Depression and Me

I posted this on my Facebook page back in August and thought I should share it here as well.  It was rather cathartic to spill it out on the page and incredibly frightening to disclose so much in a forum in which I normally try to keep things pretty 'picture perfect'.  For the most part, I think it scared a lot of my friends and family--as mental illness often does--and that many of them have chosen to ignore it's a part of who I am.  They prefer the lie I present most of the time in the 'picture perfect' view.

From my FB note:
There has been an impressive outpouring of opinion and discussion on mental illness and depression these past few days. I'm truly floored by how much Robin William's passing has thrust the conversation into the spotlight. I've found myself talking more frankly about depression with people than I ever have in the past.

So, here's the thing I'm depressed. I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety disorder about 20 years ago. It hasn't gone away, it's part of who I am. Some days I function better than others, but it hasn't and likely won't ever 'go away'. If you didn't know I was depressed, that's ok. I frankly didn't want you to. Part of my depression includes not wanting to bother YOU with it. I still don't want to bother you with it. I do want people to understand though, that looks can be deceiving. Mental illness is not one of those things you can assume doesn't exist for a person simply because they are smiling in photos, have a family, have a job, have friends, etc. However, I do want my friends and family to know that if you're silently suffering that you are not alone and that I'm now at a point where I will and can talk about this.

I would love for my depression to go away. I'm a very logical individual and depression isn't logical; it isn't rational. Depression honestly pisses me off at least once a day because it doesn't conform to logic. I take a moment daily to tell myself that I have a great family and friends, I have a good job, I'm able to pay my bills, I have a nice home, I have a cat who needs me (yes--sometimes reminding myself that the cat needs me is necessary). My depression is a constant nagging voice in my head that will tell me otherwise ALL DAY LONG. It interjects when I've done something great to tell me that it wasn't actually that wonderful. It nudges me towards thoughts like, "Gosh, if that semi had just taken that turn a little wider so that the driver's side of my car was hit this would be a perfect time to go since no one else is in the car with me." These are normal thoughts for me. This is what functioning looks like in my daily life--reminders of logically why I should be happy and constant internal voices telling me I'm wrong and that the world would be better off if I weren't here. I hold on to my wishlist of things I want to do and see like my children growing up and having children of their own, a trip to the 'Worrall Festival' overseas, seeing the Pyramids in person, and other items that change depending on the day. That wishlist reminds me that I want to be here and on functioning days is enough to help me fight back.

I've named that negative little voice in my head, perhaps it makes me sound crazier to have done so but it's helped me personally cope with it. By naming 'He Who Cannot Be Named' -- yes, I've named my depression 'Voldemort' muwhahah!-- I feel like I can segment it from myself and fight back. It's easier for me to fight against a separate entity than to fight myself. When you're depressed, you become desperate to feel better. I find ways to cope, to function, to make it through the day so no one notices anything is wrong. I don't want extra attention, I don't want sympathy, I don't want to be anything other than a 'normal' person who feels unadulterated happiness from time to time without a shadow casting over those moments.

Depression isn't something you can wish away with positive thinking. I read recently that 'Sadness' and 'Depression' are two very different things and I think that sums it up well. Sad days for me are when something situational happens; when my cat passed away I was incredibly sad. I cried, I went through photos and reminisced about things she'd done, I got misty when I thought I could feel her laying on my feet in my bed. I still feel sad sometimes when I miss her, but for the most part the overwhelming sadness at her death has gone away. The depression never goes away. It's here all the time. It's magnified sometimes when I'm sad, but it's a different feeling entirely. I tend to personally shove that down as far as I can into an emotional well, but once in a while that well gets full and the littlest, stupidest thing can set me off. I remember dropping a pencil once in the kitchen and it was that small thing that sent the well overflowing and I broke down and sat on the floor sobbing for a long while. Then the well for me is empty again and I go back about shoving things down until the next time. Secretly I'll watch sappy romantic comedies from time to time to give myself an excuse to empty the well a bit and cry.

Depression makes me feel weak. I hate feeling weak. I hate asking for help and will avoid it all costs. I don't want hugs--please, please don't hug me; I have this huge bubble and really am not a hugger unless you are my child. I don't want to be asked constantly how I'm doing, but I do appreciate that you care. If you notice me spiraling, please don't be scared to tell me 'Hey, I notice something is up and you've been quiet. Want to go grab lunch?' I may decline the offer, but that little reminder that I would be missed if I went away could be enough to push me up to functioning in that moment.

Treatment for depression varies. My personal journey has included multiple medications with all kinds of side effects. Depression is like a lot of other diseases; treatments are not the same for everyone--people experience depression differently, and their treatment needs may be different. Doctors will tell you that for a lot of mental illnesses and neurological disorders treatment is more art than science; it's finding the right combination for an individual. My initial large weight gain back in college was a side effect of one of the first medications I was prescribed. It's included group therapy, individual therapy, visits to a psychiatrist and a visit to the locked ward at North Memorial when one of those medications had the side effect that 'increases thoughts of suicide'. My depression is currently 'under control' and 'managed' if you were to look at my medical charts. This means, I function. It does NOT mean I am not depressed. It means that the current method of treating my depression makes it so that most days I get through. I make it to work, I get things done at home and I don't give up.

Please don't tell me that because I'm functioning, I should no longer need medications . Depression is a disease. It does not go away because the medications are helping me function; it would be like telling someone with Epilepsy to stop taking their medication because the seizures aren't happening. Please don't tell me that I should just think happy thoughts. I am not Wendy and Tinkerbell is not trying to help me fly. Please don't tell me that I'm being selfish because suicidal thoughts cross my mind. I know that leaving my family behind is logically selfish. Telling me this only makes me hear you say, "I'm judging you and condemning you for being an awful person for thinking it." That's not helpful.

I am lucky. I have a wonderful husband and support system that we've worked very hard to put in place. I have a network of doctors I trust and I recognize when I'm going 'down the rabbit hole' and have learned to reach out to the support system even when it's painful to do so in order to get the help I need to be pulled back up to the surface.

So, there you go. This is me. My experiences are my own, but if you are in pain and have depression and want to reach out I'm here. The conversation has started and the door is open.

The Ultrasound

October 19, 2010 J, Alanna and I went in for my second level ultrasound appointment early in the morning.  We'd kept Alanna out of school that morning to come with us because we wanted to see her baby brother together as a family.  She had not been at the first ultrasound where they diagnosed the Placenta Previa and the elective ultrasound we'd done to determine gender was truly just a quick peek where we really didn't get to see him moving about.

We arrived and entered the ultrasound room as planned.  The technician found baby Archer and began doing measurements and pointing out things to Alanna, Here's his foot, do you see his heart beating?, etc.  She confirmed that indeed baby Archer was a boy and then moved on to double checking the placement of the placenta to see if it had moved at all.  She hesitated.

I caught the hesitation.  She recovered nicely, but she hesitated.  She continued on to tell me that the placenta had not moved, but that she wanted to check a few other things and then bring the doctor in to take a look.  I knew.  I knew something was very, very wrong.  But I also knew that we'd just seen our little boy moving about and all of the measurements were fine.  Two hands, two feet, a heart beating, normal average measurements standard routine ultrasound.

When the doctor came in he reviewed her findings and they talked a bit in hushed tones using the super secret medical language that they think those who are not in the medical field won't catch.  I suppose in a lot of ways they were being kind and not trying to worry Alanna.  I have enough medicolegal terminology in my dictionary from way back college courses that I caught the gist.  There were baby blood vessels where they shouldn't be, outside the umbilical cord.

The doctor, who I'll never forget because he was wearing a bowtie, gave me a grave look like I was going to blow up at any moment and there'd be shrapnel all over the examination room.  He explained that they'd found something they needed to look at more closely, but that he wanted a second opinion because it is extremely difficult to diagnose.  He reassured us that I was fine to go home, but asked if I needed to go back in to work or could be home for the remainder of the day.  I said it would be fine to swing by work on my way home and grab a few things then work remote.  He said that they'd be giving us a call after he was able to get the second opinion.

I don't know why I left thinking that it really was ok and that I'd probably just need a C-Section as part of our birth plan in several months.  For whatever reason the request to go home rather than work really didn't strike me as a red flag.  Perhaps I simply thought that they certainly wouldn't let me go home if I really was the time bomb that his original facial expression had indicated.

So we stopped by work, I let my team know I'd be at home and sent J to take Alanna to school.

The nurse called me about an hour after we'd left the office.
Nurse:  "We need you to come back in."
Me: "Ok.  When would you like me there?  My husband has taken my daughter to school, but should be back shortly."
Nurse: "As soon as you can would be good."
Me: "Back up to the clinic?"
Nurse: "No.  We actually need you to go down to the hospital.  Bring an overnight bag."
Me: PAUSE.  "Ok."

I hung up and went to pack literally an overnight bag.  Enough for one night.  Again, I don't know why I thought that was sensical.  I suppose I figured that whatever tests they needed to do were just to figure things out and may take 24 hours.  I waited for J to come back home and we headed downtown.

They admitted me and took me to a room.  The attending explained that they'd do additional testing in a week (A WEEK!!) and that I'd need to be on hospital bed rest until that time.  That they had identified what they believed to be Vasa Previa and would confirm the following Monday.

At this point in time no one really, truly told me what Vasa Previa was other than very high level.  It's like they knew how serious it was, but were trying to protect me and not tell me.

So believing that I'd likely be going home in a week, I called work and asked if I could work remote for the week.  I sent J home to get some more things and the laptop and settled in to my 7 day countdown.

In my head there was a slim chance that I had this Vasa Previa thing.  I had this huge window visualized and the window was wide open.  I just had to make it through a week, then back to normal until Little A was due.

Every nurse who came in, every doctor I spoke with (and there were a LOT) over the course of the next 7 days shut that window just a tiny bit.

The nurse who finally made it crystal clear to me that I was not going home was the one who came in and pointed at a large painting on the wall and said, "You know, sweetie, when you start getting Christmas cards you can cover up that painting with them.  None of us are overly fond of it and it'd be a fun way to decorate.  You can also bring in a little rug or a lamp if you'd like to make it more homey."

It was OCTOBER.  I wasn't due until mid-January.  I was only going to be there a WEEK.  Christmas cards??? Lamp and Rug???  I looked her in the eye and asked, "I'm not going home, am I?"

"No."  I thank her for her honesty.  She was truly the only one who didn't tiptoe around things with me.  She told it to me straight.  She explained the actual picture of what was going to happen.

Because my doctor wasn't on rounds until 4 days after I'd been admitted, every other doctor hadn't wanted to step on his toes and told me the bare minimum.  It was like trying to Google with the wrong phrase.  You'd get close to the real answer you were looking for, but just not quite get the full picture.

Hospital Life up next and the verdict after the follow-up ultrasound in the hospital with the specialists.

Vasa Previa

**Reader be warned.  For those who stumble, trip or otherwise inadvertently google their way onto this blog, the posts on this topic will be brutally honest and probably a bit graphic.  This post is in NO WAY meant to give medical advice nor am I a medical professional.  Any medical details are my recollection and understanding only.**

I truly still don't really know where to start with this story, but as per Zazzy's suggestion I'm just going to start typing and see where things go.  I did make one modification to her suggestion and am accompanying this post with a glass of wine.

Vasa Previa.  Don't google this unless you're ready for some graphic results.  The most helpful medical definition of Vasa Previa in my opinion is the one from the International Vasa Previa Foundation's website: "Vasa previa is a rarely (1:2500) reported condition in which fetal blood vessel(s) from the placenta or umbilical cord crosses the entrance to the birth canal, beneath the baby. The condition has a high fetal mortality rate (50-95%). This can be attributed to rapid fetal exsanguination resulting from the vessels tearing when the cervix dilates, membranes rupture or if the vessels become pinched off as they are compressed between the baby and the walls of the birth canal."

In short and in not nearly as pretty terms, this means that when a woman is pregnant there is a slim possibility that some of the baby's blood vessels could get in the way of the exit door and if there is enough pressure on those vessels and they burst (as would happen in a normal birth), the baby has an incredibly high likelihood of bleeding to death.  The way it was described to me when I was diagnosed and finally got someone to tell it to me straight was that I was essentially a ticking time bomb and a proximity risk.  If I was too far away from a hospital when (and it was not a matter of "if", but of "when") the blood vessels ruptured, there would be absolutely no time to save the baby.  As it was also defined by the nurses, the window of time before the baby "bleeds out" is incredibly small, hence the high mortality rate.

This definition is far more harsh than ANY I ever gave any of my friends or family when my diagnosis was provided to me.  Of course they could have googled it and I'm sure many did, but I don't know that I ever let on how slim a chance it was that my son was going to survive.  Perhaps it was my own coping mechanism for dealing with things.  Every time a nurse entered the room, the first question she would ask me is, "Have you had any bleeding, any at all?"  Multiple times a day people would inquire as to the state of blood in my underwear.  Of course the thoughts crossing my mind were about how would I know if I was bleeding?  There have certainly been times in my life where I haven't known that my period has started until that moment of going to the restroom and "Ta Da!"  With the super slim window of saving a child from bleeding to death, how was I going to make it to telling a nurse that there was a problem in time?  That thought lived in my mind daily.  That thought drove me to accept that the truth was I wouldn't be bringing my child home, so I probably shouldn't get my hopes up.

But I'm way ahead of myself.
"What was I thinking??!"  I was 36 years old, had a beautiful, happy 8 year old daughter and was pretty comfortable in my life.  Apparently when a biological clock decides to tick, it does so loudly and then stops abruptly after it gets its way which leads to a clarity of thought otherwise known as a major wake up call.  When I found out I was pregnant with my second child, the clock stopped.  HELLO!   All of sudden all of those things that I'd conveniently forgotten about came rushing back.  Daycare, diapers, teething, sleepless nights, boogers, tantrums, baby food, breast feeding, and on and on.

Once I got my head around having a second child we were fairly happy with the idea.  We'd convinced big sister that it was going to be neat to have a baby brother and had even gone and done one of those early ultrasounds where you find out the gender before the actual medical ultrasound is scheduled to do so.

Before we even got pregnant I had sought out the OB/GYN I had when Alanna was born.  It was almost a deal breaker for me to have another child without having him as my doctor.  When I look back that was probably the moment we saved baby Archer's life, even before he was conceived.

Doctor V. is a cautious man and tells it like it is.  I'm not sure if this is how he is with all of his patients or if I've just gotten through to him that I'm a "cut to the chase" kind of girl.  With Alanna there was an issue found in utero that resulted in several second level ultrasounds and an MRI prior to her birth.

When I came to him after becoming pregnant with baby Archer, he suggested that if I'd like to have a second level ultrasound out of the gate because of my prior history as well as my age (haha) that he would most certainly approve it.  I said yes.  Alanna's condition really wasn't hereditary and frankly I wasn't worried, but when they offer you an upgrade just like moving up one class of vehicles when renting a car you take it.  After all it was an opportunity to find out more information about the baby with a better quality picture and it wasn't any extra work on my part; I was going to have an ultrasound regardless.

At my initial ultrasound appointment, they identified that I had Placenta Previa which is where the placenta is in the wrong spot either by a little or a lot.  At the time it wasn't a big deal.  Worst case scenario it would result in a C-Section if the placenta didn't pull up and out of the way of the cervix.  Best case as the uterus expanded and grew, the placenta would move similar to being stuck on the edge of a balloon on the inside and birth would be normal delivery.  They advised to not worry and come back in 6 weeks to see where it was at that point.

This seems like a good stopping point for the evening.  Then I can pick up with the diagnosis ultrasound visit and resulting hospitalization and birth of baby Archer.

Washing Sheets

Some day I'll write about my pregnancy experience with Archer. I'm not ready yet, but I think I'm close. I need to do it before the memories are too far away and I find myself starting to try to piece together what I need to get out on paper.

Tonight was laundry night. Because Alanna had a sleepover this past Friday night, I stripped the downstairs guest beds and washed the sheets. The bed is a Full-Size trundle which works very well for guests, but is nothing overly fancy. We replaced the sheets about 2 years ago after I came home from the hospital.

The sheets are the same ones that we bought to rotate during my hospital stay. They were easy to wash, fairly wrinkle free and comfortable. It seemed like an easy thing to do to make the long stay a little more like home rather than sleeping on hospital sheets. So we bought two sets in different but complimentary colors and J would take a set home weekly and bring me back a clean set.

As I washed the sheets tonight, I couldn't help but think about using them while I was in the hospital. It's funny how little items and actions that are so seemingly unnoticeable in daily life can trigger emotions and memories.

I also realized something interesting. I've not actually MADE the downstairs bed since we've gotten the new sheets. I launder them, but then I lay them on the beds and walk away. J has been the one to make the beds downstairs. Perhaps by not making them, I'm not giving myself long enough to ponder the emotions they stirred up.

The Vasa Previa Sophia's Walk weekend is coming up this next weekend, the first weekend in October. Maybe I'll try to get all of my thoughts in this week while it is most definitely on my mind.

I found a journal I had started shortly after our first ultrasound with Archer. It all seemed so very normal. I wrote notes to him telling him how excited his big sister was about getting to see him even before he was born. I'll need to find those and perhaps type them in here as part of this journey.

So much is buried on this topic that I'm a bit afraid to dredge it up and out, but I think I need to. A part of my relationship with my son seems like it's missing and that I'm in denial of his existence let alone the impact of him getting here.

More to come. I need to figure out how to start.

Hormones or Depression?

I think years ago one of my posts focused on my fears about passing on my anxiety and depression to my daughter, Alanna. At that time my therapist had told me that if Alanna did end up suffering from either or both that I was the best mom she could have because I'd been through it personally.

I still struggle with this. Am I the best mom she can have because I've been there and am doing that? Or am I the worst mom because I passed it on to her in the first place? Chicken or the egg?

Last night Alanna came up and told me, "Mom, I feel like crying but I'm not sad." I could literally feel my heart break in that moment. I went straight in my head to the worst case scenario. "Oh no, my daughter is exhibiting depression symptoms. Ok, how do I deal with this? What do I tell her?"

It turns out my husband, J, is probably the better mom in this instance. He remained cool and collected and sat down with her to write down what she was feeling. I suppose perhaps he's so good at it because he's been my sounding board for the past 16 years. Some of the things she came up with were:
Scared
Sad
Frustrated
She described it as a weird feeling that she'd never had before and that it "was like a wave splashing over me."

Honestly, I'm glad she feels like she can share her feelings and that we are the kind of parents that don't discount them out of hand. It's likely hormones. We're in for quite a ride if she experiences the hormonal shifts I did growing up.

I guess I should buckle up and get ready. Perhaps part of that will be blogging her symptoms and my responses. If nothing else it may help identify a pattern or point out if there end up being red flags.

Last Day of Summer

We survived the MN State Fair for another year. A had a wonderful time and we got in the things on our list including watching two pet surgeries and eating some chicken fried bacon. As promised, there are smiling photos posted on FB and on the family photo website. Tomorrow begins 4th Grade for Alanna and I can't help but wonder where the time has gone. This year we had to work out the drop off/pick up schedule in such a way that I won't be here in the mornings to see her off. I can't quite entirely let go of control though and I have a hanging clothes organizer in her room with her clothes laid out for the week. She can choose whichever outfits she wants on a daily basis, but at least I'll be able to go to work knowing that she's matching. I've given J strict instructions on making sure he reminds her to brush her teeth and comb her hair. We'll see how that works out. There were several days when I was in the hospital before Archer was born that Alanna came to visit with J and her hair was in disarray and her clothes mismatched. Once her pants were even on backwards. That was definitely an adventure in letting go. I'll need to draw a bit on lessons learned to let go as she continues to grow up. I keep thinking she's not ready, that she's too young to do X or Y. Turns out it's probably me who's not ready to let her.

Two Years

Third time's a charm. I believe this is at least the third time I've sat down after a long absence (although I think two years has been my longest hiatus yet) and tried blogging.

It's not that I haven't thought about blogging again. I've even written blog entries in my head and then just haven't committed to actually putting those thoughts out into cyberspace. I've contented myself with short snippets of fluffy life updates via Facebook.

My short snippet updates are easier. When I sit down and look at them they all seem happy and for the most part "normal". It reminds me a bit of when I look back at photographs of my childhood; it all looks truly picture perfect. There's the trips to the lake, the school plays, the family photo at Christmas. My Facebook life and the photos I post for family on Shutterfly are similar. There's the trips to the Renaissance Festival, the photos with grandparents, the afternoon luncheons with my daughter. Even the analytics tool for Facebook Wolfram Connection indicates that my top posted words include my children's names as well as: "family, gratitude, thankful, fun, love".

And truly, in general, I shouldn't have many complaints. I start most days with a mantra either before I get out of bed or while I'm standing in the shower, "I have a good job, a nice home, I can pay my bills, I have a wonderful family." Then rinse and repeat. At night it's similar, "Thank you, Lord, for this day. For my job, my home, my family, friends and support systems both near and far. Thank you for my children and please help me to keep them happy, healthy, safe and smart." Close my eyes, go to sleep and do it all over again the next day.

I hope that my children will look back and not only remember the things in the photographs, but also those little moments of watching Doctor Who together or wrestling on the living room floor. I try hard to remember those things from my childhood, but they're fleeting. I hope they won't remember the days Mommy didn't want to get out of bed or that she had tears behind her eyes and seemed like she wanted to run away from home.

It's been over two years as well since I had a therapy appointment with C. It's been two years of the same medication cocktail in the evenings to manage my sleep. It's been two years of managing the depression and anxiety on my own. There are days I think that's a victory and others it feels like a defeat. If I look at it from the victory standpoint, it's progress. It means I'm coping. If I look at it from defeat, it's settling for "good enough" and giving up on it ever getting better than it is right now.

It's almost been two years since my son was born and the story of his arrival are posts that some day I'll tackle, but for now they're in a safe shoebox in the closet of my brain. Somewhere that the emotions won't come bubbling out of until I'm ready to carefully handle them and then tuck them back away.

A lot can happen in two years, a lot stays the same.

Tomorrow on FB there will be pictures from the State Fair. They'll be full of smiles. For tomorrow I'll be ok with the picture perfect presentation of my life.

Random Thoughts

I think periodically I'll start just posting my random thoughts.

Yesterday on the way home from a meeting at another location, I was faced with rush hour traffic. In the exit ramp I wondered if now that I'm pregnant I qualify to use the carpool lane.

According to the law: At least two riders are required for the carpool lane.

I'm guessing I probably don't qualify as it's likely the rider must be in their own seat, but it was an amusing thought.

Hold On I Have to Flush

As of late, my second office seems to be in the bathroom. People know that if I'm not at my desk, I'm likely in the loo and will be back momentarily. The best news about the pregnancy from a convenience standpoint so far has been that my cubicle is the closest one to the bathroom.

I've made it known before that I'm not a huge fan of cell phones in general. I definitely dislike them when people are chatting in places that I find highly inappropriate (such as while driving and not using turn signals or bothering to look to see if there's a car there before merging). I have had run ins with texters at the movie theatre--nothing more distracting than the little blue phone light flashing on and off two rows in front of you while you're trying to watch the movie. I also love (dripping sarcasm) the headsets where you can't tell if someone is on the phone and they're having a conversation that starts with "Hi" which compells me to think I have to answer then feel like a dork when I realize they're on the phone.

There is one thing that now I think trumps all of my cell phone dislikes though. I have a coworker who thinks it's appropriate to bring her cell phone in mid conversation into the bathroom. REALLY!!?? When did sitting on the toilet become an appropriate place to have a conversation with someone? Not only do I find it disgusting that the poor person on the other end of the phone has to listen to her do her business, flush and wash her hands, but now that person is subjected to me doing my business in the stall next door, flushing, and washing my hands! AND I'm made uncomfortable because there's some stranger listening to me tinkle and flush.

I just can't imagine being on the other end of that conversation either. "Yes, the most amazing thing happened today...I'm sorry is that you peeing in the background?"

Anyway, EWWW.

Rejects

I've had to begin the unpleasant task of maternity clothes shopping. I'm not a fan of clothes shopping in the first place and buying even bigger clothes is definitely not appealing.

I had some cute things the first time around, but they've long since been given away so I'm back to square one.

I went online (because I far prefer shopping online than in a store) and found a couple lots from different ebay sellers that seemed reasonably priced and had some possibilities in them.

The lots turned out to be ok and I found several decent items that turned out to cost me under $5 an item total. I was left with a box though of those items that didn't fit right, I just didn't like, or made me look like I was wearing a tent.

In my wisdom, I folded everything neatly and took the box to a second hand clothing store (albeit a little upper scale, but several of the items were name brand). They didn't buy a thing. Nada, nothing. I was told that the items were out of style. OUCH.

Now granted, I shouldn't have felt rejected, but oddly I did. How dare they dismiss my castoffs as out of style??!! Note the irony. I had also dismissed the items, yet I had bought them originally so I felt let down and rejected by someone else questioning my taste.

The box is now sitting in the living room until the church rummage sale next month. Someone there will want them I'm sure and if not, I'll never find out!