Freaky Mennonite Update: "Jungle Housecalls"

Regular Housecalls readers may recall my posts on The Freaky Mennonite. 

I thought I'd update those posts today, as the-woman-in-a-cap-("covering")-support-stockings-and-sensible-shoes has probably saved my life (I'm exercising perhaps a little dramatic license here, but it's my blog - deal with it).

First, updating my original post, the young Mennonite woman diagnosed with breast cancer during pregnancy had her baby - a healthy boy - eschewing chemotherapy and radiation until after her son was born.  Afterwards, she waged a noble fight (not all of it embracing modern medicine), but succumbed to her cancer two weeks ago - a little over a year after the baby was born.

My Freaky pal was at her side - as a nurse and a friend - for all of that battle (those "stages of grief" were, understandably-given-the-situation, a long/rough haul).

As death goes, it was a good death. 

And/so I'm here today to salute them both.  Sometimes it's not about winning the fight - it's about how you wage it.

Anyway, last week my Freaky friend and I were talking about the ordeal, and during the course of the conversation, she announced that she was Vitamin D deficient.  As we talked about the symptoms (I've been suffering from a number of auto-immune type symptoms and almost crippling fatigue - despite getting a normal TSH level back this month for the first time in almost two years), she told me I needed to get a Vitamin D level - that she was certain I was deficient.  My doctor was not opposed, and thought it actually might be a good idea.

Suffice it to say that my Vitamin D levels were in Hell's sub-basement (much lower even than those of the Mennonite who diagnosed me), and yesterday, I began mega-D therapy (a horse-pill once a week for at least 12 weeks).

My Freaky friend had the nursery duty this morning and I could not wait to tell her that she had saved my life.  Between EMR notes on ICU babies, we caught up on each others lives . . . and offered sympathy to one of our nursing colleagues, whose brother died unexpectedly last week (at the age of 39) in Florida.  The man was a biker, and his friends are planning a "poker run" in order to raise money for the 4 year-old daughter he left behind.  My own brother loves his motorcycles (he once told me that the only thing better than riding his bike was piloting a plane), and that incited a tangent about boys and their toys.

During the course of that conversation, the Freaky Mennonite revealed that there was nothing like riding a motorcycle.

My grieving colleague and I immediately stopped our typing at our respective computer screens, and exchanged backwards "what-the-hell-did-the-Mennonite-just-say?" glances (she actually smiled, which I thought was good).

The we both paused to savor the mental picture.

Our Freaky Mennonite told us that she once owned a little Honda (Translation: "damned rice-burner") and used it to make "jungle housecalls" during mission work in some South American country.

I told her that I was going to blog about the "jungle housecalls".  She laughed a hearty laugh (I love to hear it), and only asked that I make it clear her motorcycle rides were in the cause of Christ.

And so I have.

Our Lord works in VERY mysterious ways.