Yesterday I had my Remicade treatment, and next to me sat a woman with some form of cancer. It was her very first visit, so the nurse was going over everything she needed to know to make it through the harsh medications. The nurse talked about eating healthy, trying to stick to whole foods with lots of iron in them, switching your mouthwash (to something natural without alcohol--interesting), and about doing things that make you happy, among other things. Interestingly, though, she emphasized over and over that the number one most important success tool for a cancer patient was having a set schedule. She said that those patients who got up at the same time every day and practiced a flexible schedule (get up, eat breakfast, work out, go to work, go to the grocery store, come home and clean house, watch a corny TV show, shower, go to bed, etc) were the ones who always did the best. She said in all of her years working with cancer patients, she never met one on a schedule that didn't do significantly better than one off a schedule. 

Then, during the same session, I started reading a book called Baby Wise: Giving Your Infant the Gift of Sleep. It had been recommended to me by a friend, and frankly, I scoffed at it. Come on, doesn't being a parent come naturally? Apparently not, or so it would seem. The book described, yet again, the importance of a flexible schedule for every infant over two weeks old. Not that you're supposed to go around with a timer strapped to your belt, but rather you need to keep some sense of consistency in your child's life. It described two types of babies--the first, one that has no set schedule. Naps and feedings are erratic, sometimes the baby nursing every hour, and at other times at five hour intervals. Sometimes the baby will sleep for thirty minutes, and other times it will sleep for hours on end. Baby Wise argues that this type of child, the one without consistency, frequently fails to thrive in its first year of life. They don't sleep well at night, and they actually develop at a slower rate than an infant that is kept on a consistent routine. 

So the second baby, the flexible schedule child, eats consistently at 2-3 hour intervals, naps regularly, and approximately 90% of them are sleeping through the night (7 hours) by the time they are 12 weeks old. They are happier and healthier children. 

Basically, the book stresses the importance of you dictating your child's schedule, and not letting them do it--because, after all, they're not born knowing night from day or right from wrong. That's what parents are for, and that is what millions of mothers have done in the past--they work their new baby into the family, not the family into the new baby.

Interesting.

So in a matter of three hours I had two different sources proclaiming that the most important part of being healthy and happy is keeping yourself on a routine. 

I've honestly never thought about it before. I sleep whenever I can. If that means sleeping until noon one day and then staying up until three in the morning the next, then so be it. I've always figured my body knew what it needed. But what if that wasn't the case? What if this routine business was the key to my health? I mean really, who allows their body to dictate what they do? I don't just get in my car and let my feet figure out when to hit the gas or the breaks. No, my brain communicates that it really would be quite beneficial if I started to slow down before I rear-ended that huge semi.....ha. Know what I'm saying?

So today is my first day of waking up at the same time every day. It'll be my little experiment so you don't have to try it out (unless you really want to, of course). I'm curious to see how my body reacts, especially because I'm having a flare right now and I can feel it taking the usual toll on my overall health. 

Here's to my sanity! 

You all know how emotional I've been lately; it seems like everything will set the tears a-rollin'. I think, though, that this next topic would have gotten me all out-of-sorts even without being heavily pregnant.

Do you know anybody with Alzheimer's Disease? Or Dementia? Or anything that destroys a person's memory?

My Mamaw and my Papaw are losing their memory. She has Alzheimer's, and he, Dementia. Alzheimer's runs in her (and thus, my) family--her mother died from it, as did all but one of her siblings. Those that are still alive have it. It's a scary, twisted disease that has left so many of us bruised and battle-scarred, with my dad taking a pretty hard hit from it. His brothers seem like they've found ways to cope with it, and at times I think my dad is immune, too--but I know he's not. It's leaving him broken and helpless.

So you can imagine my surprise-and tears-when our local Christian station played a Christmas song called 'Christmas Carol'. It goes like this:

I first met her in December on a snowy winter's night 

And it didn't take me long to see that something wasn't right 

They called her Christmas Carol 

Said her mind was nearly gone 

But she could still light up the room 

When she sang a Christmas song 

Seems no one knows the story to explain her Christmas cheer 

Why she keeps the decorations up all through the year 

And though she long ago forgot the names of family and friends 

When it comes to singing Christmas songs 

She's like a child again 

Sing, oh sing, Christmas Carol 

Sing with all of your might 

Sing Joy to the World 

Sing O Holy Night 

You're closer now to Jesus 

Than you've ever been 

Sing, oh sing, Christmas Carol 

Sing your songs to him 

I had told my son about her, so I thought I'd take him by 

And he was so amazed at all the tinsel and the lights 

She laughed and told her stories of her Christmas memories 

But nothing told it better than when she began to sing 

The last time that I saw her, she didn't recognize me 

Her hair was thin and she was frail, and she couldn't even speak 

But I could sit down next to her, sing her favorite Christmas songs 

And somehow, God only knows how 

She could still sing right along 

The song made me, literally, sick to my stomach. Yes, I get that it should have been an uplifting and joyous(?) song. After all, what's sweeter than knowing that heaven is right around the corner? Nothing, of course, which makes my grief all the more unbearable. I feel like this song is a mockery of what relatives of Alzheimer's go through. I know I'm being petty, and I admit that I had some deep scars opened back up after hearing the song, but I wasn't ready for the reminder yesterday. My trip to see the grandparents takes a couple of hours one way, and it takes the entire time to give myself a pep talk about it. Then it takes the whole two-ish hours back to wind down. It's hard, y'all. It's not something I like doing. I love seeing them, and I know they're going to heaven, but there's nothing tougher than seeing your loved ones reverting back to their childhood. I know my dad is worried about him getting it, too, and there's not much I can do to shake the feeling that he's right. Goodness, God knows that I'm afraid of it happening to me. I don't want Matt and my children to watch me "grow young" again. What kind of memories would I drudge up? What would I yell at them in my frustration? Would I traipse through the woods, thinking that the CIA is out to get me, completely lost and terrified and alone? I don't want to take comfort in singing old songs and having Christmas decorations up all year.

So there you have it. My greatest fear on this earth. 

And I was reminded of it because of a stupid Christmas song.

Ugh.