5 AM Birds


Don’t get me wrong, I do love the birds, but just not at five in the morning. What are they doing jabbering away so much this early? It’s still dark outside. They’re persistent little pip squeaks. Maybe they’re begging for the sun to come out so they can eat their breakfast with the light on. They’re only bothering me because they highlight the fact that I can’t sleep. My guts hurt. And I can’t do much, but think and think because everyone’s asleep in my house.

I can’t stop worrying about how I need to get so many things done. Just in case I have to go to the hospital. Then, I start crying in the bed. Lying on my side to help with the cramping. Shhh. My quiet left-sided tears travel over the bridge of my nose and join up to make a puddle in my right eye. I don’t want to go to the hospital. There’s never a good time.

My four year old just woke up saying,


So, I tip-toed into his room to snuggle him back to bed. I can’t do this when I’m in the hospital.

Yesterday, my bigger boys and sweet niece begged me to play “Monster” outside, a game where I chase them around the yard. I did it even though I was hurting and my mom told me to stop playing. Because I knew I would be bummed if I said no and then ended up in the hospital, stuck in a drab room, unable to chase them around in the grass. I also jumped into the freezing cold pool. That’s what this disease does to me. It makes me overthink things sometimes. It makes me not want to miss out on or regret an opportunity gently tapping or banging on my door. I hate it sometimes. But I guess it makes me different. In a good way.

I watched a video of our Florida trip tonight. My husband put it together using photos and video clips of our boys. It’s beautiful. My boys. The ocean. Breathtakingly gorgeous. Truly. I couldn’t believe how much my sweet beach loving boys have grown in a few short years. Time constantly moves on, whether we acknowledge or accept it or not.

I will make it through this phase of my disease acting up. I know it. God always carries me though. I’m not strong enough on my own to make it through the pain, all of the unknowns, and let-downs, that’s for sure. He also gives me people that love me in crazy, feel-good-despite-the-yuck ways and he steadily holds my head to focus in their direction to help me see them.

I’m impatient, I just want to feel better. Now. Right now. And I want to make sure and remind my future healthy self to remember this unprompted five am wake up call.

“Dear Future Amelia,

Be grateful of your sleeping, your eating, your dish loading (meh) and your playing. Be grateful for each day, especially those awesome moments, because they’re all a gift, even if it was a crappy day in the grand scheme of days. You got one more. Embrace the love and the life that surrounds you, even if it’s those hyper morning birds. They can’t help it if they don’t like eating in the dark…


Presently Flared up Amelia”

Thanks, Prednisone


Dear Prednisone,

I’m sorry. I don’t want to sound ungrateful for you helping me out with my gut situation, but you’re really starting to piss me off. I can’t focus on anything I want to, similar to a two year old unleashed in the grocery store. And thank you for making me obsess about things that have not bothered me for years. I will most likely get to that wallpaper and bathroom demolition shortly. Perhaps on one of these nights when everyone is sleeping. But I’m not.

Also, thank you for the new onset of emotional maturity ranging anywhere between an angry hormonal teen to a blubbering newborn baby. You make me feel like I’m losing my ever loving mind. You’ve taken my personality hostage and I can’t find it because I’m so hyper focused on cleaning the damn shower. Or getting those clothes to City Union Mission. You’re worse than caffeine and albuterol mixed. That’s right. You’re like ten espresso shots too many.

Thank you for inspiring all sorts of creative endeavors inside my head, but not donating to me the attention span necessary to accomplish any of them. Prednisone tshirts, awareness bracelets, and stationary? Really, Prednisone. How thoughtful.

I would rather go eat a house or save the world because that’s what you make me feel like I can do. However, if I was forced to pay attention or sit still to receive the directions on how to eat a house or save the world, I couldn’t do it. I can’t quite remember what it felt like to be two years old, so thank you for this stroll down memory lane. Unfortunately, I’m in a grown ass woman’s body, so I should probably get to making my “Prednisone Awareness” bracelet. So others will know. “It’s not you, it’s me.” Well, it’s actually you, Prednisone.

I really hate you.

You suck.

I have to go do something else now. For the next minute. Until I have to go do something else again for the next minute.

Please treat my personality nicely while you hold her hostage. Chocolate helps.