Monday, March 8, 2021



I don’t know about you, but I dream each and every night.  Most people do, but they don’t remember them. Honestly it’s like watching a movie for me. Over the years, I’ve started analyzing what they mean. Here are a few examples. 

If I dream about someone that I know but haven’t seen them in years, it usually means something life changing is going to happen. Here’s an example of this.  

One night not too long ago, I dreamed about one of Brent’s uncles.   We haven’t seen him in at least 30 years.  The dream doesn’t mean anything, I just dream about the person.  I’m friends with the wife of his cousin, who is the nephew of said uncle.  I told her that I dreamed about him and to be prepared to have something happen.  It seems like it was a month later when she tells me that his uncles wife had just passed away. 

I don’t know why I “know” these things, I just do. For a long time I didn’t say anything to people about them.  Brent would also think I was weird when I talked about them, but he finally realized that they weren’t just made up things. 

Another thing that I dream about is babies.  The crazy thing is, I dream that I am the one that is pregnant.  It usually means people in my extended family or friends or their kids are expecting.   So when a relative tells me about one of their kids being pregnant, it puts my mind to rest.  Till the next one.  

But I digress.  Have you ever had a dream that you have never forgotten about? I have a few that have never left my brain.  They must be in that file that stays open.  (Yes, my brain is a huge file cabinet)  


I had this dream when I was in the first grade. My very first nightmare.  It was recess time. We were just enjoying ourselves when we heard screaming. We looked towards the restroom door.  (First of all, I don’t think elementary schools have restrooms that can be accessed from outside of the building, but whatever). One of the teachers runs out and the top of her head has been flattened like Frankenstein’s. Then a bunch more teachers run out with the same flat heads.  All of the kids started screaming. Then to our horror, Frankenstein comes lumbering out. He was headed right to me, and........I wake up. (Cleansing breath).  You realize this dream was 56 years ago. I can still see it in color to this day. 


This next dream was when I was pregnant with my daughter. Brent and I were doing our grocery shopping. All of the sudden my water broke.

 Sidebar: when we went to my prenatal class they said to always grab a jar of pickles just in case your water broke. That way you could throw the jar on the floor hard enough that it would break.  That way it looks like that’s what happened. Plus, it will smell like pickle juice instead of amniotic fluid

Not only that but the baby was born right after my water broke. Now in dreamland there was no umbilical cord or placenta and no blood. What a wonderful world that would be.  I started freaking out. I yelled to Brent “how will we know how much it weighs?”  We get this great idea to go up to checkout and use their produce scales.  Tee hee hee. We are thinkers I tell ya. I know you all are thinking, why did I feel like we needed to weigh the baby?  Well, because the first question out of anyone’s mouth is, how much did it weigh?  Duh. The weird thing about my daughter’s birth, my water did break. Du-du-du. 


Since my transplant, I’ve had two dreams that I’ve woken up screaming. Never happened before.  Have any of you experienced these?  They are mind blowing. The first one was about six months ago. I was in a business somewhere when some men came in the building looking for Brent, screaming at me saying “where is he, we are going to kill him”!!! Noooooooooo!!!  I actually woke up screaming that I was going to kill them, they would NOT get my man. In my dream I had a huge knife in my hand. My screaming those words woke Brent up fast. Took me in his arms to calm me down. 

The other one just happened last night. I was at the hospital where for some reason I had two appointments with two different doctors scheduled for the same time.  I went to the one that I didn’t think would last that long. Wrong choice. Of course I was in my wheelchair so I had a friend helping that day. We decided to head to the other doctor that I had an appointment with. For some reason I was pregnant again.  So I was going to the obstetrician. What the hell!!!!! Whoever is pregnant out there would you let me know because I’m too old to be having babies!!!!! We get to the other side of the hospital. They’ve changed their office.  You go to the front desk to check in. And for some idiotic reason you had to walk down a winding staircase to get to the exam rooms.  I start freaking out at them. I’m in a freaking wheelchair. Then they tell me I’m not even on their schedule. Oh dear, those are fighting words!!!! I start screaming, making a huge fool of myself, but I didn’t care. This is the point where I woke up screaming fighting words again. Poor Brent, he’s got a weird wife. 

If you have any dreams you want to share, please email them to me. The reason I named my blog Crazy Daze and Nite Dreams is because that is my life. 

Remember my email address is if you want to share a dream or do a guest post. I look forward to hearing from you.  

Monday, March 1, 2021


Believe it or not I’m getting caught up with my health adventures. But never fret little buck-a-roos there are going to be plenty more posts.  Bwaa haa haa.

Let’s just talk about a few things before I start today’s fun and exciting  procedure that I got to endure have.

I’m going to start opening up a service for all of my fans followers. Anyone that would like to write about some kind of life changing or health problems that have happened in their life are welcome to post here about them.  

I have created an email address for just this purpose.  Write your post.  Email it to me and you will see your post in lights.  The email address is:

Please do this. I think it will be a cathartic thing for you and I. 

Now on to my fun and exciting procedure that I had the pleasure of getting last November. (2020) It’s called a Hepatic Venogram.  You’re probably scratching your head wondering what it is. Never fear, Dazee is here. It is a method of visualization of the hepatic veins by direct injection of a radioplaque substance through a special catheter into the liver vein.  I know, doctor-ese is extremely hard to understand. Here is a video that explains it.  

If by chance you don’t see the video here, please click on this link.

You too could have one of these if you are as lucky as me. 

Here I am after being stuck in the jugular vein.

And here is the fun site of what it looks like after you take off the bandage.


While the doctor was in there she also took a biopsy of my liver.  I know right.  Before long I won’t have any liver left to take a biopsy from.  Wait....your liver regenerates.  Phew

What does all this mean?  Who the heck knows.  To me it means I get to have another one in May.  Don’t be jealous.  It also makes me realize that the human body is an amazing thing.  We take it for granted.  Everyday it just works processing what each organ is supposed to do.  Yes, sometimes things break down.  And I’m grateful that I’m alive now where we have medication and procedures that allow us to keep living.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not afraid to die.  There have been few times during the last four years that I’ve begged for it.  In fact, I got mad at my dad for not coming and taking me with him.  But I couldn’t leave Brent, my kids and grandkids.  Honestly they were the only reason I didn’t give up.  

One thing you will notice from my blog is I will always be truthful with my feelings.  Also, if any of you have questions you would like me to answer on here, PLEASE ask them in a comment or send me an email.  I will then answer them in my next post.  I will not use your name unless you give me permission.  Here is that email address again.

Monday, February 22, 2021


 This week I’m taking a little break from my never ending story to talk about things that happened throughout my life that have made me either sink or swim. 


I have broken both my arms.  The first one was my right wrist.  Quite a few kids break their wrists where their growth plates haven’t grown together yet.  I broke mine while roller skating when I was about five.  

The second time I broke my left arm.  This one was a bad one.  We were at church and outside there were these metal bars that ran along the sides of the sidewalks.  Being kids we got bored so we went outside before going to Sunday school and decided to use the bars as balance beams.  (Close your mouths, I see the look of shock on your faces).  I was six years old and by darn the older kids weren’t going to be braver than me.  I get up there and start strutting my stuff when I fell.  Did I fall just right?  Ummm, no.  I fell, hit my arm on the metal bar, and broke it in two places as you can see in the above picture. I remember looking at my arm thinking it looked like a horseshoe.  Kids are screaming, parents are running outside.  This was before the 911 system.  One of my parents rushed me to the hospital, the other took all my siblings home.   Again, in the sixties the emergency room did all the “fixing” of things emergency.  The memory I have of that was them pulling my arm and pushing the bones back up in line.  Oh, and the pain.


The photo on the bottom right is a scar I got when I was in the sixth grade.  It actually starts at my elbow and ends up by my wrist.  This was also a rolling skating accident.  I have to tell you that this was when Peggy Fleming was America’s sweetheart of the figure skating world.  By damn, I was going to be the roller skating sweetheart of the world.  In all my spare time I was “practicing” my moves.  One day I was doing my speed skating up and down the sidewalk.  Our driveway was such as it declined down to the garage.  It had these cute little windows on the door.  I would go down the driveway, swing around the car, and get back to the sidewalk to go up the street and back.  One of my brothers, who shall remain nameless but it sounds like John, decided to push me as I was on my decline.  All of the sudden I feel out of control and I’m headed towards the garage door.  Trying to stop myself I put out my arm to stop.  You guessed it, I hit the window, not the wood.  I look at my brother, and he has a look of terror on his face.  I run (skate) into the house straight to the kitchen where my mom is doing dishes in the sink.  She puts my arm over the sink and I see the drip, drip, drip of blood and the water turning red.  She screams for my dad who comes running in.  He takes his hands and wraps them around my arm above my elbow.  Has my mom call our doctor and has my mom drive us to the hospital while he keeps a hold of my arm.  We get to the hospital, rush in, the nurses put me in a wheelchair and put a pillow under my arm.  It proceeded to turn the whole pillow top red.  My mom comes in and pleads with the staff to let her see my arm.  My dad hadn’t allowed her to see it.  I watched the color drain from her face.  

At this point they take me into a room, lay me on my stomach, and start stitching me up.  One hundred thirty two stitches (132) later, they are done.  Apparently the original cut was in a Y shape but they had pulled it together to make one long scar.  They didn’t even put me out.  I remember looking at what they were doing and saw them pulling the thread out of my skin.  That was all the watching I would do.  Did this stop me from skating?  Heck no.  I also didn’t lose the use of my arm or have nerve damage.  The other scars are from a back surgery (ruptured disc) due to falling on ice, hip replacement and liver transplant.  


Cancer.  The spawn of Satan.  Ok maybe not but it makes you feel that way.  Thankfully my uterine cancer was only stage one, so a total hysterectomy was how they took care of it.  I am finally down to once a year visits on that one.  You’ve all read about my lymphoma so I’ll just say is I’m a year and a half into remission.  I’m doing all I can to keep it that way.  

This is by far the biggest “trauma” in my life.  I was young when it happened.  I’m not sure how long it went on.  It’s one of those things that as you are growing up, you have it locked away in a file that you don’t have the key to open it up.  I have periods of time that are blocked from me remembering.  I know there are different ages that it must have happened.  Finally in my later fifties, I had a Rapid Eye Session.  It is a eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) therapy that is an psychotherapy technique used to relieve psychological stress.  It is an effective treatment for trauma and PTSD.  Both my sister and sister-in-law have extensive training in this.  During my session, I finally released who the pedophile was.  I don’t call him an abuser.  I call him a pedophile.  I came out to my siblings about it.  I’ve never mentioned it to my mom or dad.  

But you know what.  HE DIDN’T BREAK ME!!!! I will not allow it.  It’s made me a much stronger person.  When he meets his maker, he’ll have to answer for it.  

So all of my life experiences have made me the woman I am today.  I truly feel like if we use our experiences to help others, we are being a good person.  I’m able to say to people “I have been through this, if I can do it, so can you”.  I will be an advocate for anyone that needs me.  

My hope with today’s post is, if you have trauma’s in your life.  Talk about them.  Don’t be silent.  You don’t ever know who needs your story to help them through this thing we call life.  

Monday, February 15, 2021


On April 9, 2020 I was once again in for a liver biopsy. There is a huge possibility that I will be having one of these fun and exciting procedures every six (6) months. Because I talk of these all the time, I’ve uploaded this video for your viewing enjoyment. 

The only difference between this video and what I go through is they put me out. This biopsy is the very first time that Covid made my life miserable. In every procedure I’ve had in the last 2 years, Brent was there right by side. Holding my hand, cracking me up. But he wasn’t allowed in the recovery room with me. That means he’s not there for all the pre stuff, not there when I get back from the biopsy and not there for the two hours that you have to lay there. The only reason he couldn’t be there was because I was not assigned a private room.  Each bay was separated by curtains. I went into a depression. Not good, but I made it through. 

On April 21st, we had my first ever Webex appointment. Weird. We had to wait for two weeks for this appointment because the doctors, surgeons, coordinator, pathologist and who knows who else get together to discuss all the findings and decide the plan of action. We are told that my liver enzymes have not improved with my dose of prednisone.  In the words of my doctor, “there is evidence of dysfunction and concern for rejection and concern regarding the T-cell infiltrate in the lobule.”  The T-cells are a white blood cell that is of key importance to the immune system. It fights infected cells, IE: viral infections or in my case it tried to fight my lymphoma. 

Whatever are they going to do?  It sounds bad. Why don’t I ever hear, “Dazee, you are so remarkably, amazingly, wonderfully well we just want to send you on an all expense paid vacation to anywhere of your choice.” But alas, this is their plan of attack. I need a HUGE amount of prednisone. Can they give it to me in pill form. NO THEY CAN’T.  How much do I need?  Only 500 mg’s a day for three days. What the????

I have to go to the infusion center for three days in a row and have IV prednisone which is called methylpredniolone. Ummm, excuse me. Three days of 500mg’s of this. Do you know what prednisone does to my body?  Weight gain, super high blood glucose (I’m diabetic) and being very ornery.  And that’s on a low dose of this drug. Every person I know better not hang around me. Just sayin’. 

The first day, Brent is allowed to go into the room with me. Yay!! When we show up the next day that damn Covid shows it’s ugly head again. He can’t even take me up to the infusion center. They have to send someone down to take me up. Why? Because I’m wheelchair bound. Then it takes at least an hour to have the stupid medication drip into your vein. Thankfully on the first day they put the IV in my arm and I could keep it in the whole three days. Don’t have to be stuck three different days. Thank goodness we live 15 minutes away from the hospital. I sent him home and when I figured I was getting close to being done I just called him and told him to come back. 

Let me say something about Covid. It’s a real disease. I was already wearing a mask because of being immuno suppressed. I wear a mask WHEREVER I go, which is pretty much to get my labs and procedures.  And I plan on wearing it for the rest of my life. I don’t get to see my kids and grandkids very often. Even for the holidays. It sucks. I can get the vaccine soon. So can Brent. My mom fell and broke her femur before Thanksgiving. No one could be at the hospital with her before her surgery. After that she was only allowed two people a day to come visit her and not at the same time. Then she was sent to a rehab center. NO ONE was allowed inside the building to see her. We had to talk to her on the phone while standing outside her window to see her. I wasn’t able to go. It’s winter. She was there until just last week. She had to spend two of her favorite holidays alone. 

Please wear a mask. Please don’t make people who are in front of you in a store or wherever you are feel like crap because you don’t want to wear one. Put yourself in Brent’s shoes.  Someone could be standing behind him talking loudly about how people that believe in COVID are stupid. How do you know that the person wearing their mask doesn’t have someone at home like me that probably wouldn’t survive getting this real disease. 

But I digress. Will this huge amount of drug help me?  Only time will tell.