tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10307239284362086862024-03-04T22:27:46.767-08:00For my FourFiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.comBlogger186125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-30498926725797290452024-02-19T15:27:00.000-08:002024-02-20T07:42:24.648-08:00What Happened in June<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Over the next several weeks I would return to the emergency department several times stuck in a slow ventricular tachycardia rhythm. Each time they would reset my ICD/Pacemaker to pace me out of the tachy arrhythmia at a slower and slower rate, finally settling at 111 beats per minute. That meant I could receive therapeutic pacing at any heart rate higher than 111 bpm. My activity would have to be very limited until this was resolved either through healing, more ablations, or transplant.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">On June 14<sup>th</sup> 2022, we had finished all of the pre-transplant evaluation testing and had been approved by our insurance, all we had left was actually getting listed. I messaged Sarah, my transplant coordinator at the time and asked if there was any news on that front. Within hours, she called me and told me that I was officially listed for transplant. What a surreal feeling. At first, I was a little thrilled—we were one step closer to closing this chapter, I thought. On the other hand, I was absolutely terrified. How does one process and prepare for such a thing as a heart transplant? One must consider death in the equation—the death of the donor as well as the prospect of one’s own.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We decided to put it out of our mind for the day and loaded into the car to go enjoy the Utah Valley Parade of Homes. We drove down to Utah County, but before we could make it into our first home for the day, I got another call from Sarah. “Fiauna, are you ready to come into the hospital? We can have a room for you ready by the end of the day.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I wasn’t expecting this call at all and wasn’t sure what it meant or how to respond to it. On the one hand, I really didn’t want to go back into the hospital, certainly not for an indeterminate amount of time to wait for a heart to become available. But on the other hand, if this was the process of receiving a heart transplant, I certainly didn’t want to miss my perfect match. I responded yes and took in the instructions she gave me. I had a few hours to prepare while they readied a room. Then, once the room was available, I would receive a call from admitting to come in and check in to the hospital to wait. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We toured a few houses in the parade of homes before heading back to our house to ready ourselves and wait for the call. I called some of my family to let them know, expecting things to feel more…exciting? I’m not sure quite how to phrase it, but as I called family members, something felt off. I immediately started second guessing this course of action.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Around five thirty that evening the call finally came. We finished dinner and quietly, nervously made our way up to the hospital. There was a pit in my stomach the entire time. Something definitely felt wrong but the words to express it escaped me. What ensued over the next five days was one of the most emotionally wrenching experiences I’ve been through. I wish I could report that some transformative thing happened during this stay in the hospital, but I can’t. While I did learn lessons, the lessons took the next eighteen months to fully solidify and take form for me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">That night, Aaron and I sat in my hospital room where we fully expected to stay until transplant and placed a phone call to another transplant recipient, someone who had been down this road and could offer us solid advice. She was wonderful, friendly, and did enlighten us on many points. However, I came away from the call feeling less than sure that this was the right approach. Maybe I didn’t need a transplant. Maybe the doctors had it all wrong. I ended the day very confused and conflicted.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The next morning the team of doctors and practitioners from the heart failure team and electrophysiology came into my room and asked me straight out “Why are you here?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I have never felt so blindsided. What did they mean? I had been told to come in—by them.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I was then told that there was no way I was going to receive a transplant at that point. The electrophysiology team then added that maybe we should try some different medications before moving forward with a transplant. Then they left the room without making any decisions, leaving me to question everything. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Later that day when I was alone because Aaron had to get some work done, the discharge planner for the floor came in and again asked me why I was there and when I was hoping to go home. “I’m here for a heart transplant and I don’t anticipate going home until after that,” I informed her, confused why this wasn’t already known. To my dismay she responded, “I don’t even think we do heart transplants anymore, not since Covid anyway. We just don’t get a lot of good donor hearts anymore and the hospital across town has an entire floor of the hospital full of people waiting for transplants.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When she left, I was a mess. Aaron arrived back at the hospital to find me inconsolable. I was crying and angry. Why was I there? I had been told to come into the hospital by my team. Why was this happening now? I oddly felt like I had done something wrong, but I didn’t know how to fix it. The sun went down on that day and on my spirit. I was confused, angry, ashamed, and conflicted. Who should I even trust? Aaron and I prayed for peace and guidance.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The next morning, the doctors returned, this time separated into teams—heart failure and electrophysiology separately. Dr. Shah from heart failure sat with us in my room and explained to us that the likelihood of transplant happening any time soon was slim, that I really should go home as a status six, but that transplant at status six was extremely rare. We appreciated his candor and clarity. When electrophysiology came in the presented a new option for medications that might just keep the VT at bay with fewer side effects. Granted, the drugs were high-risk drugs, but hopefully a good heart would come sooner than later and we could move forward. Again, we appreciated the clarity. We considered the information before ultimately agreeing with the plan. I would remain in the hospital for the rest of the week to watch for any dangerous side effects caused by the new medications before being sent home to wait for transplant as a status six.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">For the next three days, I stayed on telemetry and had an EKG every twelve hours to check for any dangerous arrhythmias. My little heart did well on the new medication regimen. I wish I could say that I felt better on these new drugs (I told the doctors I did because I was still struggling with my feelings of anger, regret, and oddly, shame) but I really didn't. But I did feel at peace that this was the right course of action. I would wait at home with my family for the perfect heart to become available now matter how long it took. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">If you're new here, start with <a href="https://formyfour.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-day-my-heart-broke-part-1.html" target="_blank">this post </a>and follow along in chronological order.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-64134745964792502752022-12-16T12:09:00.000-08:002024-02-19T17:35:09.382-08:00The Journey Begins<p> The journey to heart transplant began before I even knew what was happening. I started going to a new heart failure doctor at the University of Utah who began ordering specific tests. He ordered an overnight pulse oximetry test first, explaining that this test would let them know of my fatigue was caused by heart failure or, perhaps, sleep apnea. Later, I found it it's one of the many tests used in a transplant evaluation.</p><p>At one of my visits to this doctor Aaron asked how often people with ARVC ended up needing a heart transplant. He told us he had some patients with ARVC waiting for transplants. I didn't understand why Aaron was asking this. I didn't and wouldn't need a heart transplant, for sure. I was relatively young and healthy, right? The doctor then explained that uncontrolled arrhythmias would determine whether I needed a transplant or not. Then he ordered a VO2 max test and scheduled a follow-up visit later in the month.</p><p>Just after that follow up appointment my heart "declared itself". I began having difficult-to-control VT. Aaron had taken me to the closest ER following an episode that lasted more than an hour. The ER doctor quickly performed a cardioversion, but, unlike that first time, my heart still kept slipping into VT. He called my doctor at the University of Utah hospital who requested I be transferred there for observation. That night I was taken by medical transport up to the U where I would stay for 12 days, in and out of ICU.</p><p>The next morning, I woke up in the cardiovascular medical unit of the hospital. My doctor came into my room and said,"Remember we talked about this in clinic? You're having multiple episodes of VT. That means it's time to talk about transplant." It was now Saturday morning and he informed me that the earliest I would be going home was the following Tuesday. But later that morning, I went back into V-tach and had to be moved into ICU. There, the VT just kept coming and going despite being on several IV anti-arrhythmics. Then I was told that transplant was the best option for me and that, with my consent, they would take the time I was inpatient to complete testing for the transplant evaluation. I would also have an epicardial ablation to hopefully find and treat the VT.</p><p>The transplant evaluation at my hospital (I think it might vary per transplant center) includes:</p><p>Blood tests (they took more than 20 vials of blood from me in one sitting. Torture!).</p><p>Catheterization where they take a wire into your heart to check the arteries and the pressures and to get an over-all look at the health of your heart.</p><p>Echocardiogram--an ultrasound of the heart</p><p>Stress Echocardiogram</p><p>VO2 Max test</p><p>Chest X-ray</p><p>Pulmonary Function Test</p><p>Abdominal Ultrasound</p><p>Ankle-brachial index test--to show how well blood is flowing through the arms and legs.</p><p>I also had some strange test where they put this big, plastic bubble thing over my head to measure the gas exchange while I breathe(?).</p><p>It was a whirlwind of a week in ICU. Being that the U is a teaching hospital, there were no shortage of doctors, residents, fellows, nurses and student nurses, and pharmacists in and out of my room--a room with no bathroom! There was no privacy and I found myself breaking down in tears every time I had to use the bedside commode. It was the worst and something I hope and pray I never have to experience again (though I know I will post transplant).</p><p>After 8 days in the ICU, I was transferred back to the cardiovascular medical unit. The epicardial ablation was successful. The VT was controlled--or so we thought. The doctor did say, however, that the procedure allowed him to see just exactly how badly scarred and damaged my right ventricle is and that heart transplant was the logical next step.</p><p>A few more days in the CVMU and, after 12 days total in the hospital, I was allowed to go home. But I would be back...</p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">f you're new here, start with </span><a href="https://formyfour.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-day-my-heart-broke-part-1.html" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;" target="_blank">this post </a><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">and follow along in chronological order.</span></p>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-80907180975355021602022-12-13T08:08:00.004-08:002024-02-19T17:34:28.256-08:00The Months That Followed<p> Following news for my diagnosis, after my first visit to a hearth failure specialist, our next stop was back at the hospital to have an implantable cardioverter defibrillator (ICD) placed. We returned to the same same-day-surgery we had been to for my ablation and, to our delight, were assigned the same nurse. Clo was the absolute best in making sure we were comfortable and felt cared for. That day, I received a single lead, ICD pacemaker and was sent home within hours to hope and pray I would never need the device.</p><p>Two weeks later, I landed back in the hospital due to chest pain. I thought it was just my gallbladder, but testing found nothing. It was then assumed it was my heart, so I had to stay over night for observation. A good dose of Toradol finally knocked that pain down and I returned home with no answeres. The only question we had answered during that incident was that we needed to find new doctors. During the entire 24 hours at the hospital, neither of my cardiologists could be contacted. A subsequent visit to the heart failure doctor confirmed he hadn't even been told about my admission despite Aaron having called his nurse to let them know. We quickly received a referral to Dr. Bunch at the University of Utah.</p><p>Our first consultation was done over the phone. He had read my chart and prescribed a few medications right away (the other doctors hadn't prescribed anything). We felt good about the change, reassured that we were in good hands.</p><p>Things continued smoothly for a few months until March 16th when I was sitting at Keelie's basketball and had a wake-up call. I happened to glance at my watch and saw that my heart rate was 152. 152? I was just sitting on a bench watching--I wasn't even emotional or excited about the game. And I didn't feel anything either. I discretely got up from the bench and found my way to the restroom to do an ecg on my watch. I recognized the tracing right away as VT. I was jarred, scared, and confused. How and why was this happening? Once I got home, I sent a pdf of the tracing to Dr. Bunch's office. The PA called me back and told me to increase my anti-arrhythmia medication (flecainide), and asked me to send a transmission from my ICD.</p><p>Normally, the ICD will record VT and send a transmission to your doctor's office with that information. I sent the transmission but the PA told me she didn't see anything from my ICD. While I was relieved I hadn't received a shock that day, I was very confused as I knew I'd had several minutes of VT--and that's not good. So they asked me to wear a heart monitor--for 30 days. </p><p>I wore the monitor until the middle of April, anxious to hear the results. But before the doctor could discuss the findings with me, my heart decided to take things up a notch. On April 29th, after seven days of on and off VT capped by an episode of VT at 140-160 bpm lasting a few hours, Aaron took me to the ER for a cardioversion. What we thought would be a pretty quick trip to the emergency room turned into a 12 day stay in the hospital, most of that time spent in the ICU.</p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">If you're new here, start with </span><a href="https://formyfour.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-day-my-heart-broke-part-1.html" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;" target="_blank">this post </a><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">and follow along in chronological order.</span></p>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-11159887747012142342022-12-12T12:21:00.000-08:002024-02-19T17:34:07.164-08:00The Day My Heart Broke Part II<p> I woke from sedation still in the same trauma room in the emergency department. Aaron sat in a chair not far from my Gurney, looking tired and maybe a little sad. He was still holding onto my coat, shirt, shoes...</p><p>I guess as I came to, I laughed and said something about dreaming about Halloween. I never believed those stories about people acting off their rocker while coming out of sedation. I guess I do now.</p><p>The doctors released me that day, but not before a firm warning not to do anything exciting, not to drink any caffeine, and to find an electrophysiologist as soon as possible. And not before I overheard a nurse commenting on how she hadn't seen someone with a v-tach heart rate so high and still conscious and talking and questioned if I should really be going home.</p><p>We left that day and tried not to think about what lay ahead. It was impossible not to google and search the internet and social media for information--which we found a lot of. I remember reading so many stories on Instagram about people going into VT for various reasons including Arrhythmogenic Cardiomyopathy (ARVC or ACM) as well as other cardiomyopathies. I wrote it off though because everything I read about ARVC said it was genetic and I couldn't think of anyone in my family who had died of an unexplained heart condition.</p><p>Still something stuck in the back of my head, gnawing.</p><p>Through a friend and client of Aaron's, we found ourselves back at the office of Dr. Crandall who had treated me for tachycardia before. He ordered an echocardiogram, which he told us looked completely normal. Still he told us I should have another endocardial ablation and electrophysical mapping of my heart to find out where this rhythm was coming from. His office scheduled the procedure two weeks later.</p><p>The day before the procedure, I was looking in my chart for the results of my required Covid test when I realized the report from my echocardiogram was available for me to read. I wasted no time digging into the details of the exam. I didn't understand a lot of what was there--measurements, numbers, I didn't know enough to decipher it all. I skipped to the part of the report labeled "impressions". It was there that I read the words "moderately to severely enlarged right ventricle". Well, that can't be good, I thought.</p><p>That night I showed the report to Aaron. Neither one of us could understand why we were told my heart looked completely normal if the report said the right ventricle was enlarged. Of course, I was told later, it was because I was an athlete (I am not an athlete, by the way) and many endurance athletes have enlarged right ventricles. The next morning, before being wheeled into the Cath Lab, we asked the doctor about the enlarged right ventricle. "Hmmm, I'll take a look at that," was his reply.</p><p>The Cath Lab is a cold, mechanical room that I can only describe as being masculine in nature. There's large X-ray equipment, monitors and screens everywhere, a glass wall for viewing, and narrow table for that patient to recline on. As I was being prepped for the procedure (which included a very...intimate shave) I remember feeling very alone, scared, and I recognized I was the only woman in the room--the lab was staffed that day entirely by men. With the exception of one technician who spoke kindly to me, they were all talking about me as if I couldn't hear. They were remarking about my possible diagnosis and downplaying my symptoms. I remember thinking this flippant treatment of my symptoms was the reason I was there in the first place, that if the doctors I had visited in all the years leading up to this had listened to what I said about my racing heart instead of telling me I was fine, not to worry, and to "just take more magnesium," I could have avoided this mess.</p><p>I'll spare you the details of endocardial ablation, just to say that they punch holes in your femoral veins or arteries and fish wires up through your groin, into the pelvis, through the torso, and into the heart. It's crazy, really.</p><p>Following the procedure, I woke up back in the outpatient surgery, flat on my back with an extremely full bladder. They fill you with water to keep your body cool as they go about burning the inside of your heart. It was very uncomfortable. My nurse, however, was fantastic. She helped Aaron and I feel calm, and showed much concern for both of us. While I was out, Dr. Crandall explained to Aaron that while the procedure was successful, they did see some concerning things. Both the heart rate and rhythm, where the rhythm was originating, and the condition of my right ventricle led him to believe I might have ARVC. He advised I have a cardiac MRI within the week.</p><p>Three days later, I endured the torture that is the cardiac MRI. The tech explained to me that it is the longest MRI they do. Really, it was torture. I lay in the tube, on my back, holding my breath on command for nearly an hour! At the end of it, the tech looked at me with sympathetic eyes and asked what the doctor was looking for. I explained he was looking for a form of cardiomyopathy. She nodded her head and explained the walls of my heart were "quite motiony," whatever that means.</p><p>I've had a few MRIs in my time. I've had family members have MRIs. I knew full well how long it takes to get results back from such a test. Sometimes we've waited more than two weeks. I wasn't planning on hearing anything for quite a while. To my surprise, the doctor called the next day.</p><p>"The results of you MRI are in and it does look like you have Arrhythmogenic Right Ventricular Cardiomyopathy. I'm referring you to a doctor in the heart failure clinic--his office will call to schedule an appointment. It's genetic, so you'll need genetic counseling and all of your kids will need to be tested."</p><p>With that, the world as I knew it, the life I had built, and the future I had imagined vanished.</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">If you're new here, start with </span><a href="https://formyfour.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-day-my-heart-broke-part-1.html" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;" target="_blank">this post </a><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">and follow along in chronological order.</span></p>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-84457937138861216002022-03-09T15:52:00.000-08:002022-03-09T15:52:01.429-08:00The Day my Heart Broke Part 1<p> I can't believe I'm here, in front of my trusty Mac, again to write a blogpost--something I haven't done in a decade. I'm rusty. My fingers feel tethered by cobwebs. But I feel like this story needs to be shared. </p><p><br /></p><p>October 23rd of 2021 was supposed to be a busy day for our family. We were visiting Cache Valley for the weekend with plans to clean our property (we own a home in northern Cache County that we planned on renting to a young couple of newlyweds who were attending Utah State University), do some shopping, and attend a halloween party that evening. It was a cold and rainy morning, so Aaron and I decided to workout indoors instead of running the hills of High Creek Canyon. Aaron took the treadmill and I picked up my jumprope to get in a quick cardio session. </p><p>I love jumping rope--I'm not particularly good at it, but when you get into a rhythm with the rope, Oh man, it feels good! I turned on some upbeat music and began skipping over the rope. I have to have music when I'm jumping rope. It is a must. But on this morning, Aaron wanted to watch something...a documentary about WWII, I can't remember. I couldn't hear my music. In frustration I took my rope and cell phone and headed to the front porch. </p><p>Our Cache Valley home has the most enviable front porch. It is 6 feet deep and wraps around the front of the old farmhouse with its views down the canyon and out into the valley. I love sitting on the porch and watching the cows in the pasture just below the house. Not too long ago, I discovered the joy of working out on the porch. It's relatively private and provides great fresh air and a view to distract from any boredom or monotony. </p><p>This day, however, was cold--something I don't think my body appreciated much. I was working up a sweat (I am a very proficient sweater, if I do say so myself) and the cold air felt a little biting. But my rhythm was good, the music on my playlist was spot on, so I pushed on. </p><p>About 20 minutes into my workout I noticed my heart rate jump. I'm used to that. 25 years prior I was diagnosed with Supraventricular tachycardia, an arrhythmia that causes an unusually fast heart rate in the upper chambers of the heart. I'd had a surgery to correct it (a cardiac ablation), however it had been unsuccessful and the doctor told me not to worry about it too much as it was a fairly benign arrhythmia. </p><p>I stopped jumping rope to see if my heart rate would come down, but soon found myself feeling extremely dizzy. I gathered up my rope and phone and retreated into my house--the workout was over. Back in the house I lay on the floor stretching, cooling down, and trying to bring my heart rate down. I was wearing and Apple watch that read a heart rate of 89--not high at all. I was very confused as I could feel my heart beating out of my chest. After about 10 minutes, Aaron completed his run and my heart rate was still raging. I knew I had to tell him, though I really didn't want to. I'd had this happen before and it had always resolved on its own--no need to alarm anyone.</p><p>To my dismay and tremendous disappointment, after a few more minutes nothing changed. My heart thundered on and I was beginning to get nauseous and dizzy. My son, Brighton, brought me a sports drink and Aaron brought me a banana thinking maybe I was dehydrated and had low blood sugar. I attempted to shower, clinging to the walls and countertop as I made my way into the bathroom. I saw stars in my vision and my breath felt shallow and weak. In the shower, I raised my arms to wash my hair only to find myself collapsing on the floor as my vision went dark. To this point I had felt pretty calm--as I said, this had happened before and I'd been fine--but now it felt different. Sitting collapsed on the shower floor the thought crossed my mind, "This is how I die."</p><p>Aaron came into the bathroom and found collapsed on the shower floor and instantly came to his knees next to me. In a panic, but knowing exactly what he needed to do, Aaron quickly gave me a Priesthood blessing before helping me from the shower. Back in the bedroom, he tenderly helped me dress as I lay on the floor getting more and more nauseous with each minute. Despite passing out and feeling ill, I begged of a trip to the hospital. Brighton, in his 22-year-old wisdom, offered to call an ambulance, reminding me that heart issues should be taken very seriously, and that the heartburn I complained of was actually chest pain. </p><p>I'm ashamed now to admit that it took two hours for Aaron and Brighton to convince me to go the emergency room. When I finally acquiesced, Aaron carried me to the car for the 25 minute trip to Logan Regional Hospital. I tried several times to tell him to turn around claiming that I felt better. Luckily, Aaron is a smart and concerned man. He forced me into a wheelchair and guided me to the emergency department lobby. All the while my watch read my heart rate as 89 bpm. I could not figure out what was going on. My heart was just thundering--that is the only word to describe how it felt. </p><p>After about 30 seconds a nurse called me back to triage. I removed my top and put on a hospital gown and crawled onto the bed as the nurse quickly placed a few leads on my chest for monitoring my heart. I never got to see the monitor display, but it took only seconds for the tiny room to fill with a two doctors and a physician assistant as well more medical personnel that quickly wheeled my bed into another room across the emergency department. The doctor looked at me and said, "This isn't SVT. This is Ventricular Tachycardia. Your heart is working harder than we'd like. We're going to have to do a cardioversion on you."</p><p>I knew what every word he said meant. The gravity of the situation was not lost on me.Ventricular Tachycardia, or VT, is a very dangerous arrhythmia that can quickly lead to cardiac arrest of not ameliorated through medication or cardioversion. He explained that ordinarily they would try medication first, but with the rate my heart was going (230-240 bpm), cardioversion was the safer bet. Through tears, I gave consent. IV's were placed in both arms, electrodes were placed all over my torso and legs, oxygen was placed over my face, and before I knew it, I was drifting off to dreamland as they prepped my for a sedated cardioversion.</p><p>To be continued...</p>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-58960469006939550282012-10-11T10:24:00.000-07:002012-10-11T10:24:25.439-07:00Time to ChangeDid you hear that? I think my voice just cracked like that kid on the Brady Bunch. You know what that means. It's time to change. I am going to have to make this blog private. I know, I know. But dry your tears. All is not lost. You will still be able to catch me on my new public blog <a href="http://www.FiaunaLund.com/">www.FiaunaLund.com</a>.<br />
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As some of you know, my newest and most favorite (No, I <i>can</i> say that. My books are not like my children. I do have a favorite) novel has just been picked up by <a href="http://www.Rhemalda.com/">Rhemalda Publishing</a>. I am so excited to work with this company on <i>Indigo</i>, my new YA paranormal. And I recently found out that Rhemalda wants to keep all of their authors safe. So, this blog, which shares altogether way too much personal information, needs to go private.<br />
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So, please, please, purdy please, pop over to <a href="http://www.fiaunalund.com/">FiaunaLund.com</a> so that we can stay connected!Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-27945654574761201712012-04-11T14:01:00.000-07:002012-04-11T14:01:54.975-07:00Works of ArtIn honor of April as Autism Awareness Month, I am taking this opportunity to re-post my essay "The Sculptor." Through posting this personal essay I hope to reach parents of newly-diagnosed children. There is hope. Your vision will change in time. And though it will never be easy, you will grow in ways you could not have imagined before. It does get better--I promise.<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The Sculptor</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">With a mighty strike of the mallet the stone fell away, revealing what I feared lay beneath. The surface of the stone had been irreversibly changed and I shuttered at the realization. Like the creation of stone sculpture, the diagnosis of my daughter’s autism did not happen in the course of a day. Instead it was a slow chipping away of what I believed about my daughter until the disability was finally revealed. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">My head was heavy with anxiety and I pulled the car to a stop in a busy parking lot. Cars moved in and out, patrons passed in a blur, but I sat slumped with my forehead pressed against the steering wheel, crying. The autumn sun, high in the midday sky, shone through the windshield and a prickly sweat broke out across my neck and forehead. I felt choked by the collar of my red, cable-knit sweater. In the back seat my fifteen-month-old daughter sat quietly in her car seat, sucking her thumb. She was always quiet. I had thought that was just her way, but now I knew that it was autism’s way.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">She had been born perfect, five pounds and twelve ounces, a pink and crying little miracle. We celebrated her arrival into our family, our fourth child and our second daughter. She was loved from the start, her young siblings clamoring to see her and hold her tiny hands. Finding her way right into our hearts, she became a firmly rooted member of our family.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Eye contact was the first thing to go. That was the first part of the stone to chip away. I remembered her smiling. I had pictures of her early on, gazing into the camera lens with a toothless grin and wide, blue eyes. But then it was gone, subtly. She just would not look me in the eye. She would not look anyone in the eye. Instead, turning her eyes far to the side, she looked away. I could get in her face, snap my fingers, shout, she still would not make her eyes meet mine.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I justified and rationalized her behavior. She’s just nervous, I would say, she always looks away when she is scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she did not talk and at fifteen months, she barely crawled. I could only rationalize so much. Then came the seizures. They had actually been a blessing. When her little body began to rock and stiffen, her breathing slow and labored, I was forced to acknowledge that there was something terribly wrong.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The pediatrician referred us to a neurologist, revered in his field, who diagnosed her seizures and handed me a card. “Look into Early Intervention services,” he said. I was looking for a cure, a way to heal my daughter’s seizures and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>had assumed the specialist would tell me that after a few months of anti-seizure medication she would be okay. But that is not what happened, and as I took the card from his hand another piece of the stone chipped away. My daughter was changing, being shaped by the skilled and crafty hands of her disability, an affliction we would later be told was autism.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I reluctantly called the number on the card and arranged an appointment with the therapists at Davis County Early Intervention. I was ignorant; I had no idea what Early Intervention was. They sent me a long questionnaire about my daughter’s cognitive and physical development to fill out and bring to the appointment.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Question:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does your child walk? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Answer: No.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Question:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does your child talk, or attempt to talk by approximating words?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Answer:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uh, no.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Question:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does your child recognize parents or show fear with strangers?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">Answer:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uh oh. No.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Chip. Chip. Another piece of the stone fell away.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">When I arrived at the deceptively cheerful office for my appointment with Early Intervention I was eased into a false sense of calm. The office was set up like a preschool with bookcases loaded with books all around the room, musical instruments in one corner and a doll house in another, and miniature tables and chairs arranged in an orderly fashion in the center of the room. Smiling to myself, I was fully prepared to hear their glowing adorations of my beautiful daughter. I felt confident that they would tell me that with a little help she would soon begin reaching all the appropriate milestones. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">After reading the questionnaire I had filled out, and doing some discrete assessments of my daughter, a nurse, a speech and language pathologist, an occupational therapist, and a developmental therapist gathered around me. I was seated in a rocking chair while they sat on a blue, circular rug on the floor. The speech and language pathologist read from her report: “Your daughter has moderate to severe developmental delays in all areas.” The words, cold and heavy like rocks, traveled like lightning across the distance between us, landing with thunderous noise and sinking right to my heart.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I swallowed hard and choked out the only question I could ask:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Will she catch up?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Words were not necessary; the looks on their collective faces said it all. Yet the nurse chose to offer hope saying, “We see miracles all the time.” She smiled at me, full of pity for the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I was numb on the ride home, trying to push all thoughts of what I had just been through out of my mind, until about a mile from my house. It was then that I felt the full blow of the sculptor’s mallet and the final piece of stone fell away. My daughter as I had known her was gone. In her place was this new creation, what autism had made her. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Moderately to severely delayed in all areas. </i>The pain of that realization was too much to bear and I eased my car off the highway, pulling into the bustling parking lot of Smith’s grocery store. As cars passed and patrons walked by with their carts full of nothing, I hung my head low and cried—really cried. I felt the pain coming from somewhere deep within my chest as I coughed and wailed for the loss of the daughter I thought I had. All the while she sat behind me, quietly waiting for me to realize she was not gone, she was still there. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I slowly lifted my head, turning to look at my baby in the back seat. I smiled and waited for her to respond. She did not; autism would not let her. I sighed and wiped my wet face with the sleeve of my sweater. In silence I drove home. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">In time I would realize that while my daughter had changed, it was my turn to pick up the sculptor’s chisel and mallet and begin chipping away. I could not heal her, but I could change what autism had done to her. The tools would become mine. And eventually, like the great sculptures of art history, my daughter’s true beauty would be revealed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Post Script: It's been two years since I wrote this essay and four and a half since the pivotal day described. Keelie has grown and blossomed. Today she is a happy first-grader with a bright smile, infectious laugh, and friends--real friends! </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">In this essay I wrote about the Sculptor and the mallet, referring to how these things had changed my daughter. Now, in retrospect, I see that the Sculptor, chisel and the mallet also shaped my family. Keelie's brothers and sister are more kind and tolerant. They have learned patience. I am proud to say the chisel and mallet of disability have shaped them in ways I as a parent could not have done on my own. I, too, have changed. I have been taught lessons in compassion and patience in ways I never would have experienced without Keelie. And for that I am eternally grateful. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I've heard that the divorce rate for couples with children with autism may be as high as 80%! I'll admit that in those early months I was concerned about my marriage and how my husband and I would come together to raise Keelie. Would our personal heartache be more than our relationship could handle? I am pleased to say that I feel our marriage is stronger than ever. In those first few months, Aaron and I pulled together to focus on the positive and find ways to enjoy our new life with a child with a disability. Again, I will forever be grateful for the strength of my relationship with my husband.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">All of this is not to say that everything is sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows. Let me assure you that we are very aware that, as a family, we face difficult times both presently and ahead of us. However, focusing on the positives of our situation has placed the sculptor's mallet and chisel in our hands and allowed us to shape our reality in ways that allow us to find joy in our journey every day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-67655105797046603722012-04-09T18:34:00.000-07:002012-04-09T18:34:09.592-07:00What is your pet peeve?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>674</o:Words> <o:Characters>3842</o:Characters> <o:Company>Bangerter, Lund & Associates</o:Company> <o:Lines>32</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>7</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>4718</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">I promised I’d do it. And then, so typical of me, I didn’t. But today, as promised, I pulled out Paige’s little box of writing prompts and I am answering the first question I saw: what is your pet peeve?</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Oh, this is so easy for me to answer; I’ve been stewing on this for a while now. My pet peeve is insincerity. I’m all for being positive, looking on the bright side, and being kind to everyone. But it really peeves me when truths are overlooked in order to present the “perfect picture.” Case in point—and I know that some might be offended with what I have to say, but I feel I need to say it—<a href="http://www.ldschurchnews.com/articles/62081/Primary-Every-child-is-precious.html">an article written for the Church News</a> about Primary-aged children with disabilities. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Let me start from the very beginning. In January of this year I was contacted by my Primary presidency regarding a visit the Primary General Board had paid to our church. You see, there are a number of children with disabilities in our ward/neighborhood, Keelie being one of them, and the Church News wanted to feature an article about how Primaries can better serve these children and their families. All in all, it was a great article. However, in the article, as it is written, it states: “On Keelie’s first day in Primary, her mother was nervous, but with the teachers’ and leaders’ help and <u>the children’s naturally warm acceptance</u>, it proved to be a comfortable experience for everyone.” The issue I have with this article is the underlined statement. I don’t write this to be mean, to incite anger or pity. I write this because, if I am being honest as I feel I should, this was not my actual experience.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">As a rule, not all children are naturally warm and accepting. Warmth and acceptance, as well as cold callousness and rejection are taught through experiences in the home and in public. On several occasions I have witnessed children shunning my daughter because of her behavior which may include: licking or smelling herself or others; hitting or biting herself or others; loud, inappropriate vocalizations; hugging, kissing, and showing affection at inappropriate times; or any other behaviors one might find in other children with autism. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Children have sneered at her, moved places in order not to sit by her, even teased her during Primary. I understood and tolerated it all to a point.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">On one occasion, when she was four-and-a-half years old and still dependent of diapers, one child openly teased her during class, exclaiming loudly, “She still wears diapers! Ewww! Look at her, she still wears diapers!” To my dismay, several of the other children joined in the ridicule, pointing fingers and vocalizing their disgust. When the teacher did nothing to stop the rude behavior of the children, I removed Keelie from the class, too hurt and disappointed to return.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">After much thought and prayer, I decided that the entire Primary--teachers, leaders, and children alike--would need some training before I took her back to class. The training has been beneficial and, as the article states, it has evolved into a “comfortable,” positive experience. Of course there are still times when children move away from her or flash a dirty, disapproving look. But there are also better times when children openly come to sit with her, smile at her or offer her a friendly greeting. I love it when that happens.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">So, back to the insincerity, my pet peeve. Does it do any good to hide the truth of my story? Did anyone on American Idol ever benefit from Paula Abdul’s patronizing encouragement? It makes for good TV, but I mean, how did all those awful singers end up on national television, the butt of every late-night joke in the first place? I venture to guess that it was not through the sincere appraisal of their talents. I say the truth will teach more than sugar-coated, Pollyanna-type blurring of details in order to shelter people from harsh reality. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Were any valuable lessons taught through the depiction of “the children’s naturally warm acceptance”? On the other hand, does it hurt too much to explain what really happened? We don’t want to read about the bullying that might take place in a church setting. That does not erase the fact that it is there. Let’s get real, be sincere. The real truth is that children need to be exposed to and taught to accept those who are different, those with disabilities. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I’m not saying to blurt the harsh truth about just anything, (e.g., those jeans make your butt look huge. Lose a good fifty pounds and you might look better). I am just asking that we all say what we mean and mean what we say because insincerity hurts more in the long run than gentle and sincere honesty.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">There. I said it. I got that off my chest. Thanks for listening. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">Now, look at her in that picture. There, in the middle in the lovely silver dress.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iHX4WKzcF2hiPxn55VYcMqGn8o9WGTl8qKDpjngfIxds594xPFbB2vNH7FwemNGSC-1Soya7PNIkMhffqmdMYIQ3fpp7tQeKY-IXNICyTUsqPahewrHTla0p-MwjIwmpc8PhCNifDANG/s1600/Keelie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iHX4WKzcF2hiPxn55VYcMqGn8o9WGTl8qKDpjngfIxds594xPFbB2vNH7FwemNGSC-1Soya7PNIkMhffqmdMYIQ3fpp7tQeKY-IXNICyTUsqPahewrHTla0p-MwjIwmpc8PhCNifDANG/s1600/Keelie.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">Isn’t she gorgeous? Man, I love that girl.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-39528565827745640572012-02-21T13:48:00.000-08:002012-02-21T13:48:12.540-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhklFtuD6KT74Z2xYJMNONVbnZ2eet988pEVQtHzDxvrHUmQeikjq794uKUMq1XH3_9chKkUiIeeOGFT6rj-t6WOJGQqt9R96n3RmsusM5EAPL07zKi7vVl91-HcqJ2HCSsIcj9SZpWDJdO/s1600/Possibiliy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhklFtuD6KT74Z2xYJMNONVbnZ2eet988pEVQtHzDxvrHUmQeikjq794uKUMq1XH3_9chKkUiIeeOGFT6rj-t6WOJGQqt9R96n3RmsusM5EAPL07zKi7vVl91-HcqJ2HCSsIcj9SZpWDJdO/s400/Possibiliy.jpg" width="308" /></a></div>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-90037677729898542162012-01-31T13:56:00.000-08:002012-01-31T13:56:57.828-08:00So RandomYes, I copied that title from the Disney Channel. I don't care. I like it.<br />
If we make it to tomorrow (Feb. 1st) we will have officially survived January. Why is that important? Because, for me at least, January is a monotonous, tedious, downright boring month. And I always celebrate when it is over.<br />
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Tomorrow also marks 8 weeks since I submitted <i>Indigo</i>, my totally fabulous YA paranormal manuscript, to my dream publisher. According to their submission guidelines, 8 weeks is their typical turnaround on manuscripts. According to my past experience with them, 8 weeks is the longest I've waited for a rejection. This could be good. Or it could simply mean they are backlogged and taking extra time in the review process. Only time will tell.<br />
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I know I've totally failed my resolution to blog weekly. Blame it on that fact that I'm a glutton for punishment. I'm trying with all my creative strength to finish <i>Shadow Waters</i>, the next book in <i>The Sprightling Diaries</i> series. Originally, I was supposed to push through it by the end of November. When that failed, I set January as a target. Nope, didn't happen. So, the end of February it is. It will get done. It. Will. Get. Done.<br />
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On top of that, I decided to sign up for a Personal Trainer course. Why? I've always wanted to be a fitness instructor. And, why not? I have a dream of starting a fitness blog. (Actually, I've already started the blog but haven't done anything with it yet.) Stay tuned for that one.<br />
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Books on my bedside table this month:<br />
<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Moon-Over-Manifest-Clare-Vanderpool/dp/0375858296/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1328046537&sr=8-1">Moon Over Manifest</a> </i>by Clare Vanderpool<br />
<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Year-Swallows-Came-Early/dp/0061625000/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1328046572&sr=1-1">The Year the Swallows Came Early</a> </i>by Kathryn Fitzmaurice<br />
<i>ACT Personal Trainer Certification </i>(No one really cares who wrote that book. I just need to get it read.)<br />
<br />
So, now go find a book and get your read on, get out and get some sun on your skin--even if it does mean freezing your hiney off, and remember to join me on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/thesprightlingdiaries">Facebook</a> and at <a href="http://www.Sprightlingdiaries.com/">SprightlingDiaries.com</a> (as if you need another reminder).Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-36516830123165005802012-01-11T09:10:00.000-08:002012-01-11T09:10:52.046-08:00Blackbirds and Resolutions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg70aY-R6xRRosZmrItEugs6RJ15LMP7HVZXT4jr9Aq9bssyQPSGZCrg-eNmmFEIcBH_lJ_cRn0jGjW24EirIkoUy5Q8yJphnPYNB8eCrsCm0lvT12hbRjElIT_LMBiORithd70gfw9bvNr/s1600/blackbirds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg70aY-R6xRRosZmrItEugs6RJ15LMP7HVZXT4jr9Aq9bssyQPSGZCrg-eNmmFEIcBH_lJ_cRn0jGjW24EirIkoUy5Q8yJphnPYNB8eCrsCm0lvT12hbRjElIT_LMBiORithd70gfw9bvNr/s1600/blackbirds.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Blackbirds land in the</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">arms of winter-bare trees like</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">thoughts in open minds.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">© 2012 Fiauna Lund</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">What are you thinking about today?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm thinking that I already failed on one of my New Year's resolutions--and I don't particularly care.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I resolved that every day I would list one thing I <i>must</i> do, on thing I <i>should</i>, and one thing I <i>want to</i> do, and then <i>do </i>them. I have been faithful in making my list every morning. The problem comes when, by noon, what seemed important at dawn gets pushed aside.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And yesterday nothing was more important than getting my son transferred out of a classroom headed by a bully whose agenda it is to brazenly assault the fledgling testimonies of the seventh-grade minds put in his care when they are only beginning to explore the border-less fields of Faith.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Yeah, protecting my child's impressionable mind put my plans to update the bank book on hold for an afternoon. And today I'm wrestling with the unfinished items on yesterday's list.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Flexibility is key in parenting--and resolutions, I suppose. Who knew?</div>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-27756096732277271882012-01-02T10:50:00.000-08:002012-01-02T10:50:58.178-08:00And the Winner is . . .<ul><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Mary Rubow--</span>a signed copy of <i>In the Twilight</i>.</li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Heidi L. Murphy and Melissa Pearl--</span>abalone shell necklaces similar to those in the book.</li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Cindy Hogan, Diana (Lady of Narnia), and Elizabeth Mueller--</span>glow-in-the-dark wristbands.</li>
</ul><br />
All winners were randomly selected on Random.org. I will email each winner to get mailing addresses. Thanks to all for participating! And remember, you can always get a copy at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Sprightling-Diaries-Book/dp/1890718777/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1325529432&sr=8-1">Amazon.com</a>.<br />
<br />
Now that the Debutante Ball is finished, I am looking forward to some "regular" blogging. I used to be really good at blogging. And by that I mean that I used to do it regularly, as in at least weekly. Then, sometime around two years ago, I kind of drifted away from blogging. With the start of a new year I'd like to renew my blogging passion. I miss the connections I made while spilling my guts in cyberspace.<br />
So, for the year 2012, I am issuing myself a challenge: to blog weekly for an entire year. I will be using my daughter's <a href="http://formyfour.blogspot.com/2011/11/little-box-of-writing-prompts.html">little box of writing prompts</a> to spur my imagination and hopefully my writing genius.<br />
<br />
Other resolutions for the year include reading and writing one hour every day (hard to believe I don't do this already, but I can be kind of a slacker at times); drinking less soda and more water; praying more; and accomplishing three things a day: one thing I must do, one thing I should do, and one thing I want to do. Wish me luck. I hope this year I stick to my resolutions.<br />
<br />
How about you? What are your resolutions this year?Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-13648250184064350632011-12-21T04:00:00.000-08:002011-12-21T04:00:17.362-08:00Psst, I've Got a Giveaway<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There is a village cradled in the northern woods, a town like any other--only this town has a secret centuries old. What if it was your job to keep that secret safe?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fourteen-year-old Avril Holly lives in a world full of secrets: Not only is she half faery, sprouting wings at twilight, but suddenly she also has the ability to read minds. When she is attacked while walking home alone in her otherwise peaceful community, she learns that she must use her mind-reading powers to protect her people from the curious and sometimes dangerous human beings around them.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When she discovers that Vestyn, her best friend’s brother, helped save her from the attacker, what started out as childhood friendship takes on new depth, growing into a budding romance. Though she worries their telepathic connection will ruin their blossoming relationship, Avril must learn to work with Vestyn to keep their community safe and their faery heritage a secret.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the Twilight</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, the first book in </span><em style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: italic; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Sprightling Diaries</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> series, will have fans of fantasy and paranormal fiction of all ages wishing for wings and asking,</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What if . . .?”</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0WX1skavy7F6q3SC5mwotHxa35F_nRNyrk-nKQb_BmF-tu2Eew2jq_IibI_vHmzkwNKIjxgH8dHdbG-aa2v4ApLVCeztp25e7blZBB_Lko88KbtvElEhoenLG1aDG4GPx59k0w19kOWL/s320/Final+Cover.jpg" width="189" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm thrilled to see my little book published and my sprightlings getting their wings. I began dreaming up and consequently writing <i>In the Twilight </i>during the summer of 2008 while sitting in my backyard with two of my nieces and three of my four children. We began talking about books and I proposed that we write a book of our own, asking, "What if your entire town had a secret and it was your job to keep that secret safe?" We ended up with a middle-grade to 'tween fantasy novel, the first in a series.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Fast forward a few years and many tears later, I was offered a <a href="http://www.ebornbooks.com/blog/shady-hill-publishing/">contract to publish</a> my book in the summer of 2011. After doing a happy dance around the kitchen, I got to work preparing the manuscript for the publisher and settled in writing a sequel tentatively titled <i>Shadow Waters.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course we all dream of our books one day becoming a movie. And if that is not our dream, we at least conjure up images of the characters we create, usually based on real-life people. Well, if my book were to be made into a movie in the near future, preferably before these kids need walkers and take their great-grandchildren to the premier, the role of Avril Holly would be played by:</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcH_tzDVlJWHrNmGQtr3nkqGzay1dkguJ4EaRj4xErUPenEqNqd0u32WkmNxasXN74yTXvh7ykUKtftHm-SBVjvJeO1XNS86IcFBtw-_MiTBA7_wPe8WXr25TziN6RHaWJIc6xQUOc8oGP/s1600/Avril.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcH_tzDVlJWHrNmGQtr3nkqGzay1dkguJ4EaRj4xErUPenEqNqd0u32WkmNxasXN74yTXvh7ykUKtftHm-SBVjvJeO1XNS86IcFBtw-_MiTBA7_wPe8WXr25TziN6RHaWJIc6xQUOc8oGP/s1600/Avril.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Abigail Breslin.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the role of Vestyn Winter, I would cast:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbtz_VrwJ6v3fE8UPsmk6MlJwLdOPKJ2V8lsMfCeJwBGlbSkl5kHExWwU4VCeQszAtHZivORuRdONGnKR4FO5oBAprYtUw3PAMxDsg52FEgvcPR_wvLqVc0oa8-rpUwzjGBJzIvGeUri9/s1600/Vestyn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbtz_VrwJ6v3fE8UPsmk6MlJwLdOPKJ2V8lsMfCeJwBGlbSkl5kHExWwU4VCeQszAtHZivORuRdONGnKR4FO5oBAprYtUw3PAMxDsg52FEgvcPR_wvLqVc0oa8-rpUwzjGBJzIvGeUri9/s1600/Vestyn.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sterling Knight.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(No celebrity endorsement implied.)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(Oh, and, yes, I got these pics off of Google Images.)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Now for the fun part: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">the giveaway</span></span>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><ul><li style="text-align: left;">Be sure to like <a href="http://www.facebook.com/TheSprightlingDiaries">The Sprightling Diaries Facebook page,</a></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/TheSprightlingDiaries"></a>visit <a href="http://SprightlingDiaries.com/">SprightlingDiaries.com</a>,</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">and then leave a comment here so I know who you are and what you stand for. Kidding. I only want to know who you are and if you followed the rules of the game. </li>
</ul><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(If you would like to read more about my everyday life, you are welcome to follow this blog. But I warn you, it's a lot about my kids, family, my inner thoughts, etc. read: boring.)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">On January 2nd, I will choose, at random, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">six winners</span>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">What are you playing for?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><ul><li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">One winner will receive a signed copy of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">In the Twilight</span></i></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Two winners will receive abalone shell necklaces similar to those described in the book</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Three winners will jump up and down for glow-in-the-dark Sprightling Diaries wristbands.</span></li>
</ul>Are you excited? Well, you should be. I am.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Want more but can't wait to win a signed copy? Be sure to click on over to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Sprightling-Diaries-Book/dp/1890718777/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1324439852&sr=8-1">Amazon.com </a>and buy a copy of your own. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></div>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-65478677946417279772011-12-15T09:03:00.000-08:002011-12-15T09:03:23.596-08:00A SigningSo, I am pleased to announce that <i>In the Twilight</i> is finally available. Right now the easiest way to snag a copy is definitely <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Sprightling-Diaries-Book/dp/1890718777/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1323968429&sr=8-1">Amazon</a>. However, you can also visit any Eborn Books store along the Wasatch Front and pick up a copy. If you want a signed copy then drop by the Valley Fair Mall in West Valley City, Utah this Friday, December 16th (oh, that's tomorrow. Yikes!) where I will be doing a signing between 5 and 7 pm. I'd love to see you there!<br />
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Also, todays debut author was added to the tour a bit late. But she's definitely worth it, so click on over and visit <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Claudia Lefeve</span> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="http://www.claudialefeve.com/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">http://www.<wbr></wbr>claudialefeve.com</a> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">and enter for a chance to win a copy of her book, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Parallel.</span></i></span></span>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-28849960294829290182011-12-12T12:59:00.000-08:002011-12-12T12:59:47.755-08:00A Feast of Debut Authors<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA7EZLKahymJvm-nNlcprisgjERbKP-guFhPVjVcmA2U1WeHpkYg3uZsyCiFwT9YEfVBwexV0wDTWXyiEzDn638FFNPr8MmUIJ-N-uM6jn5Vg6yr7QI3baJr4PfeEg2jTqO41tRTWf1Olj/s1600/debutante+%2528girls%2529.jpg" /></div>I am excited to announce the Debutante Ball--a feast of debut authors. Beginning today and continuing throughout the holidays until December 30th, we will spotlight our books and share some cinematic fun as well!<br />
<br />
Join up and comment for giveaways--you know, books and cool swag. Most of our contests will end Saturday, the 31st!<br />
<br />
What do we want of you? Just your comment luvin' and cool invites to as many friends as you can gather for our every appearance--each shout out you do is just that much more of a chance to WIN BIG! Just let us know as you do them so we know to throw that in the voting box.<br />
<br />
Here's the list of awesome debut authors that will lure you with lots of cool stuff to win!<br />
Remember, most of all, have fun! (BTW, I will be debuting my book on the 21st!)<br />
<br />
<br />
12 Elizabeth Mueller <a href="http://elizabethmueller.blogspot.com/">elizabethmueller.blogspot.com</a><br />
<br />
13 Regan Guerra <a href="http://reganguerra.blogspot.com/">reganguerra.blogspot.com</a><br />
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14 Melissa Pearl <a href="http://melissapearl.blogspot.com/">melissapearl.blogspot.com</a><br />
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16 Joseph Beekman <a href="http://josephsstoriesandtales.blogspot.com/">josephsstoriesandtales.blogspot.com/</a><br />
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17 Pendragon Innmen <a href="http://PendragonWrites.com/">PendragonWrites.com </a><br />
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19 Alex J. Cavanaugh <a href="http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/">alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com</a><br />
<br />
20 Gillian Schafer <a href="http://gillianjoy-livingtowrite.blogspot.com/">gillianjoy-livingtowrite.blogspot.com</a><br />
<br />
21 FiaunaLund formyfour.blogspot.com<br />
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22 Anastasia V. Pergakis <a href="http://labotomyofawriter.com/">labotomyofawriter.com/</a><br />
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23 H. Linn Murphy <a href="http://murph4slaw.blogspot.com/">murph4slaw.blogspot.com </a><br />
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26 Tanya Contois <a href="http://speedyreader-allthingsbooks.blogspot.com/">speedyreader-allthingsbooks.blogspot.com</a><br />
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27 Patti Larsen <a href="http://pattilarsen.blogspot.com/">pattilarsen.blogspot.com</a><br />
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28 Red Tash <a href="http://RedTash.com/">RedTash.com</a><br />
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29 Annetta Ribken <a href="http://wordwebbing.com/">wordwebbing.com</a><br />
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30 Cindy Hogan <a href="http://watched-thebook.blogspot.com/">watched-thebook.blogspot.com </a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Disclaimer: I have not read the materials promoted or presented on these blogs. The views expressed and materials presented are not a representation of my own views or opinions. Enter (or click, as it were) at your own risk.</span>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-57986544847078899412011-12-12T12:27:00.000-08:002011-12-12T15:00:55.443-08:00Meandering Toward a Blog Tour . . .Meandering<br />
Ever so slightly<br />
Descending,<br />
I struggle and strive<br />
Only to<br />
Come up<br />
Regrettably short,<br />
Ever forgettable--mediocre.<br />
<br />
What does this acrostic have to do with anything? Nothing, really. It just popped into my head last night as I fought for sleep. I had to type it out to get any peace. You know how it is.<br />
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Now for something not so mediocre--<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQxmGgS8eg7hHfFC-ZCdBVamhsCAf296zDy0VmMfUsp7v-ip4K58ElUNiPIrUA0qBqb9jfkPLfQlsiraJ7TzKy4QFK4KiV5fwTSI8L6yw8epAlP9yOa9OZruBX_UkpAzzFLkFa5BSZRh70/s1600/debutante+%2528girls%2529.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://elizabethmueller.blogspot.com/">elizabethmueller.blogspot.com/</a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Check out my new friend Elizabeth Mueller's blog for the debut blog tour. Leave a comment for a chance to win swag--you know, books and prizes. Today she's featuring her book <i>Darkspell,</i> a YA paranormal. It looks good. I'm going to go comment so I can win an autographed copy (I hope).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Then be sure to return for my debut on the 21st. I look forward to seeing and hearing from you all then!</div>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-55495505957999720072011-12-08T09:07:00.000-08:002011-12-08T09:07:02.051-08:00Getting ready for the holidays this year meant putting together a photo arrangement of this beautiful man.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqouOn9kOn9VuRTow6kcqBneV6LlopIBu2vG8bdyf1w9kqDkvdz8usnccHpdiKsOSciO_bSpdEO6wH-WwF7DJkL1wpZQnhMX11rclWSleNWD6_IJYMywtb0XzevlsWVMDoVJJRMboa9R9a/s1600/DSC_3889.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqouOn9kOn9VuRTow6kcqBneV6LlopIBu2vG8bdyf1w9kqDkvdz8usnccHpdiKsOSciO_bSpdEO6wH-WwF7DJkL1wpZQnhMX11rclWSleNWD6_IJYMywtb0XzevlsWVMDoVJJRMboa9R9a/s320/DSC_3889.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It was considerably more difficult than I had expected; I hadn't planned on tears as I sifted through the library of photos of my brother.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I always think of family during the holidays, but this year, naturally, I am feeling a heightened sense of gratitude for all the people in my life.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Three years ago, just before Thanksgiving, I nearly lost my sister to a stroke. Benjy and I hurried to the hospital to meet the helicopter that had transported our sister from Logan to Salt Lake. Her husband would have to make the long drive from their home, so it was my brother and I who met with the doctors and social worker. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It was a scary time as we waited to hear our sister's prognosis. And even after we learned her life had been spared, it was an even longer wait to find out how much of our sister we would have left. Benjy and I spent a lot of time together talking, hoping, thinking, praying, and of course laughing, at Mindy's bedside. We didn't know if she would ever walk, let alone speak again. She got pneumonia; her lung collapsed; she had to relearn how to swallow, walk, write, and talk again. And we waited for any sign that Mindy would still be <i>Mindy</i> after she recovered.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Today, Mindy is doing fine--almost better than ever! She runs races, teaches reading, and is enrolled at Utah State University. And I am grateful for that trial for a number of reasons. This year, as we celebrated what Mindy calls her "strokiversary," I took a moment to celebrate the time that tragedy, as difficult as it was, allowed me to spend with my brother. Who would have known that not three years later I would be planning my brother's funeral, picking out his casket, and arranging his burial plot? I don't think anyone is prepared for that task in their thirties--or maybe at any age, for that matter. There was a moment during the funeral planning when I literally cried out asking my Heavenly Father for a tender mercy. Now I know I got one. Today I think of that time in the hospital with my brother and sister as Heaven sent.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And as I think back on his life, I find<a href="http://grannysuesnews.blogspot.com/2011/12/on-letting-in-light.html"> this post </a>by my dear friend Susan Anderson so fitting and so appropriate.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Benjy, I miss you. Nothing is the same this year without you.</div>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-41747304609985770092011-11-07T12:04:00.000-08:002011-11-07T12:04:35.681-08:00Speaking of Embarrassing Moments . . . The Interview<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I have to say before anyone listens to this that I usually really hate the sound of my own voice. I cringe when I listen to the answering machine message and usually refuse to speak when my husband records home videos. That said, I had an interview last month with author Nick Galieti who works with my publisher. The idea behind the interview is to "get to know me as an author" and spread the word about <i>In the Twilight</i> and <i>The Sprightling Diaries</i>. The interview was recorded and is being played on <a href="http://www.ebornbooks.com/fiaunalundinterview.mp3">one of the publisher's Websites here. </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Have a listen, but don't laugh too hard when you hear be describe my book as "whimsical" (the word popped out before I could edit myself). </div>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-46484228162904852692011-11-02T10:15:00.000-07:002011-11-02T10:15:55.889-07:00Little Box of Writing PromptsFirst of all, let me start with a sincere thank you to all those who chimed in yesterday. It was nice to hear (read) that others fall into a blogging funk from time to time.<br />
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I liked what <a href="http://www.emmymom2.com/">Emmy</a> said about using writing prompts when all else fails. And it just so happens that this morning while cleaning the kitchen (read: shuffling clutter from one counter to the other) I came across an Altoids tin that felt surprisingly light, as in empty. When I opened it, a question popped out. Well, it was a card with a question on it. I thought: Writing prompt.<br />
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About a month ago my daughter brought home a stack of conversation starter cards from a church activity and placed them all neatly in an empty Altoids tin. Like many, many other things, it ended up shoved under a pile of school papers and junk mail. Until this morning when I opened and read the prompt: Tell your most embarrassing moment.<br />
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Now, I'm going to be really frank with y'all right now. I do not really want to write about my most embarrassing moment. My truly, honestly most embarrassing moment(s) will likely remain secret remembered (hopefully) only by Yours Truly. I think of my most embarrassing moments as synonymous with my most humiliating moments. However, I will share silly, funny moments when asked.<br />
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Once in high school I did a really embarrassing (read: stupid) thing I hope no one remembers. Why would drag myself back through that trauma by sharing a moment like that. On the other hand, once in high school I ran up to a guy I thought I knew, pulled his shorts up his rear end and yelled "Wedgy fever!" at the top of my lungs only to learn when the guy turned around that I didn't know him from Adam (and he was very, very cute). Ugh. That was more funny than embarrassing, but because I get a laugh from the story that's the one I usually share when asked to tell my most embarrassing moment. But my truly most embarrassing moment will go with me to the grave.<br />
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What about you? Would you really share your honestly, truly most embarrassing moment?Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-3509444318396070202011-11-01T13:51:00.000-07:002011-11-01T13:51:19.565-07:00Stuck in the Rut?So I just spent thirty minutes writing a blog post no one will ever read. Not that this is unusual; it happens all the time. This time, however, the blog post actually meant something to me.<br />
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A lot of big stuff has gone down in my little world lately. Huge stuff that seems like it would make great blog fodder. The problem is I just can't write about it. Any of it. I keep trying; I type the words and get ready to hit PUBLISH POST. Somehow though, my finger wavers, as does my heart, my mind, and my judgement. And the post ends up deleted.<br />
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I could just make a list for all of you. I could title it The List of All the Really Big Stuff Rocking My World Right Now. But . . . I can't do it.<br />
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Am I in a funk? A rut? Or, have I come to my senses enough to stop sharing my every passing whim and thought with a cyber world of strangers?<br />
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I'm sure I'm not the only person who has gone through this before. So let me ask you this: How do you kick a blogging funk? How can I shake off the heavy and get back to the light and fluffy blog writing everybody knows and loves? How do I make my comeback?<br />
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Oh, and please, please (does that sound like begging?) visit my <a href="http://sprightlingdiaries.com/">website</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Sprightling-Diaries/288092004538903">Facebook</a> page for updates on <i>The Sprightling Diaries</i>. <i>In the Twilight</i> is coming soon . . .Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-57910878266796048302011-09-24T11:26:00.000-07:002011-09-24T11:26:40.457-07:00FliersI went to bed with a headache. The result was a vivid and strange dream. I dreamt I was invited to a party at a two-story art gallery in an old city. It was night; the street was damp and the air cool. Warm yellow light streamed out of the windows at the front of the gallery, exposing the roomful of partygoers like fish in a bowl. The entrance was grand; two stories open all the way up. And as I stepped through the wide double doors I was met with a flurry of activity.<br />
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There, in the entrance was a flying contraption, the type used in the theater to lift people and propel them over the stage. Men and women dressed in tuxedos and party dresses waited in line for their turn flying. <br />
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As I entered, two young women were preparing to fly. The first girl wore her hair in pale yellow ringlets piled on top of her head. She wore heavy makeup, rouged cheeks and bright red lips. Her long, apparently fake eyelashes batted as she glanced coquettishly around the crowd as a young man dressed in a tux with tales and satin vest helped her into her harness. She daintily held up the skirts of her pale pink, tea-length dress, and giggled when the lacy petticoats became visible to all.<br />
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The other young lady, a shy girl with long auburn hair held back by a rose-colored ribbon, held the skirt of her antique lace dress down as she slipped into the harness and blushed as the men prepared to hoist her into the air. She looked around the crowd nervously, but men and women with gloved hands and applauded politely as she was lifted up above their heads.<br />
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At that same time, a whoop let out in the crowd as the first girl flew high into the air above the crowd. She smiled garishly and called out, “Look at me! Look how high I can fly!” as the men pulling on the wires lifted her near the ceiling. She waved her hands and pointed her toys and ordered the men with the wires to lift her even higher. “I want to touch the stars!” she exclaimed dramatically.<br />
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The second girl, on the other hand, blushed as the men held her in the air and covered her mouth when she giggled. When it was apparent the men were beginning to exhaust their strength, she politely asked to be let down and they slowly lowered her back down to the floor. Women rushed to her side, patting her on the shoulders and remarking how lovely she looked when she flew. “Like an angel,” one said. “ “Like a dove.”<br />
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But their attention was quickly drawn up toward the ceiling as the first girl shouted down to the men with the wires, “Higher! Lift me higher!” But the men with the wires were tired; they needed a break from holding her up. So more men from the crowd slipped our of their dress coats and rolled up the sleeves of their impeccable white dress shirts and took hold of the rope. <br />
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The crowd continued to grow. Some were watching the scene. Others were patiently waiting for their turn. At one point, as the men continued to fatigue, the wire became slack and the first girl slipped, dropping a few feet before the men caught hold of the wire again. “You fools! You could have killed me!” she shouted ungraciously. “Now, lift me higher!”<br />
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Not once did the first girl glance down with concern or consideration for the men who held her up, allowing her to fly as high as she pleased to her heart’s content. Not once did she glance down to see if others waited in line for their turn, their chance to feel the exhilaration of flight. Her only concern was for herself.<br />
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Now, what does this all mean? I’m sure we can all draw a few conclusions, maybe a moral or two. But, I don’t know, really. It was just a dream.<br />
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Now, be sure to click on over to <a href="http://www.thesprightlingdiaries.blogspot.com/">The Sprightling Diaries </a>blog and "like" the new Facebook page. Continue to watch for updates as the release date nears! (Can you tell I'm a little excited? No? Well, I am and you should be too!)Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-6919399016084987482011-09-02T09:35:00.000-07:002011-09-02T09:35:26.330-07:00Four Musketeers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Four siblings have never been better friends.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihP4PFDFIltLghAECc3_MrNps0zL89OZHyueiQjGjRR-5SxamobnSwIgOLA7w2hR9LTZG9-BQ0u7AjpKgq0v7msIOPn77d7npfapgh3TqM38gANyNUa31QCv59vYS1SgMlcNym1cFLVHCk/s1600/Kearns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihP4PFDFIltLghAECc3_MrNps0zL89OZHyueiQjGjRR-5SxamobnSwIgOLA7w2hR9LTZG9-BQ0u7AjpKgq0v7msIOPn77d7npfapgh3TqM38gANyNUa31QCv59vYS1SgMlcNym1cFLVHCk/s320/Kearns.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> We were the Four Musketeers.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nvlOjfDgR2STMmsGIwA36vnOtlU8VcyO7OGKN__Q2nlHiaBn5vvey6mxGDzPz1msRk4zw23pZdYg3i4tF6-R69V_AOEjuV8b7oA4YDO0p5x1T9-rdb0s1BcTAFSwS6jpQgPhK1ZEDHUC/s1600/IMGP1951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nvlOjfDgR2STMmsGIwA36vnOtlU8VcyO7OGKN__Q2nlHiaBn5vvey6mxGDzPz1msRk4zw23pZdYg3i4tF6-R69V_AOEjuV8b7oA4YDO0p5x1T9-rdb0s1BcTAFSwS6jpQgPhK1ZEDHUC/s320/IMGP1951.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">In front of one of our childhood homes in 2004.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">I have been truly blessed to know my brothers and my sister in such a special way.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I love you all!</div><div style="text-align: center;">Benjy, you will be dearly missed.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-55194709289567318582011-08-31T13:55:00.000-07:002011-08-31T13:55:50.814-07:00Life LessonsThings I've learned in the last two weeks:<br />
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Your best days can quickly become your worst nightmare.<br />
Sometimes strength is overrated and tears are the order of the day.<br />
Sometimes tears make matters worse.<br />
Children are amazingly resilient.<br />
Children need and deserve a mother <i>and </i>a father.<br />
In times of test, the family is best.<br />
We need prayers even when we've passed through this life.<br />
Honesty, complete and total, is the best policy.<br />
Secrets grow darker when they are buried and hidden.<br />
Never, NEVER fail to let your loved ones know exactly how you feel.<br />
God's love and atonement are infinite and never-ending.<br />
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My brother's passing has left a wake of grief, tears, and a horde of terribly mixed emotions. But it has also brought to light so much love. Unbelievable strength and love. He was a man of great testimony and faith, and that is what I will miss. That is what I will take from his life. I miss him terribly; he was a part of my daily life and was truly one of my best friends.<br />
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Through it all this one refrain from the hymn "Be Still, My Soul" has run through my mind, even waking me from my much-needed sleep at times:<br />
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,<br />
Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.<br />
Be Still, my soul:<br />
When change and tears are past,<br />
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-34653970424142924372011-07-05T14:54:00.000-07:002011-07-05T14:54:26.219-07:00Shelf LifeMy shoes were already on and I was walking purposefully to the front door when I encountered my crying six-year-old daughter, her bottom lip quivering, tears spilling down her cheeks, into her mouth and down her chin. I paused. "What is making you cry right now?" I asked her knowing she wouldn't be able to give me a complete answer. But with the way she was crying I knew I had to do something to calm her down. "What's wrong?" I asked again when she looked up at me with her huge blue eyes, the color amplified and deepened with the tears. "Do you want Mom to hold you?"<br />
"Yes."<br />
With that, I knew my run would have to wait.<br />
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I scooped her up in my arms and walked into the front room, plopping down on the couch, to allow her to cry herself to satisfaction. I fingered her thick hair as her head rested on my chest, the weight of her body providing a calming weight to my own anxiety. It was going to be a busy day; I had to get going with my run or skip it all together in order keep everything else on schedule. But when I felt her little arms reach up around my neck and her body curl up against mine, all of that melted away. I closed my eyes, allowing my cheek to rest on the top of her little head, and reminded myself that this was one of those moments I would want back . . . again and again.<br />
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You see, my children are growing up--too quickly, in my opinion. It has now been six years (on the twelfth) since I had a baby. While I no longer feel the drive, that gnawing push maybe only women know, to have another baby, I do wish, nearly every day, to go back in time and rock my babies again. There are key moments from their early childhood I would give anything (almost) to go back and relive. But . . . I can't. No one can. All productivity would stop as people all over the world took time out to relive their favorite moments if this were a remote possibility.<br />
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The truth is, life, especially childhood, has a very short shelf life. If we don't pause to embrace key moments, to fully enjoy them and commit them to memory, we will end our days with regret. I did get to my run that morning, but only after my daughter heaved out her last tear, inhaled deeply, pushed off of my chest and said, "I love you." I don't regret that other things had to wait that day. But I do know that had I not taken the time to savor that moment and to commit it to memory, anything else I did that day would have been a waste.Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1030723928436208686.post-74783388784364021522011-05-17T11:11:00.000-07:002011-05-17T11:11:06.622-07:00It's Back . . .The Sprightling Diaries blog is back! I hope you're all as excited as I am. I was recently contacted by a publisher interested in the project. I guess you can say it renewed my passion for Avril, Vestyn, Kestly and all the other wonderful "people" in Trestleton. Check it out at <a href="http://www.TheSprightlingDiaries.blogspot.com/">TheSprightlingDiaries.blogspot.com</a>.Fiaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10926061003660096037noreply@blogger.com4