It has been 2 weeks since my last post, but I refuse to admit defeat so easily or so readily. For although I haven't followed through with my intentions to write every day, I can honestly say that I've thought about writing every day. Hey... it's a start.

Honestly, I haven't been able to do much of anything these past few weeks if it has required anything more than thought, because my life has been reduced to a vicious cycle of work/eat/sleep/work/sometimes not eat/sleep, with sleep comprising anywhere from 8 to 12 hours of any given 24 hour day for me. Quite a drastic difference for those of you who know me as the maven of sleep deprivation. I have spent the better part of my adult life surviving on 4 to 5 hours of sleep a day -- occasionally more, often less. So what has caused this startling shift into slumbering unconsciousness? The easy response is Amitriptylin and Dicyclomine. Now, before any of you think I've sunken into a drug-induced stupor, let me explain that I am under the care of two professionals; one recommended and dispensed, and the other concurred. Nice to have 2 medical professionals in agreement, especially when their fields are supposedly unrelated. And yet, we as humans are such divine wonders that the fields of expertise of these two professionals overlap quite remarkably. It's just nice to see that each of the doctors I have chosen to work with me has an appreciation of the whole mind/body connection.

Allow me to explain. Besides surviving for many years on very little sleep, I am by nature a nurturer. I feel the need to mother everyone in my realm. I take on the problems of their world and make them my own, quite often to my detriment. It's not as if I don't have enough on my own plate; I feel compelled to nibble off of everyone else's. Why? I'm not really sure, but that's one of the questions I'm seeking an answer to. Maybe I feel I'm not useful to others unless I'm a savior, coming to their rescue. Who knows... I'll allow professional #2 to delve more deeply into that mystery.

First, allow me to reveal that professional #1 is a wonderful, caring and insightful gastroenterologist. When I say that factors have conspired to work towards my detriment, I mean that on both a physical and emotional level. My gastro guy is working on the physical part, having diagnosed me with IBS and having prescribed the aforementioned drugs. And I must admit, when taken with some regularity, these drugs are quite successful at calming an otherwise quite uncalm digestive system. But: they also calm me into unconsciousness. One of the traits about this doc that I appreciate so much is he wanted to know about my stress level, and what I'm doing to cope with it. Are you kidding me? I'm like a cat clinging to the ceiling by it's claws. Which leads me to professional #2.

I am also under the care of a caring LCSW. For those of you not "in the know" (and I wasn't either, until I Googled it), that's a Licensed Clinical Social Worker. She's like a psychologist without the testing, or a psychiatrist without the drugs. Which is good, since I'm already on drugs. She takes an holistic approach, addressing both emotional and situational aspects. And she is in total agreement with the gastro guy's protocol, just as he is in agreement with me seeing her. Wow... sounds like one big happy family, doesn't it?

Well, not quite. I'm the initially unwilling participant in this whole scenario. Oh, I readily admitted I was having stomach problems. You don't come from my family of culinary afficionados, and suddenly decide you just don't want to risk eating anymore, without there being a MAJOR problem. So, seeing the gastro guy was a cinch. It was admitting there may be deeper factors to this that was the difficult part. And it took the insistence of a new friend to make me see I need help in dealing with the emotional stressors in my life. It's a good thing I value this friendship and trust the person's opinion implicitly, because my initial reaction to seeking professional psychological help was to feel like I was being shoved off a cliff.

You see, admitting to needing emotional and psychological help has been an excruciatingly difficult step for me. I come from a family whose older generation views the need for psychoanalysis as a sign of weakness or an excuse for bad behavior. And I don't want to be viewed in either light. That's probably why no one in my family is privy to the fact I'm seeing a counselor: I don't need any negative or derogatory feedback this early in the game.

I come from a family of a few good men, but a virtual army of strong women. It has even caused me to coin a phrase: we are a feminine-centric family. It goes far beyond a matriarchal situation. The women of my immediate and extended family (which consists of aunts and cousins) are the real deal. Besides the normal cooking and cleaning, chauffering and such, these remarkable women drive buses, are award-winning chefs, run their own companies, put themselves through school, write books, and do it all with such style and panache as to be noteworthy. They have known their share of sorrows as well. More than a few have buried husbands; several have buried children. And through it all they survive. No, they do MORE than survive. They succeed. I am firmly convinced that if Robert Harling had not written "Steel Magnolias" as an autobiographical tale of the strong women in his world, he could have easily written it as a biography of the women in mine. They are steel personified, with a sheen of gentility. They may tell you to go to hell, but they'll serve you a mint julep to enjoy along the way.

THESE are the standard bearers in my family. And to a certain extent, I have earned my seat at their table. I have sat in doctors' offices and heard that dreaded diagnosis of cancer 3 times over with members of my immediate family. I have paced long hospital corridors, fidgeted in numerous waiting rooms, and watched liquid death drip into the veins of those I loved. I have buried my only sister, my advocate, my friend -- a loss that is as fresh to me today as it was 20 years ago when it first happened. I have buried my father, often my adversary, always my blood, finally my ally. I have the luxury of knowing he and I made our peace in the weeks prior to his death, and he placed on me the solemn responsibility of my mother's care after his departure -- a responsibility I take seriously. Only my mother has survived this evil called Cancer, and I have been with her every step of the way.

But my seat at this table is different. My chair is adrift in a sea of tears, many shed, many still held tightly within me. I look at the strong women seated around me and realize I am cut from a different cloth. Mine tears easily, and is filled with holes. And it is up to me to mend myself and become whole again. This is my quest.