! And with three kids and working full time? Wow!”

Let me just first say that I know that the there is real affirmation behind these comments, and that the people saying them are really impressed (or at least I am choosing to assume positivity). I smile and nod, and mutter something like, “Well, I’m going to try.”

Honestly? I am terrified.

The last time I was in a graduate program, I didn’t have any kids. Shoot, I wasn’t even married for the first half of it. Yes, I was working full time, but the rest of my time was super flexible. The only person’s obligations I had to worry about were mine (and sometimes Cortney’s, but let’s be real: it did not matter if he had a haircut or meeting while I was in class back then).

Now, we are talking about a major disruption to our already crazy schedule. I already feel like our week’s are jam-packed with soccer (done now, whew!), scouts, consistory, and bowling. Now we are going to throw in a night that I am completely gone for class too.

Then there is actually the time I will have to do my homework.

I have my Master’s degree in the same program I am hoping to get my PhD in, so I already know it’s going to be a lot of work. I know there will be a lot of reading and writing. I am sure there will be some sort of online thing attached too. I graduated 9 years ago. Lots has changed since then, so I know every day will have to have some sort of block for me to just focus on class work.

Plus I will still be working full time.

Sometimes when people give me those, “WOW!” comments, failure flashes before my eyes and I wonder why I told ANYONE what I am doing.

At the same time, I am so excited to get back to being a student. I am eager to continue my studies and learn more about writing, literature, and the teaching of both. I am actually looking forward to research and picking apart the results of that research.

I’m excited to try new things.

I’m also terrified of failure.

But I have to try.

I have to do this. For me, but also to show my kids that when you have a dream, you have to at least go for it.

 

NCTE17

 

Last year my good friend, the Pastor’s Wife, convinced me that I needed to attend the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) conference in Atlanta. I had been going to our state-level conference, the Michigan Council of Teachers of English (MCTE), for a few years, and she was sure this was my next step.

I balked a little at the cost: ticket price, hotel, conference passes (If you go to NCTE, you may as well stay and spring to go to ALAN–The Assembly on Literature of the Adolescents of the NCTE–as well. It was just a lot. Plus having to take time off work, make sub plans, work out the details of Cortney being the solo parent for a long weekend right before Thanksgiving. It really seemed to be too much.

She is convincing though, my Pastor’s Wife friend. She even somehow made it not just sound ok to Cortney, but he was all on board with how great this would be for me. Then the Pastor’s Wife convinced me to submit to present. And THEN I was accepted on a round-table as a respondent AND as a panel member.

NCTE in Atlanta last year was one of the best things I have done for my career EVER.  My whole recap is here.

This year NCTE and ALAN are in St. Louis, and the Pastor’s Wife (who is a college professor, in case I didn’t mention that) and I are ROAD-TRIPPING! We are leaving Thursday, November 16 after a full day of teaching, and driving through to St. Louis where we will stay until Tuesday morning.

I am part of THREE presentations this year: I’m a round-table presenter, a round-table respondent, and a panel chair with The Educator’s Room.

I am almost exhausted just thinking about it.

But I’m also really, really excited about it.

And stressed because I only have 2/3 of my presentations set.

But it’s going to be great. I’m going to learn and grow as a teacher, and I am going to fan girl all the YA authors

 

Feeling Like a Phony

Our new Sunday routine for the fall has me driving separately to church and leaving after the service while the kids go to Children in Worship (our church’s version of Sunday School) and Cortney stays back to count (he’s a deacon) or go visit his grandma and then picking the kids up.

I don’t leave to go take a nap–although today I was very tempted to do just that–I run any errands and then take my Chromebook and any school work or writing deadlines I have and head to our Barnes & Noble cafe section and work for a couple hours.

I’ve been delighted to notice that there is a whole crew of regulars here including the most adorable elderly couple who seems to be arriving after church for some coffee and chit chat. Even the barista must have this as her regular schedule. Today she said, “Oh welcome back. are you going to be one of our new regulars?” I smiled and said, “Probably. I’m more productive here than in a house full of kids.”

As she was ringing up my order I complimented her on the tattoo of a beautiful ship on her arm. She asked why I had “Write.” on my arm. “Are you a writer?” I fumbled. This isn’t the first time I have been asked this since getting that ink on my arm.

“Um, well, I write a lot, and um…I’m actually an 8th grade English teacher. But I’ve been blogging for ten years…and, well…I have been published a couple places and I guess that makes me a writer.”

I winced in my head. I have the word permanently on my arm and I seem so unsure of it when asked.

“What are you writing right now?” She asked me with clear curiosity.

“Um, well, I’ve been working on my statement for my PhD application and I have a chapter in a book I am writing…a book about teaching. I’m writing about teaching a certain book with a grief focus. I’m not sure it will be included, but I want to use it because I need a ten-page writing sample for my application too. So nothing, like, for publication, but yeah.”

OH MY GOSH. I internally rolled my eyes at myself. What is wrong with me?

“That is really awesome! A PhD! Then everyone can call you Doctor! So cool! Good luck!”

I shrunk into myself and hid myself in a corner table. I immediately decided to grade essays because I had NO idea to revise my statement, and I don’t actually know where to start with the book chapter, and WHO DO I THINK I AM?

A total phony, that’s who.

I am in one of those funks where I have this paranoid feeling that I have people snowed; that they think I can write these wonderful things, but in fact I am a terrible writer. I sent a draft to a friend recently and I am surprised–no, SHOCKED–she still thinks I have it in me not just to do this writing thing, but to get a higher degree in English education and teach other people to do this stuff.

I have doubts, is what I’m saying.

Today I do not feel like I can do it.

Today I feel like an impostor.

Today I feel like I have nothing together.

So I’m going to pack it up for today, but I will try again next week. Because I made this commitment and even if I totally blow it, I have to try.

A Decade of Words

Ten years ago today I opened up a new blogspot account and started Sluiter Nation. All of our closest friends had moved out of state, so I thought maybe having a “website” to post pictures would be a good way to keep everyone up-to-date.

I’ve been consistently (sometimes more consistently than others) putting my words here. They range from the mundane (updates and giveaways and some product reviews) to the deeply personal.

I believe this blog made me the writer/teacher I am today.

This little blog of mine reunited with me with a high school friend named Emily (formerly known as DesignHER Momma) who had moved to Indianapolis. She connected me with Indy bloggers like Casey (Moosh in Indy) and to Curvy Girls like Brittany Herself who made me want to write better. They also showed me BlogHer.

Emily’s honesty helped me recognize I had postpartum depression after Eddie was born.

That led me to all the Warrior Moms.

I started to write very honestly about my struggles.

I went to BlogHer. I tried to find myself as a blogger for a long time. I did product reviews occasionally, giveaways here and there, and tried to separated my writing and teaching lives.

It wasn’t until after Charlie was born that I realized that my writing and teaching actually fit better together than trying to be a mom blogger.

It was also during this time that some of my personal essays about my struggle with my mental health were published in anthologies. I started to realize that maybe I have a gift. I’m not a best-selling author–nor will I ever be–but I have the ability to put my thoughts into print.

I started to read Young Adult Literature and become passionate about my career in a way I never did before. I began writing for Education sites, (currently I write for The Educator’s Room). Friends and colleagues encouraged me to write about my teaching experiences and research for education journals.

Now I am in the process of applying to a new graduate program to get my PhD in English Education.

Wednesday I was trying to trace back how I got to this place, and I believe it comes back to this space.

I’ve made true friends because of this space. I’ve traveled across the country by myself because of this space. I have taken so many more chances on opportunities that I would have NEVER done because of this space.

On an internet where more and more bloggers are closing up shop, I plan to keep my little space open and chugging along. This is our life right now. It’s who I am right now.

Yay, Ten!

The Uncomfortable Brightness of Motherhood

Motherhood is weird, right?

We long for a light in the darkness, and yet…

sometimes the sun shines so brightly that we have to squint and shade our eyes and smile through it even though it’s almost painful.

We work so hard for these sunny times that even though they are often blinding, we will take them.

My Eddie with his eyes shielded, looking forward for his mom with his hand on my shoulder.

My Charlie squinting and throwing up rock n roll horns even through the sting of the sun for his mom mom with his other hand on my back.

My Alice closing her eyes and smiling because momma said to and she trusts me completely while gripping my arm tightly.

These kids man.

Not what I expected at all.

Uncomfortable at times.

But Better.

Brighter.

Charlie’s Card he made me in Preschool. My boy knows me so well!

 

 

Inked

Much to my mother’s chagrin, I got another tattoo this weekend.

All tattoos have a story, don’t they? Even the ones that are “I just thought it was cute and wanted one because I was in college and being a rebel.” There is always a reason.

Ten years ago a few things happened: I found out I was pregnant, I lost that pregnancy, I started a blog, and I got a tattoo. I would say it was a busy year, but that is pretty much just how our married life has been. Highs and lows with very little in between.

When I started this blog I called it our Family Website. I was going to post photos and write little blurbs about what was going on in our life. I think in the first couple years of this blog’s life I probably only wrote a handful of things that were real and not just superficial “look at this fun day at the beach;” my tattoo post was one of them.

Contrary to what my mom probably thinks, I don’t take permanently “disfiguring” myself lightly (Cortney’s words in jest, not my mom’s). The first time, I tattooed what my students think is a V on my neck. It’s not a V. It’s two things: it’s the Aries sign and it’s also the Egyptian hieroglyphic for “woman.” You can read that post up there for more details, but basically after getting unexpectedly pregnant when I wasn’t sure that I ever wanted babies, then miscarrying that baby (and feeling like it was my fault), Cortney and I realized we wanted to be parents. Women’s bodies are strong, yo. That tattoo was for womanly strength.

Since then I have been writing.

Before I knew I had an anxiety disorder or depression or OCD or needed medication or therapy, I wrote to get it out of my head.

When I was having intrusive thoughts, I wrote them out of my head and then destroyed the evidence.

When I realized that one of my biggest fears in life was being forgotten and lost in time and space, I wrote out my stories.

When I decided to turn all of my passion for reading and writing and education into a PhD program, I wrote articles and journal pieces and conference proposals.

When I wanted my children to know me as I am in this moment, I wrote letters.

When I acted too impulsively or said things without thinking or made an ass of myself, I wrote to apologize.

When I missed or loved or thought of people, I wrote to them.

When I wanted my students to learn to write, I wrote with them.

Writing has kept me alive for the past ten years.

I’m placing my faith in writing to keep me alive forever.

Write.

It’s a command.

Write.

 

 

 

ps. My mom is not really that upset.

pps. Yes she is.

ppps. I love you, mom. Thanks for loving me despite my disfigurement.

Searching for Easter

Easter

Sunday was Easter.

I have lovely memories of Easter as a child. They all include family and candy and going to services that had loads of flowers and a big cross.

When Cortney and I got married we became the people who only went to church once in a while and always on Easter. I loved to sing the hymn “Low in the Grave He Lay” because when I belted out “UP FROM THE GRAVE HE AROSE!!” I felt my late Grandma Jo in my whole being. I didn’t really connect with the words on a religious level, but it was a spiritual experience and connection with my grandmother. It was the same at Christmas; I loved to sing the hymns she did. Both holidays hold a lot of significance for me because of my Grandmother, but not necessarily because of my faith.

Which is a problem for a Christian since Christmas and Easter are the two most significant days for the Christian Church. They are the bookends of what our faith is about: God sent his Son via immaculate conception to save the world by being crucified on a cross only to rise again three days later. Immaculate Conception and Resurrection from the Dead–the cornerstone beliefs of what makes a Christian a Christian, right?

But there I was on Sunday, sitting all squeezed into the front row (because as usual, The Sluiter family does not count punctuality as their strength–my fault completely) next to a family I didn’t recognize (because it was Easter and everyone comes on Easter), watching some of the people I love most lead worship with joy and excitement for the celebration that Easter is, and I was feeling…nothing.

Regular Sundays are my jam. I feel fed and nourished by the teachings of Jesus and the community that surrounds and loves me and my family. The familiarity of the pattern of worship renews my soul: The Approach, The Greeting, A Worship Hymn, Confession, Prayer, Assurance, The Passing of the Peace, The Children’s Message, Prayer, The Lectionary, The Sermon, Prayer, Communion, Prayer, Offering, Prayer, Announcements, The Sending of the Children to Children in Worship, The Closing Hymn, The Benediction. Our three pastors–all friends who I cherish–deliver their sermons in their own unique voice and help me to see and learn and feel closer to the teaching and love of Jesus.

I believe in the teachings of Jesus. I believe in the love and acceptance he taught. I believe in taking care of each other and being kind and helpful. I believe in sharing what I have with others–especially if they have less. I believe in using my privilege for good and for positive change. I believe in forgiveness, although it’s often hard for me to put into practice.

And I believe Jesus died, because every human dies.

What I struggle with is the Resurrection. I know the Bible says it happened. I know that without the Resurrection Christianity is nothing. The whole idea is that Jesus was made human so he could save us. That by dying on the cross, going to hell, coming back to Earth, and then going to heaven, he saved humanity.

Sitting squished between Cortney and Eddie in that sweaty front row, I couldn’t look my dear friend and pastor in the eye as he preached. I just felt heavy. That this world just doesn’t feel saved.

I don’t read the Old Testament literally. It’s Ok if you do; more power to you. Really. I don’t think that I’m going to hell because I don’t believe Jonah was legit swallowed–and lived in the gut of–a large fish. I read them as allegorical stories. Literature that is meant to teach life lessons and meaning. And I read the New Testament with the idea that the culture it was written in (Greek) and about (Middle East) is very different than our current culture. That not everything is going to align exactly.

Yet as Christians, we are supposed to read the Easter story (and Christmas story) completely literally. THIS STUFF REALLY HAPPENED. Because if it didn’t, what is it all for, right?

So I am wrestling with myself. I want to believe in the Resurrection. I want to believe that because Christ died, we will all live.

Our pastor said Sunday morning that we do not have to fear death. That because of Christ, death loses its power.

I guess that is what my struggle boils down to: I do very much fear death–my own, but also the death of those who I love so deeply. I obsess about it. It’s part of my anxiety disorder. When my intrusive thoughts begin, it always centers on death. I become increasingly agitated and paranoid. I lose sleep. And then I fall into depression.

It always starts with thoughts of death.

Because what if this is it? What if all of this is man-made so we can tell ourselves we are not afraid of death?

I’m ending this post with a picture of Eddie, Charlie, and Alice on Easter morning outside of church. They are still filled with the joy of celebration. It was a special day at church. There were flowers and Alleluias. There was an egg hunt after the services. They wore new clothes (except shoes because I totally forgot they needed shoes). There was excited anticipation for the rest of the day that would be filled with family and candy.

I never want them to be afraid like I am.

Easter

My wonderful friend, The Pastor’s Wife, shared this link with me this week, and I ugly cried when I read it because it was exactly EXACTLY how I felt Sunday morning. If you are also feeling alone with your doubt, I strongly suggest clicking over.

To Me, At Thirty-Nine

Dear You,

Here you are again, at the end of decade. Your fourth decade. If you squint and lean in, you can maybe see a glimpse of the fifth decade looming. See it, over there on the horizon? It’s that tiny dot of light.

Yes, I said light.

From here, Forty appears to be full of light.

But for now you are Thirty-Nine.

Three hundred and sixty-five days of Thirty-Nine.

(Less now because it takes you so long to publish a post.)

What are we going to do with this last year as a thirty-something? We are all done with the pregnancy years. It’s been nine years since that first miscarriage, which means all “deliveries” were in your thirties. This year you will be the mom of a 2nd turned 3rd grader, a preschool turned kindergartener, and a two-turned-three year old. By the time you hit forty, there will not only be no more babies for you, but no more toddlers either.  You won’t be a mom of “Littles” anymore, but a mom of “young children”.

Over the past week, you’ve written and looked at and thought about the number 39 often.

Sometimes that number seems so big. Remember when your mom was this age? She was such a…mom.  You were fourteen. Thirty-nine is almost 40, after all. It’s so…adult. So grown-up. So…parental. I mean, can you believe you’ve been around for 39 years when college–heck high school–seems like it was ten minutes ago?

Sometimes that number seems small. Ok, maybe not small, but not so terribly big. Many of your friends are already in their forties and you don’t think of them as old or middle-age or anything weird. In fact, you strive to be like them: confident, happy, healthy.

You are not much of a bucket list person, so you don’t have a 40 before 40 or anything like that. You’re also not one for sitting around wishing you had done something differently. You can’t change the past, so it doesn’t do any good to over-analyze how you could have done things another way. Before you turn forty next year, though, there are a few things you will do.

You’re going to help your family be healthier. Cortney has family history of heart disease and cancer. You have cancer in your history too. It’s time to get serious about the fact that you are not young and invincible.

You’re going to take more photos with your Big Camera. You got that thing after Eddie was born and somehow decided it was too unwieldy to tote around with a baby. Well, there are no more babies in your family. Get it out. Get practicing.

You’re going to apply for a PhD program. This weekend you take the first of two GRE tests for that. You keep worrying that this will cause (more) financial strain on the family and that you will fail and that it’s a bad idea. Do it anyway. Cortney has repeatedly told you that he supports you and thinks this is the time to do it. Listen to him. He loves you and believes in you.

You’re going to incorporate more of your family’s faith into your every day lives. You just read a great book about this. Make a note to write a post about that book.

You’re going to get another tattoo  (sorry mom. sort of.)  Cortney gifted you half the cost for your birthday and you made the appointment and paid the 20% deposit. This will bring you such joy.

You’re going to spend quality one-on-one time with each kid. They tell other people how much they love it, so do it more. It’s important.

I know you worry a lot about time going to fast: it takes your babies and makes them toddlers; it takes your toddlers and makes them kids; it takes your own youth. You worry about not having enough time.

The truth is that you will never have enough time. It’s just not possible.

So you have to take what you’re given and do what you can with it.

It’s gonna be great. And a little terrible because that’s life. But mostly great.

Love,

Yourself

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