“It feels like you shut down, in utero, when four months old. Perhaps related to the chronic fatigue you told me about. The rheumatoid arthritis, too.” Before my itching brown eyes, her words shimmered and morphed into the ceiling adorned with crown molding and a crystal fixture. Shame crazed me into my accustomed crawl space where I became invisible, breathless. Someone else knew my secret. It was about Mother.

Anna Maria Kiddon, an energy therapist, continued moving her hands above my body, as I lay upon her therapy table in her St. Louis, MO, home. There were more findings that wintry morning in 1988, but I could not retain them. While scrambling into my coat and scarf, I barely heard her invitation to return.

Slowly, I picked my way down the brick walk toward my car, parked beneath a skeletal oak with shrunken leaves, my inflamed knees knifing each step. No birds anywhere. It began to sleet. Panting, I drove home, hovering over the heater. I was fifty-three yeas old, in the second year of my marriage.


It would take decades to unpack the implications of that evaluation.

This Prologue opens my second memoir, Limping AlongFollowing the Dark Face of God into the Light. (August 2015). It is now available on Amazon.



Limping Along front cover low-res copy