Author: sparklingescapadesabroad

Ohhh yes… remember that post I made the other week about mice?
Not “I don’t like mice.”
Not “mice make me uncomfortable.”
But I. HATE. MICE.
Well… apparently one mouse took that personally.
When I was ranting about the mouse, Sean told me not to worry. He said it would eventually wander into the garage, get into the poison, and go off somewhere to die. He even joked, “They usually die right in the middle of the kitchen floor.”
Friends… this mouse chose revenge.
While I was at Mayo Clinic recovering from neck surgery and a lovely bonus infection, Sean informed me that a mouse had died… in our bedroom. He thought it might’ve died in the dresser. He pulled all the drawers out, searched, found nothing. Meanwhile, the smell stayed. And stayed. And stayed.
One drawer had my underwear in it and the smell was so bad I had Sean pull the whole drawer, shake out each item one by one, and wash them. Still no mouse. Still the smell. I was in pain, exhausted, and honestly didn’t have it in me to deal with it… but by Saturday I’d had ENOUGH.
I decided: I will find this mouse or die trying.
I dragged over the big trash can and started emptying drawers one item at a time, shaking everything straight into the can. Three drawers down. Then I pulled out the BIG drawer.
First thing I noticed?
An alarming amount of Luden’s cough drop wrappers.
Then… piles of unwrapped cough drops.
Hmmmm.
I moved one piece of clothing. Reached for a headband.
And there it was.
Horrors upon horrors.
A dead mouse.
Nestled.
IN.
MY.
HEADBAND.
My stomach tried to leave my body.
Without even looking directly at it, I grabbed the headband, deposited the whole situation into the trash, and backed away like I’d just defused a bomb.
That drawer held my chemises — one of each from my bra company. I loved them. I washed them. Five times. FIVE. Regular detergent. Vinegar. Baking soda. Soaking. Washing again.
Nope.
They still smelled like death itself.
So… I threw them all away. 😭
And even though the mouse didn’t touch the wood, the drawer STILL reeks.
That mouse absolutely got its revenge.
And just in case you missed it the first time:
I. HATE. MICE.
Dead. Alive. Emotionally. ALL OF THEM. 🐭🚫

Why, oh WHY, do we wait
Until the absolute last minute
To do reports,
Fill out forms,
Or even think about leaving for an appointment?
Meanwhile the clock is absolutely side-eyeing me like,
“Good luck with that.”

This time of year?
Nope.
Hard pass.
Ggrrrr… I’m done.

Sean holds the fancy titles —
Secretary.
Historian.
Messenger.
Reporter.
Very official. Very impressive.
So tell me why his name is on the report
When I’m the one doing the brain work?
He reports it…
I survive it.

Now, respectfully —
Sean thrives on math.
Numbers bring him joy.
They line up neatly for him.
Math, however,
Is not my strong suit.
And yet… here I am.
Once again.
Volunteered.

Then arrive The Numbers™:
161 members,
39 youth,
61 households,
68 pre-youth —
And Sean asks, ever so casually,
“So… how many are we altogether?”

Sir.

Sure. Easy.
161 + 39 + 68 —
Except… wait…
The youth are mostly members.
The pre-youth?
Some are members.
Some aren’t.
Some fall into a category known only to reports past…
patiently waiting to grow up and declare themselves.

If I’m bald the next time you see me,
Please understand —
This was not a fashion choice.
This was math-induced trauma. ✨👩‍🦲

And let’s not forget the movers —
Three families,
One widow,
One single sister —
Some moved to Chatfield…
But Chatfield isn’t organized yet…
So are they ours?
Theirs?
Shared custody?
Floating members drifting between congregations?

Oh! And the young man who moved in May —
Did his membership transfer?
Excellent question.
Answer:
HMMM, Nobody knows!

So here I am, respectfully —
On the day of the meeting,
Solving riddles,
Guessing answers,
Crunching numbers that refuse to behave,
Trying very hard not to remove the rest of my hair
One strand at a time.

Signed — respectfully,
Your wife,
Your unpaid math department,
And your nearly-bald friend
Headed to yet another business meeting adventure.

And In the End…

And to be fair —
he did say thank you.

He admitted it was stressful,
that the numbers were messy,
that the timing was… questionable.
He said —
he couldn’t do it without me.

And somehow,
through clocks ticking,
numbers refusing to behave,
and membership questions with no answers —
I stayed mostly calm.
(Mostly.)

He hasn’t even seen the poem yet.
Which honestly makes this better.

So yes —
there was math.
There was stress.
There was mild hair loss.
But there was also teamwork,
a quiet “thanks,”
and the knowledge that
even in the last minute chaos…

we still showed up together.

So, on November 12th I had a posterior fusion done from the back of my neck—levels C3–7—up in Crookston, MN. The plan was for a quick stay, maybe one or two days. But the morning of the 14th came with a fever of 100.6… and it just kept climbing. By the end of the day I was at 103.3, and no one could find a reason for it.

Just like in 2023, the nurses were incredible. My favorite nurse, Laura, was back and I had her several days. On the others, I had Danielle or her identical twin sister, Dana—both of whom had also cared for me last year. Laura is fire and tenacity wrapped into one—she gets things DONE and is not afraid to go toe-to-toe with a doctor. My night nurse, Liz, was her own brand of wonderful.

Because I couldn’t turn my head, I’d told the nurses I wished they would announce themselves when they came in and when they left so I didn’t get startled. Well… Liz would swing open the door and leap in with “LIZ IS HERE!” Meanwhile, quiet little Laura would sneak in, walk to my bedside, and then stomp her feet just to make me jump. Those two kept me on my toes—even when the fever had me freezing and they kept yanking my blankets off.

One night Liz told me if my temp hit 103 again she was putting ice packs in my armpits. I was terrified… but thankfully she stuck to ice-cold washcloths for my head. I was on Zosyn IV antibiotics every three hours around the clock, which was honestly a pain. But I can’t say enough good about that hospital. Every single person—from reception to housekeeping to the anesthesiologist to the surgical team—made me feel like a human being, not a number. The anesthesiologist even came by one day just to chat!

And I have to give Liz credit. Of course every “accident” happened on her shift, and the worst night I had THREE major ones in two hours—thanks to stool softeners + antibiotics + a very angry digestive system. She was kind, patient, and didn’t make me feel embarrassed for even a second. She even joked later that we needed to get the room smelling better before my husband arrived so he wouldn’t know what we’d been through!

I was finally discharged on the 18th, though I didn’t get to say goodbye to Liz or Laura. Last year, Laura wasn’t around when they took me downstairs after surgery, but she actually tracked me down to give Sean and me both a hug. So yes—I was sad to leave, but also so ready to head home and start healing.

For the next six weeks: no bending, lifting, or twisting, and the neck brace stays on 24/7 except for when I’m lying down or in the recliner. And then I’ll have to wear it in any car or airplane for six months. The drive home was eight hours, and we stopped every hour so I could walk with my walker or sit in the car and loosen the brace to get the pain under control. By 5 pm my pain was skyrocketing, so we stopped north of the Cities for the night. I needed to lie flat so badly. The next day we finished the drive, and by the time we got home I was nearly beside myself with pain.

The next day was my birthday, and it actually went okay… but by evening the pain was creeping out of control again. The incision was oozing a ton, and I barely slept that night. The next morning, after the friends who do my every-other-week cleaning left, Sean checked my back again and when I stood up, the drainage ran straight down. He didn’t like how it looked—and honestly, neither did I—so he said we needed to go in. I told him to choose the hospital because I’ve had so many rough experiences, and I just didn’t know. He chose Cresco, IA.

By the time they wheeled me in, I wasn’t feeling well at all. The doctor was about to head upstairs but decided to check my incision first. He took off the brace and the fluid just poured out—and it smelled terrible. That’s when everything shifted into high gear. Two IVs, CT scan, X-ray, IV antibiotics, morphine, ketamine (never again), and Dilaudid. They wouldn’t even let me move myself; it took a whole team to transfer me each time, along with someone holding my neck steady.

After the scans, the doctor quietly told Sean there were pockets of fluid and gas bubbles near my spine. They tried ketamine and told me I wouldn’t remember anything. I remember EVERYTHING. I kept saying “I don’t like it, I don’t like it,” and I felt like I was burning up. Sean said he could feel the heat radiating off me without touching me. I could feel my hands, my feet, and the spot he was rubbing on my arm—but nothing else.

Then came the question: where to transfer me? The nearest qualifying hospitals were La Crosse or Rochester. La Crosse refused to take me. Insurance would only cover the nearest hospital with the right facilities, so anything farther became a problem. A fixed-wing plane was an option, but again—insurance. Same with helicopter and ambulance. The only other choice was signing out AMA and taking a chance with Mayo Clinic.

So we signed out and went straight to Mayo. Sean called our deacon and asked for prayers, and the church put it on the group chat. I asked for prayers on Facebook too. We got to Mayo around 5:30 pm and sat in the waiting room until about 8.

I was nervous because I haven’t always had the best experiences with Mayo’s ER. But they ran tests and by 2 am they decided to admit me. (The spine docs were rough, but everyone else was excellent.) I didn’t actually get to my room until 3:45 am, but the night nurse was amazing.

Saturday and Sunday I mostly rested. Monday they took me for another CT and aspirated one of the fluid pockets, which turned out to be dark red blood. By Tuesday afternoon I could sit in the recliner, though I had a terrible headache that felt like a spinal headache. Wednesday the medical team came in last, and the doctor who had followed me since admission told me she wasn’t sure I was going to make it when I first arrived—my color was gray and I was in so much pain I barely moved. By Wednesday, my color was back, and I was talking more.

I did start having panic attacks in the hospital—something new for me. One hit me during supper one evening. Before I even understood what was happening, I was on my feet, walking in circles, hitting the call button and cranking the cold air up. It took about 30 minutes to calm down.

But honestly… this was one of the BEST stays I’ve ever had at Mayo. Nurses and PCAs would come into my room just to visit. They were kind, compassionate, and warm. They had me on two IV antibiotics—one every 8 hours and another every 12.

Since coming home, I’ve mostly been sleeping like crazy. It feels like every two hours I’m dozing off again. Last night I slept from 8:30 pm to 1:30 am, stayed awake until 4:30, then slept until 11:30. No nap today, but definitely more pain—which tells me healing is happening slowly but surely.

I appreciate every prayer that has been prayed over me, and every person who has checked in. It means the world to me.

Tonight I wandered into my spare room—you know, the one where I keep fabric on hangers, bras in suitcases, a few extra groceries… all the “Sonya storage solutions.” I was just looking for a hanger. A hanger, y’all.

Imagine my surprise, shock, horror, and absolute disgust when a mouse darted across the top of my hanging fabric like it owned the place.
We haven’t seen any signs of mice this year, so I just about levitated. I shuddered so hard I think my soul left my body for a moment. 😳

And instantly—I mean instantly—I was reminded of my Grandpa Haynes.
Because the only person who hates mice more than I do is… my mom.

Picture this: I’m traveling with Mom, Grandpa, and Grandma to a wedding in Kansas. I was about 16, feeling very grown-up and excited because it was my first time attending a big wedding in a strange congregation with the youth group.

We stopped for lunch at a little mom-and-pop restaurant. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly sparkling clean. We were sitting there trying to convince ourselves we could still eat when Grandpa got that familiar twinkle in his eye… and I just knew he was up to something.

We were across the table from Mom.
Grandpa ever-so-sneakily ran his toe up her leg.

Let me tell you… there was NO hesitation.
She screamed, shot straight up out of her chair, and launched herself into the middle of the table like a gymnast who’d trained her whole life for this moment. 🤣

Grandpa and I were about dying, laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe.
Mom? Not impressed.
Grandma, in her calm, soft way, just sighed and said,
“DALE.”

Grandpa managed a guilty look, but the rest of the day the two of us would break into peals of laughter every time we remembered it.

And tonight’s little mouse visitor?
Yep. Brought that whole scene right back like it happened yesterday.

I. DO. NOT. LIKE. MICE. 😤🫣

By Sonya Nightingale | @sonyasjoys

“Love doesn’t cancel loss. Being grateful for my upbringing doesn’t mean pretending the trauma didn’t exist. Both can be true.”



November is National Adoption Month — and while adoption can be filled with love, it can also carry a lifetime of layered emotions that don’t always fit into neat little boxes.

For me, adoption has been both a gift and a wound. I’ve dealt with severe depression and for years was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I was on medication and in treatment for a long time, but about five years ago that diagnosis was changed to Asperger’s (now recognized as part of the autism spectrum). That shift helped me understand myself in a whole new light — the sensory overload, the emotional intensity, the deep empathy, and the constant overthinking that had never quite made sense before.

I’ve spent time in inpatient treatment and have attempted suicide four times. Statistics tell us that adoptees are four times more likely to attempt suicide than non-adoptees and experience mental health challenges at a much higher rate.

And yet, on paper, adoption treated me beautifully. I had loving parents who cared for me the best they knew how. I never wanted for love or material comfort.

But adoption isn’t a fairy tale — nor is it a horror story. Like most things in life, it lives somewhere in the gray in-between.


–

It’s Not Black and White

Social media loves extremes: anti-adoption advocates often compare adoption to trafficking, while adoptive parents sometimes paint it as a “happily ever after.” But for many of us, it’s both — and neither.

Growing up blessed doesn’t erase the trauma of being separated from my birthmother almost immediately after birth. I didn’t understand that until much later, when I learned how the body stores trauma. The book “The Body Keeps the Score” opened my eyes — and suddenly, so many of my physical symptoms began to make sense.

There’s a small child inside me — the little girl whose birth name was Charity Anne. She had no words for being given up right after entering this world. She’s spent her whole life fighting to be seen and heard… and sometimes fighting me when she couldn’t be.

She’s the chaos in my stomach. The ache behind my eyes. The pressure to prove I’m not abandonable. The years of reproductive pain, the loss of four babies, the hysterectomy, the endless surgeries. My body tells the story my mouth couldn’t.

Even now, I startle easily — jumping when the phone rings, even if I’m expecting the call. That’s hypervigilance, I’ve learned. A body that’s still braced for the next rejection. Because when your first bond is broken at birth, how could you not live on alert?

That fear of rejection seeps into relationships, friendships, even business. Something as simple as a quiet message thread can feel like abandonment. My brain knows it’s not, but my body — that small child inside — isn’t so sure.


—

Nurture and Nature

I understand, intellectually and emotionally, that my birthmother made the right choice. She was young, struggling, and escaping an abusive father — a man who should have protected her. I was her second baby in just over a year. She did what she had to do to survive, and in turn, she gave me the chance to survive too.

I don’t fault my adoptive parents for anything either. They loved me, provided for me, and gave me opportunities. But love doesn’t cancel loss. Being grateful for my upbringing doesn’t mean pretending the trauma didn’t exist. Both can be true.

If trauma rewires the brain, then maybe my wires got crossed at birth — or even before. Maybe nurture saved me from my nature. Or maybe, no matter which path I’d taken, the pain just would have worn a different name.

Many people have told me, “Anyone can have issues — it’s not just adoptees.” And I agree with that, to an extent. But I’ve also noticed patterns — higher rates of struggle, disconnection, and searching among adoptees, especially in structured or faith-based communities. There’s something unique about the kind of pain that comes from a severed attachment at birth. Some adoptees may not feel its full weight until much later in life, but it often surfaces eventually, no matter how well they’ve learned to cope.


—

Faith and Healing

People often say God heals all wounds. I believe He can — but as an adoptee, trusting God hasn’t always been easy. When you’ve felt abandoned, even subconsciously, it’s hard not to project that onto Him. Will He leave too? Will He answer this time?

I’ve prayed for safety, for physical healing, for love, for peace in my mind — and sometimes those prayers felt unanswered. But looking back, I can see He was there — not removing the pain, but walking me through it. Giving me people who love me, and the courage to keep going even when I didn’t want to.


—

Becoming Whole

After years of therapy, prayer, and learning, I’ve realized that healing isn’t about erasing the pain — it’s about making space for both gratitude and grief. I can honor the woman who gave me life and the parents who raised me. I can grieve what was lost and still celebrate the life I’ve built.

Maybe healing looks like acknowledging that small child inside of me — Charity Anne — holding her close, and whispering, “You made it. You’re safe now.”

Maybe it’s realizing that adoption gave me both the canvas and the paintbrush.
Some adults gave me the tools — but it’s up to me to take them and paint my own life.


—

Disclaimer

Parts of this essay were inspired by and adapted from another piece written by an adoptee. I’ve personalized and expanded it with my own experiences, reflections, and faith journey to share my truth and shed light on the complexity of adoption.

Our dog, Bessie, crossed the rainbow bridge on Wednesday. My heart aches, but I’m grateful she’s finally free. Her hips had grown weak with dysplasia, and she’d begun to lose her balance, especially on the steps. We didn’t see signs of pain, but there were moments that felt like dementia—confusion, slow movements, and her hearing fading.

In these last months, she moved carefully, often not quick enough to get out of the way. One day, she became disoriented and was accidentally bumped by a vehicle, which widened her pelvis. After that, she could no longer stand or take a step.

So now, she rests peacefully beneath the trees—where the breeze can find her, and her spirit can run again. 

                             BESSIE

Fourteen years upon this earth,
Thirteen held within our care—
A black lab mix from Rochester pound,
Wild heart, wind tangled in her hair.

At first I feared her bounding joy,
Paws thrown high to meet our face,
A dog who leapt more than she walked,
Forever chasing sky and grace.

She scaled the trees to reach the birds,
And learned—though swift as any breeze—
That pheasant pens will teach a dog,
With pellets she’d remember well.

She followed us through every chore,
A shadow never far to roam,
Watching over all she loved,
As if to say, “You’re not alone.”

You danced with danger more than once,
Rat poison stealing breath away,
’Til Ashley, still a brand-new vet,
Gave blood to help you stay.

When young, you flew beside the cart,
Keeping pace with every turn,
A blur of black through fields and dust,
With endless will to run and burn.

But time, that thief, it slowed you down,
Your legs would falter at the stair,
You’d look surprised your strength had gone,
As if youth still lingered there.

Your hearing faded—so we thought,
Yet let a window gently creak,
And there you’d be, alert once more,
For crumbs you knew we’d surely sneak.

Oh Bessie girl, you gave us love,
A hunter’s soul, forever free,
A loyal friend through all our days,
Who longed for fields beyond the trees.

Now run where pain can touch no more,
Where twilight woods are ever kind—
For love is sometimes letting go,
With pawprints etched upon our mind.

Sonya Joy
10/18/2025

I spent today on the road traveling to see my mom. When I drive, I have a lot of time to think and observe. Sometimes I’ll listen to an audiobook, but most of the time it’s music that keeps me company. Music seems to keep me the calmest when I’m in heavy traffic or driving through a large city.

There’s a lot you can notice about people while you’re driving—following them, passing them, or just sitting in the same lane for miles. I find myself wondering about their stories. Are they driving slow because they’re afraid—maybe they’ve been in an accident, or they’re older, or a brand-new driver? Do they drive erratically because they don’t have cruise control, or maybe they’re afraid to use it? Did that person who pulled out in front of a big rig not see it, act thoughtlessly, or truly not care what happens?

And that angry driver who flipped me off—did they just lose a parent, a partner, or even a child, and the only way they can cope is with anger? Did they have a hard morning getting the kids off to school or a spouse out the door to work? Maybe there’s trouble in their marriage or with their teenager. And the ones flying by without a care—are they running from their thoughts or their problems?

As I thought of these things, I also thought of my friends and family and prayed for each of you. For those in special difficulties, I said your name and asked God to draw especially close.

At one point, I saw a sign for Kanopolis Lake, and the memories started flowing—picnics there when we were kids, swimming in the summer, and the first time I ever put on ice skates. That lake was determined to swallow me whole! There was a hole in the ice, and every time I stood up it seemed to drag me closer to that dark water.

Then came other Ensz family memories—Grandma and the aunties making New Year’s cookies (some without raisins for us picky ones), sleeping in Uncle Virgil’s pitch-black basement (I’ve always had claustrophobia in the dark, waking up gasping for air, desperate to find the light), the girls’ room upstairs at Uncle Mel’s where we all piled in together, Aunt Glenda’s kitchen and her delicious meals, singing at the school where the John A. Ensz children sang “Silent Night” for Grandma.

I can still see the “outlaws” trying to sing “God Moves in a Mysterious Way” and dissolving into laughter, the uncles attempting to jump rope with us girls (they never quite managed that little extra hop in the middle—it was hilarious!), and all of us going up by families to introduce ourselves. Sometimes I felt a little cheated not having a crowd of siblings to stand with, but when it was Aunt Lucy’s turn, all of us grands stood up together because we were all her kiddos.

And the smell of Grandma’s house—do you know the smell I mean? That distinct, comforting scent. When we grands from far away would visit, she’d give us baby food jars filled with coins. So many memories.

As the miles passed, I noticed the clouds—so many shapes and variations. I saw a heart, and one that looked just like my friend’s poodle. That reminded me of an evening walk with a fellow teacher. We both looked up and saw the same cloud at the same time—a boy carrying a gun over his shoulder and his little dog trotting behind. We described it to each other and laughed because it was identical.

And today, I saw a beautiful sunrise in Iowa and a breathtaking sunset in Kansas.

So many miles. So many thoughts. So much gratitude. ❤️

Upon the creaking timbers,
where water laps the side,
a spider weaves her silver threads,
with patient, steady stride.

Each filament, so fragile,
yet strong enough to hold,
a tapestry of wonder,
more precious than spun gold.

The breeze may rock the vessel,
the waves may rise and fall,
but still she spins her masterpiece—
God’s hand upholds it all.

For who gives skill to spiders?
Who paints the dawn with flame?
Who stills the stormy waters,
and calls each star by name?

A web upon a boat,
a universe so small-
reminds my heart how awesome
is the God who made it all.

Sonya Joy