Chronic Pain Lifestyle

Catching Childhood

This morning I sat at the kitchen table, taking the pills that make me a little dry in the mouth, but also help with the pain.  I was watching our neighbor’s kids waiting for the bus.  I’m lucky enough to live in the house where the bus stops.  I say lucky, because every day I’m reminded of how wonderful this world can be.

This morning the sister and brother took off their big backpacks and chased each other around their driveway.  It was 7:18AM.  The bus was due in 2 minutes and being kids, they couldn’t just stand and wait.  So they ran in circles, started flapping their arms.  And as the bus pulled up, they put on their heavy packs and climbed aboard for another day at school.

I grew up in a little town on Lake Superior.  Ashland is a long town, it runs along Chequamagon Bay.  Our house was 3 blocks from the lake and 5 blocks from my elementary school.  The only time we took a bus was to go to a beach on the other end of town, or to go to college.

In the summer, we ran all day, stopping to ask permission to drink out of a hose when we were thirsty and thanking whoever let us do that.  When we were hungry we grabbed an apple from a tree, a stalk of rhubarb or carrot or peas from the ground.  They were the days of skinned knees and worn out jeans.  Of mosquito bites and dirty faces.  Nothing was too hard and everything was new.

We played softball and wiffle ball, we had arguments, do-overs and broken hearts and apologies.  All in the day of a kid.  We didn’t know then how quickly our childhoods would slip from our grasp.  The days of running and swimming and riding our bikes like we were flying a fighter plane or a space ship.  Floating on a pulp log on Lake Superior, we were pirates, coming ashore to look for treasure.

The feeling of the ice cold lake on a warm summer day, the sand squishing between the toes and the way your feet looked in the water.  Laying on the sand to dry, before going home for supper.  Running like we just couldn’t wait for anything

The sights and sound of birds and fish and deer and cats and dogs.  They were all around.  We watched out for cars and tried not to do anything that would require a visit or call to our parents.

At night we ran inside and ate our dinner as fast as we could.  We were hungry.  Not hungry from stress or boredom or because we spent the day watching fast food commercials.  We didn’t have fast food then.  I guess fast food was when you had a peanut butter sandwich instead of waiting for dinner.

After dinner it was time for baths.  Most importantly, it was time to wash our feet.  Most of our adventures took place with no shoes on.  We didn’t need or want shoes in the summer.  You would just have to take them off when you went swimming and you might lose one.

After our baths, we were tucked into the clean cotton sheets and while it was still light out, we sang ourselves to sleep.  Many nights our Mom and Dad requested that we not give them a nightly concert of Beatles songs, but we were happy kids, and tired and eventually sleep took over.

The next day we would do it all again.  More running and riding and playing and swimming.  More fights and tears and kissing of cut fingers, skinned knees and stubbed toes.  Mom wiped the tears away and explained that it wasn’t the end of the world, our hearts were not broken and after a hug and a glass of water we were right back outside, to pick up where we left off.

There were no counselors or mediators or guns or knives.  We knew when we had done something wrong, we knew we had to say “sorry” and we knew that do-overs were always an option.  Sometimes we were friends again right away and sometimes we had to wait until we had forgotten what we were fighting about.  Nothing was ever so bad that it ended our friendships.

In the years that followed, we transitioned into teenagers and adults and we still knew that there was nothing that we did that we couldn’t apologize for and we knew how to say “sorry” and mean it.  We knew that it wasn’t ok to hurt anyone or anything.  Kids or animals, it was all the same, we were all God’s creatures and we respected that.  Even if we didn’t know what respect was.

And much to our surprise, we grew up just as fast as we ran.  We were always in a hurry to go to the next thing.  That is how your childhood is, you run and run until your wish comes true and you are an adult.  And the irony is, you wish you could do it all over again.

But thankfully, every now and then I see little kids doing something and just like that  Kenny Chesney song “I Go Back”.  To days of snarls in my hair so bad that scissors were used, bath times when Dad helped us wash our feet that were so dirty, we couldn’t go to bed until some of the black had been removed. 

And after our “now I lay me down to sleep....” a kiss on the head from Mom and we were asleep.  In our bunk beds with our Snoopy bedspread that declared Happiness is a Warm Puppy  and our Snow White and the Seven Dwarf pillowcases.  We left the world of our awake adventures and entered our deep sleep.  And God indeed kept our souls until we awoke.  She still does.

And every morning we have the promise of a “do-over”.  Everyday dawns with a perfect morning, we all have the opportunity to live just a little better than the day before and try our best to make our way in this world.  Through the ups and downs, the good and bad, the laughter and tears we go on and we try everyday to make the day the best one we ever lived.

So go on, make this day the best one of your life.  Don’t let anything hold you back.

Thanks for listening.

Anne

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

It's garden beginning time for many of us, especially in the South. How and what to plant was confusing for me. I was so much wanting a container garden on my patio. With just a walker I couldn't even go into the yard at all and my husband is a  just let whatever grow grow until the neighbors complain. Then use the riding mower and weedwhacker. We have huge trees so limbs always need picking up but they love doing it at their young ages. But the 12 year-old has determined that it is WORK now. Due to climate change we cannot get anything to grow in the front yard except 3 huge trees over 30 years old. They shade the entire yard. Last summer the four grandkids did manage 9 Aloe Vista plants and I tried to repot my 2 indoor vines I'd had since Mother died in 1997.

One of my sitters did know about all that stuff and I have a bucket of daffodils now in my front yard. Not bad with all the cold, rainy spring we've had. However the money ran out to grow a patio garden but that's OK cause broken limbs (on me) stropped it.

But my puny indide one is growing great! I have a long but narrow bay window just where the dinnet sits so it gets sun all day. When it came time to bring the vines in my largest one--don't even know his origin--had to have a table all it's own and it is grown up past the curtains and started toward a bookshelf.I have put  vases from previous generations around it. The morning light is great. This is the original plant. I won't bore you with my indoor garden anymore except to say I have a sweet potato vine also. I don't know their life span though.

I wish I was growing like my indoor plants---healthy for now

Wanda

Alibis and Sunday School

I grew up in a little town on Lake Superior, Ashland wasn’t a big city, but we had a lot of churches.  Lutheran, Catholic, Baptist, there were a lot of churches for such a small town.  Every church had its own traditions and congregations.  I remember our church built a new church in the 60’s.  It was designed in the shape of a cross and it was very Scandinavian looking.  Lots of wood, clean lines, beautiful windows.

When I was a little girl, I went to Sunday School.  We would go to church with Mom or with Gramma and Grampa Berg.  Part way through the service, all the kids would get up and go to their Sunday School Class.  That way, we were all done at the same time.  This was essential for rides home.  More often than not, Clare and I walked home.  Especially if the weather was nice.  We would save  .15 cents out of our collection money and we would stop at the candy store across from Wilmarth Elementary School.  Funny how every single elementary school had a candy store across the street.

There were milestones in Sunday School.  The first thing I remember, is that when you were really little, all they did was send you to the nursery and you played with other little kids during the service.  There was a speaker so we could hear what was going on, but we didn’t have any real lessons to learn or crafts to make.

Then on Christmas, they got you all dressed up in robes and trotted you out to sing “Jesus Loves Me”.  We were called the “Cherub Choir”.  No matter what we sang, or how we sang it, ladies always cried.  I didn’t know if it was because of the dear little faces singing such a cute song, or if they were just so tired from trying to get us to sing that they were all having a breakdown.

Then in about second or third grade, you get your Bible.  Now in our church the way you got your Bible, was to get up in front of the whole congregation and recite a passage from the Bible.  You got to pick your passage, but if you picked something too short, the teacher would make you pick again.  You had to memorize the passage and say it in front of the whole church.

For some reason, I picked The Beatitudes.  I don’t know why I picked one of the longest passages, but I did.  I think I liked the pressure, what can I say, I was a weird kid.

So one Sunday, our whole class had to stand up in front of the church and each of us had to say our passage right into a microphone.  I was nervous, but I did it and I didn’t forget the passage, or cry and run to my Mom sitting in the pews or pee my pants (tights actually, no pants allowed in church).  And in turn I got my Bible.  Inside the Bible was my name and the date inscribed in calligraphy in gold ink.  I loved my Bible, I still do.

Another thing Sunday School tradition were the attendance sheets.   At the beginning of each class, the teacher took attendance.  Just like they did in middle school and high school, someone walked around to the different classes and picked up the slips so they could record the absences in an attendance book.

At the time, I didn’t think anything about it.  They always took attendance.  Maybe they did it to plan for supplies of Elmer’s glue and Popsicle sticks or maybe to make sure there were enough sugar cookies and Dixie cups for the Kool Aid,

Then one day, something interesting thing happened.  When Mr. Johnson, came to pick up the attendance slip, David Deeth raised his hand and asked why they took attendance.

Without missing a beat, Mr. Johnson (remember Mel Coolie from the old Dick Van Dyke Show?).  Mr. Johnson was a tall man, with a bald head, glasses and a deep voice said “Twenty years from now, if you are ever accused of a murder, we can prove that you were here.” Hmmm.

What the heck kind of a statement was that????  We were 7 years old, what did we need an alibi for?  or was this just to show God on our lifetime report card (you know, your permanent record that you were threatened with all your school years)?  Do you think God takes attendance?  And the most important question of all, why did they let this guy collect the attendance slips?

Seriously, what kind of psycho tells little kids that they take attendance in Sunday school so you will have an alibi if you ever murder someone?  Even at 7 years old, I knew this guy was a few potatoes short of a lefse.
And so we made sure we were there as many Sundays as possible so they could mark us present and thus our alibi’s were recorded.

Sunday school was fun, but nothing compared to the Summer Bible School adventure.  First, it’s warm and you can wear shorts .  As a little girl, we had to wear dresses every time we went to school and church.  I don’t think there was ever a dress code that was put in writing, but we all adhered to it.  I did until 6th grade.  We had a new girl in school and she wore jeans. I did the same thing, we became good friends.  Thank you Amy Turner, my first rebel thing I ever did.   

Summer Bible School was also the only time you could ride your bike to church. That’s something you are never allowed to do the rest of the year.   And, the biggest thing, we got cookies and red Kool Aid every, single day!!! 

You will never hear a group of little kids sing Kum Bah Yah with more enthusiasm, than 30 little Scandinavian kids singing, while the church ladies put out trays of sugar cookies and stirred the Kool Aid. 

That stuff is like crack for little kids.  You would just about do anything, including singing Kum Bah Yah for 2 weeks straight,  just to get your hands on those cookies.  Seriously, they should offer those up at confirmation classes, when you really need a reason to go to extra hours at Church.

In Summer Bible School, there were a few Bible stories every day, some coloring of Bible pictures, and some stories with the most treasured of  all Summer Bible School props, something valued even more than the sugar cookies with frosting at Christmas, more than getting to run around in the church while your Mom is at choir rehearsal, the fabled, little seen, FELT BOARD.

The felt board was a piece of felt on a board, on an easel.  During the course of a bible story, the teacher would shapes made out of felt on the board that had to do with the story.  Like if it was the story of Jesus changing water to wine, there would be a figure of Jesus, grapes, people, a wine jug , etc. 

The simplest of things, but no matter what you tried at home, you could not replicate the felt board they used at Sunday School.  It just never looked the same no matter how hard you tried.  And your shapes never stuck as good as the one they used in Sunday School.

Watching the teacher put those felt things on the board made everyone pay attention.  I don’t know why it was so magical, but it was and I know I’m not the only one who thought so.  She could tell the same story over and over, as long as she had that board she could have been reading the phone book to us.  This would have been a good opportunity to brain wash us.  Maybe they did... that would explain fashion choices I made later in life.

Summer Bible School and Sunday School left a big impression on me.  I have so many memories of my childhood wrapped up in the happenings at church.

The memories of my Gramma Berg and Grampa Berg were very special in a lot of ways.  For instance,  I remember Grampa Berg’s blue eyes and how they would light up when he was up to something.  Like teaching my little sister Clare to whistle. 

He taught her in church, on a Sunday, during the sermon. 

Yes she stood on the pew and whistled.  Grampa couldn’t stop chuckling, and Gramma was not happy.  In the pew it was Clare, Grampa, me and then Gramma.  Gramma tried but couldn’t get close enough to Clare to make her sit down, so there she stood.  A little blonde haired girl, with big blue eyes, and a pair of spindly legs in white tights, with brown knees and a blue dress.  Whistling for all she was worth.  And there was Grampa, face beat red from laughing and his blue eyes shining as bright as the summer sun.

Gramma knew she was never going to live it down.  I imagine it was all the talk at the Monday Club or the Bible Study Class meeting the following week.  And the beauty parlor was probably buzzing all week while the ladies came in to get their hair done for Sunday services.  All the blue-haired ladies in town probably heard about the little whistling girl.

And those are my memories of church.  Of having fun and making things, singing and eating.  Somewhere in the midst of our felt board stories, before the cookies and the Kool Aid, were lessons that we needed to learn.  Lessons about living and dying and praying and crying.  All of those things would take years to figure out.  Even now I’m still not sure about my God.  I know I believe and I have faith, but there are so many things I still don’t know.

What I wouldn’t give for one more day as that carefree child. A day when we were all together and the sun was out and the sky was the softest shade of blue you ever saw.  The blue color of a pair of Levis, much worn and loved, the color of an old flannel shirt or the color of my sister Clare’s blue eyes. When the sun was yellow like a ball of yarn, not harsh light, the sunlight was warm and not biting as it is today. 

Perhaps that is what all this praying is for.  Praying for the way things were back then.  Praying for guidance to try and make sense of the way things are right now.  Praying to hear once again the sound of children’s laughter carried on the wind of forty summers long ago when Mom’s yelled “Supper” for the kids playing down the street. 

Mom’s who strained to hear the familiar “I’m coming!!”  from their own little kids.  And like a change in the direction of the wind, the screen door shuts quietly with a creak and the sound is gone. 

And in the blink of an eye, the warm memory is gone and we are grown ups and although it’s not needed, we are all alibied, just in case.

Thanks for listening.

Anne

What Happened to Part 2?

Don't ask me because I typed on someone else's computer disc who was supposed to post it on my computer. Some times mistakes are better, others are worse. We all survived the storm but not without mishap. The real moral here is don't throw someone in the lake and expect them to automatically ski and don't ignore the weather signs, especially our health ones.

So many things have happened to me to bring me to this state of health and life itself that I can't write about them all. You you would be bored to death and so would I (not literry). For those new to my  world I am an older woman with a wonderful husband, kids and grand kids. I've had back  problems ever since the ski party at about age 12. Then I was given a myelogram with pantopaque which showed I had an "extra" vertabra and would need a fusion. My parents said no and I made my way as best I could because it never occured to me that others didn't hurt like me. I wasn't medicated either. Of course I didn't have AA then either.

I'm limited in time so I'll just say that I got  a "pain pump" in1989 which lasted until 2006. I got the new pump but it just didn't sem to work. We had left the old cathaerin in because it tested OK. We finally did find out it was the catheter. Time for a new one. It should have taked 45 minutes but it took 5 hours because it had "rotted" and broken and was moving out into my body in small sigments. It could have been fatal had he not gotten all those litle bits.

However the surgery has left me "spastic"-- pressure inside the spine instead of outside like AA. I have a spinal cord injury and am paralyzed from T-7 down. Paralyzed in this case doesn't mean I can't move my legs some in bed or chair but if I stand up my legs will not move at this point.

It's time for dinner and a bath which is not a pleasant experience at all.

More to come in this saga of just being a patient now.

Wanda

The River Party (part 2)

Download wanda.part 2-4.doc

It's Just a Puppy

We have a new puppy in our house.  Her name is Sammie Marie and she is a yellow lab.  A beautiful yellow lab and 100% puppy.  She trips over her paws and falls down a lot.  And she knocks over her water dish daily and eats like it’s her first meal in years.  She makes me smile.

I grew up in a little town on Lake Superior.  Ashland was not the warmest place to grow up and certainly wasn’t the kind of place you would want to walk a dog in the middle of winter.

When I was very little we had a Dalmatian dog named Pepper.  I was about 3 years old and I was running around in the back yard while my Mom hung up the laundry on the clothes lines.  Pepper was running around too.  He didn’t hurt me or jump on me, but his chain wrapped around my little leg and when he heard a car go by, he ran across the yard dragging me by my leg.  That was the beginning of my fear and dislike of dogs.

All my adult years I disliked of dogs.  I was afraid of them, all shapes and sizes.  I avoided them at all costs.

When Jerry and I bought our first home eleven years ago, Kelly (Jerry’s daughter) had a dog named Dallis and she didn’t have anywhere to keep her.  We told her to bring the dog to our house and we would find a home for her, a good home. 

Dallis was half black lab and half rottweiller.  She was a big dog, she eventually grew to 95 pounds.  I asked around at work if anyone was interested in adopting a big black dog.  I didn’t get any takers. 

And then one night, I was home alone with Dallis.  She was an outside dog, but the weather had turned bad, we had freezing rain and she wasn’t going in her dog house.  I was worried about her so I let her in the part of our house that was a wood shop.  It was dry and we had blankets down and it was a bit warmer than outside.  I gave her water and shut the door.  Then I heard her crying on the other side of the door.

I didn’t know what to do, so I opened the door.  She came in and put her front paws down and her butt in the air and she wiggled and barked.  I was terrified. You should have heard her bark.  It could make the windows rattle.  I didn’t know what she wanted or what to do and then she pushed one of her tennis balls towards me with her nose.  So I pushed it back to her.  She seemed happy doing this for a while, I guess this was ok.  Playing a game with her made her happy and it made me less nervous around her.

We didn’t have Dallis for more than a few months and we emptied our savings account to fence in the entire back yard.  The biggest dog run in the neighborhood.  It was the length of the yard and went behind the house and garage.  I’ll never forget that first day we took off her chain and let her run.  She was so happy, I swear she was smiling with her whole body.  Wiggling, jumping and running.  Happy to be alive.

It didn’t take me long to fall in love with Dallis.  I took her to doggie daycare and just like a nervous Mom on the first day of kindergarten, I shed a few tears and I to called a few times to see if she was ok.  My husband was so nervous, he drove over to watch her and make sure she was ok with dogs she didn’t know and people she didn’t know. 

A year later I adopted an abused doberman.  I loved Austin with all my heart and we tried to make up for her bad start in life.  We had a lot of good years with both dogs.  Austin made great strides in her behavior , she also benefited from doggy daycare.  I loved her more than I thought was possible.

Nothing lasts forever.  We had to put Austin down in May of 2006.  We  knew Dallis had a tumor in her lung, but it she still looked good, played, ran  and jumped like normal and still ate like it was a race.

Then in September of 2006, Dallis was limping a lot after playing soccer at doggy daycare.  She normally limped for a few days after daycare every week, but this time I was worried she might have hurt her leg so I took her in for x-rays and our vet K.C. said he would call me at noon and let me know what is going on.

I’ll never, ever forget that phone call.  “Anne, I’m so very, sorry.” is how K.C. started the conversation.  “Dallis’ biggest problem is no longer her lung cancer.  She’s not going to die from that.  She has osteosarcoma, bone cancer and it’s a very aggressive disease.  Her front leg bones are already eaten up, the bone is all porous, I can’t believe she can still jump and run.”

I managed to ask if she was in pain and he said yes.  Dallis never yelped, or whined or anything.  We never knew she was hurting.  As you can imagine, the outlook was grim.  . 

In the 10 days following that call, she stopped eating, she lost 11 pounds , she couldn’t stop vomiting.  K.C. said that we would know when it was time to let her go because she would turn away from us.  And so, 10 days later, she did.

I took her back to the vet and that evening, Jerry and Kelly and K.C.(our vet) and I, we all talked about it and we all decided it was time to say goodbye to our dear girl.  And with our hearts breaking, we all said goodbye.  We held her as she died and told her we loved her.  It was one of the dearest moments of my life.  Holding my girl, while we let her go, just like we held Austin only a few months before.

I had planned on getting a new puppy for months before Dallis died.   The breeder finally called and said that our puppy was ready to go home with us.   A few days after we lost Dallis, we drove to Minocqua and picked him up.  Dino is a Cavalier, King Charles Spaniel.   Dallis had weighed 95 pounds, Dino weighed 5 pounds.  This was going to be interesting.

Dino never cried, whined or barked.  He was a good dog from the minute we got him in the car and he is very lovable.  I’m so glad we got him and I show him pictures of Dallis and Austin.  He could smell those dogs and spent time looking for them.  I had to measure his food by the 1/4 cup.  Dallis ate 5 cups of food and 2 peanut butter sandwiches each day.  I couldn’t believe how little Dino was, I was so afraid of hurting him.  But we all adjusted and in time, it seemed like he had been with us for years.

And then on Christmas Eve morning this year, I was in the backyard with Dino and our neighbor came over and leaned on the fence and said he had something to show me.  He handed me a picture of his lab Ivy and her pups.  She gave birth to 10 puppies on December 8th.  Ten yellow labs right next door.  I told him to wait right there and I ran and got my husband and said, go talk to Andy, he has something to show you.

My husband was gone for a long time, I saw him talking to Andy and then he went over to Andy’s door.  A little while later, Dino and I were in the house and Jerry came in.  He just looked at me and said, “well we’re going to have to take one of them.”

I was in shock.  Jerry had taken Dallis’ death so hard, I couldn’t believe it when he said we were getting a dog. Sammie came home with us in mid-February.  Since she was just next door, it wasn’t too long of a trip. And how this puppy has helped us, we can’t even begin to list the ways.

Sammie’s feet are very big, she trips over them.  And oh how Sammie has changed our house.  We have a noisy house again.  This ball of energy is excited and happy about everything.  A walk to the mailbox, just across the street from home is an adventure.  So many new smells over there thanks to the 3 dogs and 2 cats across the street.

Somewhere in her exploration of our backyard, she came across a basketball. A basketball I hadn’t seen since Dallis died.  It was Dallis ball.  We thought that we had thrown out all of Dallis and Austin’s toys. Dino found one of Austin’s chew toys his first week in our home.  And now Sammie found one of Dallis’ in the backyard.

Just a puppy?  No.  No puppy is just a puppy.  Sammie Marie and Dino are so much more than that.  Sammie's a big, wiggly, clumsy bundle of love. Dino is a feisty, long haired lap dog.  Sammie and Dino have helped turn our house back into a home.  I loved Dallis and Austin very much.  I still do.  But thanks to them,  I love Dino and Sammie.  I will have many happy memories of all of my dogs.  And when I’m very old and it’s time for me to take my final journey, I know that they will be waiting there to greet me, with wagging tails and sloppy kisses.

Thanks for listening.

Anne

Spring

You would never know by the landscape around here, but spring is coming.  It’s still snowing, but spring is definitely around the corner.  I can’t be the only person in this town who is tired of snow, the smallest sign and we’re praying it means spring is here.

I grew up in a little town on Lake Superior.  Ashland had the longest winters.  Snow starts in October and ends in April.  My Mom said it snowed in June when she was a little kid.  I believe her. 

When I was in college, I brought my roommate home for Thanksgiving.  She was from Harlingen, Texas and when she saw the amount of snow and that big frozen lake,  it scared her half to death.  I’m grateful she didn’t quit school on the spot.

When I was a little girl, in grade school, Clare and I would walk home together every day even in the winter.  There were the necessary stops to climb snow banks and look at stuff buried in the snow.  But generally we moved quickly to get home.  Ashland had long, cold, dark, brutal winters.  I’m glad I didn’t know any better, I would have run away from home if I had known that winter isn’t like that everywhere.

Every year March came in like a lion.  And on Lake Superior, it went out like one too.  March’s bright sunny days didn’t  fool me or any one else.  It looked warm, but it was cold.  Bitter winds, icy winter days always welcomed in the first day of spring.  But in March, we always took note of the first sign that spring was coming, no matter how small or insignificant it seemed.

Every year, when the sun shines a little brighter in March, it also changes direction just a little.  When I got home from school, I noticed that the sun was coming straight in the living room windows, no longer at an angle, it was warm and inviting and our cat had found the sun’s warmth and fallen asleep.  More often than not, I would lay down right next to the cat and in the warm sunshine, I fell asleep too.

I remember loving the feeling of the sun shining through the window and warming my cold feet and hands.  I always thought my feet got cold in October and didn’t warm up again until June.  But laying there on the carpet, on a sunny March day, I was warm and that good dose of sunshine also had the added benefit of lifting my spirits.

I’m sure that as a child I was unaware of how depressing winter can be.  I thought everyone felt the same way, it’s cold, we deal with it and just wait until spring.  Nothing to really complain about, it’s not like you can change the weather.

But then I moved from Lake Superior to go to college in Madison.  Madison is about 300 miles south of Ashland and who would have thought that the weather would be so different.

I’ve written about coming to Madison with my roommate Cheryl on a Greyhound.  We were both dressed as we would have for an August day in Ashland.  Long pants, sweaters and jackets.  When we arrived in Madison, it was over 90 degrees and it was the end of August!!!  In Ashland, you have to wear a warm jacket at night at the end of August or you would freeze. 

We hadn’t brought any of our warm weather clothes, so our first call home was to say we were ok, give our parents our phone number and beg them to mail all of our shorts, t-shirts, sandals, etc.  We were sweating to death and apparently this was normal for this part of the state.

You can imagine our surprise.  We were in the same state, but down in Madison, we had warm weather that lasted into October!!  We would be in snow in Ashland.  And spring really did come in March.  Sure we would still have snow and sleet, but there were days when you could just wear a sweatshirt and no boots to go outside.  I was in complete denial that this could be normal weather for any part of Wisconsin, but there it was and I was in it.

Now here I am 30 years later and I’m wondering if I’ve worn out my welcome in this part of the state.  This year we had record breaking snow in the Madison area.  We’ve had over 90 inches of snow.  The snow in my yard is up to my hips.  I’m not talking snow banks, that’s how deep the snow is in my yard.  And it’s cold.

We’ve had the furnace on for months and it doesn’t look like there is any end in sight.  I read somewhere that this was the most snow in Madison since 1978.  1978 is the year I moved down here from Ashland.  Maybe it’s time to make another move, I’m thinking Key West this time.  If we get a record breaking snow down there, you will know who to blame.

In the meantime, until my husband retires and we can really get out of here in the winter, I’ll just have to pretend.

Tune in the Buffett, start up the blender, it’s margarita time.

Thanks for listening,

Anne

Birthday Tales

I grew up in a little town on Lake Superior.  This time of year in Ashland is unbearable for those of us not happy about the winter’s snow and cold.  I much prefer warm breezes to blizzards.  Last year I was in Florida with my Mom and sister and nephews on this day.  I remember watching the waves crash on my birthday, it was beautiful.

Birthdays were a big deal when you were a kid.  I remember at Beaser Elementary, it got pretty exciting when someone’s Mom showed up with cupcakes or cookies to have an impromptu birthday party.  It’s always good to fill kids up on sugar, I love a good sugar buzz.

There is an old saying that goes “uneasy rests the head that holds the crown” and for me I guess it meant that any kind of celebration that put me at the center, was not going to end well.

For starters, I was at the boys table.  In kindergarten, we were seated by height.  I guess for a 5 year old I was tall because I was at the table right next to the teacher’s desk and I was the only girl at my table.  What a way to give a kid a complex, I felt so out of place.

It always seemed to me that I was not a very girlie girl.  I liked to run fast, ride my bike, go swimming, build leaf forts, etc.  I was not a little girl who wheeled her carriage with her baby dolls down the sidewalk.  I remember when my little sister was in the carriage.  I got a running start and pushed her and then watched her fly down the sidewalk, much to the horror of our housekeeper.  I thought it was funny, Clare didn’t seem to mind.

So there I was at the boy’s table in kindergarten.  I had to do all my schoolwork at that table, eat my snack at that table, etc.   The only break I got was at nap time.  We went alphabetical for that.

When March came around, I had already been in school for 7 months.  I was used to the boy’s table and pretty used to my teacher.  On my birthday I got a big surprise.  My Grampa Berg showed up (he was a milkman) and he knocked on the door and wheeled in ice cream for my whole class!!!

This was the most exciting thing that happened in class all year except for the time Sarah peed her pants when someone brought a puppy to show-n-tell.  It was my birthday and my Grampa was handing out ice cream.  Now all of those awful boys would see what a great person I am and all the girls will wish they were me.  I was having an almost perfect day....almost.

It was nearly time to leave school, only about 10 minutes more.  I was putting away my crayons when all of a sudden I didn’t feel very well.  I got really warm and then, I threw up all over my birthday dress (blue organdy).  I was really sick.  By the time I got home I had a really high temp and it turned out I got the mumps from one of those awful boys at my table.

To this day, I can only remember clearly the throwing up part, not the happy I had ice cream part.  I guess some folks are not meant to be the pretty dainty girl in a beautiful organdy dress.  I guess some girls are meant to throw up on the table and get really sick at their own party.

I’m 48 today.  Clare brought me cupcakes and pizza and her husband and kids.  It’s the best present I could ever have, a warm and loving family with two dogs to take care of the crumbs.  And so far, no one has thrown up, but Sammie peed on the floor.

Thanks for listening,

Anne

The Ski Party (Part 1)

After Colin gave me my very own by-line I suddenly dropped out of sight.  I have sent in a few "Wanda's World" articles telling a little about what happened in my world but I don't think they made much sense - not even to me.  But for a come back let's go back in time to the early 60's (yes, I'm that old).

We live in what's called the Tennessee River Valley, near a large lake between to hydro-electric dams.  This area is ideal for lots of fishing and water sports, but there is also a lot of large barge transport traffic.

The following event happened to me and my extended family during an outting on the lake.  Early one Saturday we met for a family day of fun on the lake, several speed boats for skiing, and several fishing boats to gather the goods for a fish fry.  This was to be my first day of "learning to ski" even though I wanted nothing to do with getting in the water.  I was happy just to ride and be a spotter.  But my dad and uncle dragged me into the water, pulled me out until I was supported by my life jacket, and attached the skis to my feet.  Then the "go" signal was given.

I was, and am, deathly afraid of having no ground under me, not being able to feel my feet on the firm and solid.  I was scared of what might be in the water with me; 50 lb. catfishes, snakes, etc.  I just did not want to do this.  I'd hated swimming lessons too.  No water over my head!  "Coward" of the family!  This could not be since I was the oldest of the grand children and had an example to set.  "GO"

So off down the river I went, for maybe 20 feet, feeling the whole time as if my body was being ripped apart, but afraid to let go.  I never got up on the skis, and I have been in severe back pain ever since.

A few months later the PE teacher in school made things worse, but that is for part 2.

(Written by Wanda, posted by Lee: Wanda is in rehab recovering from a broken knee:  no more skydiving)

Hold Them Close

We had another snow storm here in Wisconsin on this Valentine’s day.  It is very quiet as the snow is falling.  A few people walk their dogs by the house and Dino and Sammie run to the window, to see if it’s someone, or some dog they know.

I spent the day reading and looking at the beautiful bouquet of flowers my husband sent to me.  I had picked it out of an FTD e-mail a couple of weeks ago, I don’t know how he picked this one to send to me.  I didn’t talk to him about it.  Well I love it, the vase is red, the roses are red, the bow is red and there is baby’s breath and white carnations and ferns for contrast.  It’s so pretty.

My life is moving along as it should.  Sure, things were better a few years ago when I could work, but when I was working, I wouldn’t have appreciated the quiet days, the snow , or the smell of the roses on the table.  I have the time for appreciating the little things and the big things now.  I have time, it’s a luxury and I’m grateful for it and for all of the good people that make me happy and take care of me.

Jerry and I have been talking for weeks about how much fun we’ll have in Indiana in September.  We’re going with friends and we are both so excited.  We’re also excited about getting away for a car show in St. Paul in June.  At that show there are over 14,000 cars to look at for my husband and shuttle buses every 15 minutes to the Mall of America for me.  We’ll both be happy.

The dogs are napping quietly, well almost quietly, they snore and my feet are a little cold.  I started to read the news, I wish I hadn’t.

I do not understand what is wrong with the world.  We are in a war that I don’t understand, we have a crazy economy that no one understands and  there is another shooting,  17 kids this time it is the University of Northern Illinois at DeKalb.

Pray for the folks at the University of Illinois and pray for their families. Pray for our soldiers fighting  for and protecting all of us, throughout the world. 

And hold those you love closely and tell them you love them.

Thanks for listening.

Anne

Super Bowl Weekend For The Rest of Us

Well, it’s here.  The weekend that sees more pizza delivery than any other weekend all year long.  It’s Super Bowl weekend.

Now here in the great midwest, specifically Wisconsin, we may all be a bit subdued.  After all, our beloved Packers did not make the big game.  It’s certainly no fault of our beloved team.  Most Packer Backers, will tell you that without the Packers, the SuperBowl is just a bunch of great commercials interrupted by a mediocre sporting event.  Unless of course, the Packers make the game.  Then by God, we love the Super Bowl.

So what exactly should we watch, while the game is on, or the pre-game or the pre-pre game????

I have some suggestions.

1.  I am certifiably wedding show crazy.  I watch them all.  I look at the flowers, clothes, jewelry, cakes and compare them to weddings I’ve attended or even my own.  I love the dresses and the decorations.  I used to carry a little photo album in my purse of my own wedding.  I don’t know why my friends put up with me back then.

But there is a new kind of wedding show that I discovered last week.  It’s on TV tonight (Friday) on CMT (Country Music Television).  The show is called “My Big Redneck Wedding”.

Now most of the folks on this show are pretty normal people, but there are a few exceptions.  For example, tonight’s preview showed someone in a wedding dress participating in a mud wrestling match.  It also showed the whole wedding party, or most of them, tearing around through mud on their four-wheelers.  Good old fun.

Seriously last week, I laughed so hard I cried.  You know this stuff is good for the soul.  Plus I had no idea that there were stores that let you ride your horse into the store, or that you should take your goats put them in your car and take them to an auction, just so they wouldn’t be lonely. 

You can’t make this stuff up.  And honestly, there were some really sweet moments during the vows.  I have a feeling that these rough and tumble guys really do have a big old soft heart underneath their flannel shirts.  It’s good stuff.

2.  There is a Law & Order marathon this weekend.  Between the regular Law & Order and Law & Order Criminal Intent and Law & Order Special Victims Unit.  I watch all of them on reruns during the day on TNT and USA.  I’ve always loved crime shows, would still like to see Kojac come back and I lived for MacMillan & Wife.  My Sunday nights weren’t complete without those shows back in the 70’s.

3.  Watch QVC.  The shopping channels normally have really good stuff, jewelry and make-up on sale during the Super Bowl.  If you are a little angry that your significant other just spent a lot of money on a big screen TV, this is your way of making up for his outlandish purchase. 

It looks like HSN is going with jewelry and scrap booking for Sunday and QVC has beauty and gardening.  Not bad if you don’t mind watching a channel that is literally one long commercial.

4.  Go see a movie.  You don’t have to make the snacks, they sell them right in the lobby and since you will be sitting in the dark, no one will see you devour the big popcorn, large drink and super size candy.  I like Dots, Milk Duds and Raisenettes.  The boxes are big enough to make you feel really bad about eating that much, thank goodness you’re in the dark.  After all if no one sees you eating it, does it really count????

5.  And finally, go shopping.  If your team is in the big game, the malls and other stores will be almost empty.  For goodness sakes, do not go to the grocery store today or tomorrow, but on Sunday as soon as the kickoff goes into the air, the grocery stores will be all but deserted.  No more waiting for the person to decide which can of tuna is the best, cheapest, environmentally ok, etc.  Even if you get stuck shopping behind someone who is walking like they’ve never shopped before, the lines at the checkout are sure to be short.

Have a great weekend and good luck to both of the teams in the Super Bowl.  And to you Packer fans, maybe next year.

Thanks for listening.

Anne

The Rhythm of Life

I was born in a little town in northern Wisconsin.  Ashland’s population was listed as 9,615 for as long as I can remember.  It is a pretty town along Lake Superior’s Chequamagon Bay.  And no, that word didn’t end up in every spelling bee.

Growing up and going to school seemed to go on and on forever.  Day after day our childhood stretched before us in a slow and lazy pace.  We never seemed to change, neither did our friends.  Our summers were spent playing wiffle ball, swimming and bike rides.  In the winter, we would layer clothes upon clothes to keep ourselves warm in our winter playground of snow and ice.

The rhythm was beating softly and slowly in childhood.  There was no hurry to grow older.  The only things we wished would hurry were the days until Christmas or the first day of summer vacation.  We learned lessons by do-overs and taking turns.  Surely there were hurt feelings, skinned knees and tears.  But those are the things that shaped us and made our childhood important.  We did not wish to be anything other than what we were, little kids.

The carefree days of leaf piles and popsicles, gave way to AM radios, Mad magazine and braces.  Before we had a chance to even catch our breath, we were wishing to be older.  The rhythm was moving a bit faster and not quite so faint.  We wanted desperately to answer all of the questions being asked of us. 

What college will you go to?  What do you want to be?  Where will you live?  Do you think you want to get married?  What about kids?  All of  these questions swirling in the head of a teenager along with the normal wishes for new clothes, clear skin and a boyfriend. 

Before we answered all of the questions, we were out of high school and moving away to go to college.  And in four breathless years we had our first loves, college football games, dances and in a blur we graduated and we were set down in our lives much like we were the first day of kindergarten.  We didn’t know what to do, where to go or even what we wanted.  It’s a lot  to figure out when you’re in your twenties.

Then in the blink of an eye, we had jobs.  Our path seemed a little clearer as the rhythm picked up pace and volume.  There were days we couldn’t keep up with the crazy beat of our lives unfolding and unfolding, always leading somewhere and never by the path you expected to take.

And before you know it, you are married and your kids are grown and you are with someone you have spent more than half of your life with.  The rhythm of life is louder and faster now. 

We realize how quickly our childhood slipped away from us.  We find ourselves asking what happened to the little children, now replaced by young adults.  We look at old pictures and realize that we have changed a lot in the past few years.  But somehow we can’t ever see the change as it happens.

We try and hold onto memories, like snapshots of our lives.  The laughter of friends at a party you attended, the smile of your husband when he came home from work, the smell of your Mom’s bread baking in the oven and the voices of all people who shaped your life, but have traveled on to where you will meet them again one day.

The rhythm of life is the beat that drives us in this great dance we call life.  You can’t sit this one out, all you can do is dance.

Thanks for listening.

Anne

All of My Tomorrows

Remember the Janis Joplin (or Kris Kristofferson) hit “Me and Bobby McGee”?  There is a line in that song that goes:

“I’d trade all of my tomorrows,
for one single yesterday”

Would you?

If it was possible for you to go back to one single event in your life and relive it, would you trade all of your tomorrows to do it?

Would it be worth it to go back and choose a different path, to make a different choice that shaped the rest of your life?  Would you try and go back to find someone who drifted out of your life or hold someone close to you that died?

Or would you want to go back to live one day before you got this disease?

I’ve wrestled with this one for a long time.  What if I could go back and feel like I felt before I got AA (adhesive arachnoiditis), would I really want to?  I have a feeling that a lot of folks are saying “YES!!!!” of course !!! why not?

I would not want to got back to a day before I got AA.  Think about that for a minute,

I would not choose to go back to a day when I wasn’t in constant pain.  I would not want to skip this part of my life, I would not want to make different choices, I do not want to go back in, time even if it meant I could live without pain.

I think the biggest problem we all face is the wishing well.  I wish things were different, I wish I felt better, I wish I could plant a garden, I wish I could run with my dog, I wish I could go to the grocery store alone and cook a big dinner for my husband. That wishing well is a bottomless pit,  full of things that we can’t do anymore.  Heck, I wish I was 15 again so I could see my first Alice Cooper concert all over again.  But what would we really gain? 

All of the choices you make in your life every day, made you what you are at this moment.  Of course I would like to live pain free, but if this had never happened to me, I would not be the person I am today.  And as hard as it is to admit, I’m a better person now, than I was before.

Before I got AA, I was healthy, skinny, worked very long hours by choice, took care of the house, the shopping and the cooking and cleaning.  I was rushing through my life without stopping to enjoy a walk with my dogs, a day with my husband or even a movie.  My job was controlling my life.  I worked all day, came home and made notes for the next day, brought home work when I could, researched problems in my text books from technical school.  I never stopped. 

I even took calls on every vacation for 7 years.  I worked in Disney World, the Daytona 500 Speed Week, the Smokey Mountains, a car show in St. Paul, a hotel in Kokomo Indiana.  The only time I did not take calls was when I was in the hospital having back surgery.  The only reason I didn’t take calls then was because I was on morphine and mostly I was unconscious.  I took calls the Monday following my release from the hospital and worked almost every single day of my recuperation.

I was also doing things for all the wrong reasons.  I wasn’t working hard to lead a better life, or help people.  I was working hard to please myself.  I think that’s a pretty selfish thing to do. I wasn’t very close to my family.  I thought I was, I said I love you at all the appropriate moments.  But I wasn’t really present at so many things.  I never stopped to really listen to anyone, to recognize the changes in my nephews, to see how happy my sister Clare and her husband are with their beautiful kids.

But then, just when I thought I had it all,  my life changed. I felt like I had the rug pulled out from under me and I didn’t have the faintest idea of how to handle this.  I cried so much the first few months.  I cried every day.  I never told my husband the truth about how much this hurt, I never told anyone that this condition is permanent.  I was living a lie.  I wouldn’t let myself accept the fact that this is permanent and that I have AA.

I wouldn’t even tell my doctor that the pain meds were not enough help or that I was depressed and needed help with dealing with the emotional side of this disease  I didn’t tell him the truth for 8 months.  I just didn’t want to take narcotics, I didn’t want my life to be lived in a drug induced haze.  (I was completely wrong about this by the way.  I’m able to function ok with the meds, I just can’t drive, work, or pay bills.)

So there you are just moving through life, making things nice for everyone around you and suddenly, there is this huge problem.  A problem for which there is no solution.  I was left floating above my house looking for what used to be my life.

I wanted everything in my life to move along like I was living in a ‘50’s sitcom.  I wanted the Brady Bunch life but I wanted to be Donna Reed.  I wanted the neat hairdo, the starched shirt dress and heels.  The perfectly clean home, with none of the problems that everyone faces.  AHHHHH, life in the sitcoms, how perfectly, perfect.  From Barbara Billingsley’s pearls, to Florence Henderson’s shag hairdo, now that was living.

How could I live a sitcom life with this pain?  Where was my life?

And then a wonderful thing happened.  Someone reached out to me for help.  All he did was ask me to proof something he was going to post on his web site.  I had no idea how that one thing, would change my life.

When Colin asked me for help, I felt useful.  After crying daily for 6 months, laying in bed, not knowing what to do or how to do it, someone asked me for help and it was something I could actually do.

Shortly after that, I wrote my first article for this web site.  And that began my journey back into life.  A real life.  No holds barred, no pretending that everything is ok and no smoothing out the wrinkles.  I was forced from my cocoon.  I was forced to face my problems, spell them out for all to see.  It was time to stop pretending and when that happened, I was able to get on with my life.

I had been living in suspended animation.  I was watching my life float by, without participating in it.  I was a champ at feeling sorry for myself and building up walls and lying about how I felt. 

But all that changed. This is me, this is my life now.  I’m in pain, I’m mad as hell about it, but I’m still here.  I can still make a difference and for whatever reason, I’m needed.  I have a purpose in life. 

Thank you all for giving me a reason to get out of bed when I can.  When I can’t, my husband gets my laptop and hands it to me in bed.  I’ve written nearly every single article while flat on my back. 

Not a lot of occupations allow you to work flat on your back, while taking narcotics.....well not any occupation that I would actually do anyway, for more information on that see my story “Norwegians Keep Their Clothes On”.

Thanks for listening,

I mean it. 

Thank you from the bottom of my heart,

Anne

A New England Childhood: Framingham, 1969

In 1969, Framingham was a mill town of around 100,000 residents.  Oldsmobiles were assembled, paper was milled, beer was brewed and convicts were rehabilitated.  I listened to the Boston Red Sox and Janis Joplin on a transistor radio.  Life Magazine showed pictures of Wood stock, Buzz Aldrin and Charles Manson.  Vietnam was on TV with Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In. A quarter bought a can of Coke, a Milky Way and two packs of Topps baseball cards.  Washing the dishes was a daily chore, mowing the lawn a seasonal one.  Many Summer evenings bedrooms were too hot for sleep so the entire neighborhood lived on the front lawns. I prized my bike, radio and baseball glove above all other things. Oakvale, my neighborhood, was a small haven within the enormity of Framingham.  Oakvale was a sub-division of a large baby boom housing development that spread across the Northern end of town. My neighborhood was built on an orchard.  Every Autumn, leaves fell with apples and the whole place smelled like cider. We skated on the pond and played baseball in Parkas.

Kids in our neighborhood organized Oakvale's baseball and football teams.  We played baseball without umpires and tackle football without pads in what we called the Parks League, an intensely competitive neighborhood versus neighborhood saga.  We played fiercely without any adult involvement, rarely knew the exact score at the end of each contest yet knew which team won.  The sun was the clock, many games ran from midday until dark allowing baseball games running into twenty innings and football games to five or six straight hours.  We were skilled passionate athletes long before we hit Little League and Pop Warner.

Organized athletic programs had to accommodate the enormity of our town.  Little League baseball cut and sifted thousands of kids into leagues and teams of ability and age.  For each age group there was an elite 'A' league and participants eagerly tried-out hoping to be selected to a top team. Rostered  'A' league ballplayers were celebrities in their neighborhoods and schools.  Except for All-Stars, baseball players represented a team in town, but Pop Warner football players were different.  Pop Warner had open try-outs.  There were only 3 teams of 50 players each in each of 3 age groups; half of the kids who tried-out were cut.  There was no room for them on the roster.  Tough for them but wonderful for us.  The lowest 'C' team rostered 50 superior athletes.  The 3 Framingham 'A's, one in each age group won all 3 state titles in 1969.  I played on the Hawks.  We were unbeaten and unscored upon.  We weren't just a team in town, we were the town. Framingham as in Framingham wins state championship.  Framingham to face Massapequa, NY for right to play in New Orleans (we lost, 7-6 in an extraordinarily hard fought game) .  All this at ten years old.

We grew-up as we played.  I learned that superior effort was laudable, unlike today when all effort is praised.  Back then the distinction between failure and success was clearly and loudly maintained.  If I failed, screwed-up, dogged it the critique was bellowed in my ear-hole.  And it was okay, there was always the next play.  The litmus test for hard-nosed play was simple, if I had a headache the morning after a practice or a game then I had played.  So I hit so hard that my helmet rang.  We all did.

I tried very hard to be my father.  I was a kid and my impression of him was a heroic figure, powerful and supremely confident, limited only by his own desires.  In turn I was powerful among boys, optimistic in the small paradigm of Little League and Pop Warner Football.  I was drilled to achieve in the school of competition.  Play was a code-word for compete; every at-bat on the diamond and every down on the football field was an opportunity to be better than the next kid.  It was possible through hard work and focused attention to come out ahead.  I think my dad always wanted me to do more than he had.  I had no thoughts of that then, I only wanted to be him. 

Becoming Dad was a constant state of failing to attain an impossible end.  Regardless of my achievements I was always disappointed and it pissed me off. I wasn't alone, this was the sixties, the decade of disappointment.  Men walked on the Moon and half a million people tripped out in the mud at Yazgur's Farm.  Soon the Beatles would split-up and the Ohio National Guard would open fire on students at Kent State.  Anti-war protests became violent and the SDS at Columbia seized buildings and shot the dean. There wasn't enough love to sooth the wounds of the war in Vietnam, racial inequality, virulent poverty and social injustice.  The country was pissed and so were the kids; as the discontents took their grievances to the streets of Washington and Newark, we took ours to the playgrounds.

The energy required to fix the world so drained parents that a ten year old was often left alone to solve his own problems.  The peace and love generation got angry and came out slugging while the Black Panthers sniped at cops.  Everyone was in for a fight and if no adversary was available a riot would do. I was angry too, but I didn't know why. And like everybody else I fought back, not against my parents but against other kids.  I found a an outlet in sports and an unanticipated solution.  Play, hard play, turned struggle into victory.  Anger, rage then fury was loosed one beautiful Autumn in 1969 when my Pop Warner Football team, the Hawks of Framingham, thrashed the entire state of Massachusetts.  We beat them all and not one point was scored against us.  We were harder and tougher than anyone else and over that one perfect season we showed our fathers that we had become them.

Peace On Earth, Goodwill to All

We wish everyone a joyous holiday. May the Spirit of Christmas come upon you all the days of the new year.

This beautiful tree is courtesy of Dorothy Gantenbein, www.dorothyphoto,com.  Dorothy is a true friend whose wonderful art decorates this humble page. Please follow this link to Dorothy's site and see the world through her discriminating eye.

Please enjoy this festive musical devotion courtesy of fellow blogger, El Gigante Verdoso, Trans-Siberian Orchestra - Christmas Canon Rock

Pain and Depression

   I've just returned home after more than two months at The Comprehensive Pain Program at Johns Hopkins Hospital The program is a holistic cutting-edge pain management program that centers around a simple idea: chronic pain is exacerbated by clinical depression.  The idea seems obvious.  Who wouldn't be depressed knowing that every moment to come would be tainted by pain, every one of them?  So it follows that alleviating this automatic depressing thought in patients will also mitigate that patient's pain. 

I was diagnosed with arachnoiditis three years ago and was told that the nerves in my spine from L-4 to S-1 were damaged beyond repair.  My pain was so high that I couldn't function.  I had struggled through a year of sharply decreasing hours at work finally admitting to my self and my partners that I had to go out on short-term disability.  I found myself suddenly at home with entire days of painful free time and nothing to do.  As the pain in my back and legs progressed, short-term disability became long-term disability and I was powerless to do anything about it.  I wore terminal victim-hood as a badge  I was forty-seven years old and began receiving Social Security benefits.  My kids get checks too.  I was no longer a provider.

I had loved work.  I had fallen into my career by chance, hired as a stockbroker in the first year of the stampeding bull market that stuffed more money into my pockets than I had ever dreamed possible.  By the Crash of '87 I had over 100 million dollars of client assets under my management.  Amazing good fortune drove my career and by the new Millennium I was an executive leading the effort of however many financial advisers I chose to hire. 

In that same stretch of time, I herniated a disk.  This was a disaster.  Most stockbrokers work very long hours in a highly competitive work environment and I feared that even a single sick day would have had disastrous financial consequences for my family. I fought through intense semi-annual bouts of back pain and sciatica, suffering at my desk.  I placed crazy demands on myself.  My expectations were wildly unrealistic; no matter how much money I made or what I'd achieved it wasn't good enough.  I saw myself as a high net worth failure with a bad back.  I was a panic stricken jerk all the way to the bank and my back hurt all of the time. 

Thus the seeds of depression were sown. In the year 2005, the year I was diagnosed with arachnoiditis from L4,5 to S1, an insidious irreversible spinal condition.  I was weakened by this diagnose of ruined nerves in my spine. I saw my life not as one of achievement through adversity, but as one of colossal failure. I had failed to recover from two spinal operations.  I had failed to perform up to my expectations both at work and at home.  I had failed to master pain.  I saw my future as a lifetime of struggle to mitigate minute over minute spikes of nauseating, excruciating neuropathic pain. I was depressed by the thought of no relief, not a day, an hour even a minute from driving pain.  Pain eclipsed everything as the quality of my life diminished.  My family was held hostage by my inability to cope with chronic pain. 

I now understand this digression in my mental state, but understanding and accepting are two very different things.  Cognition doesn't necessitate acceptance.  For example I may know that the onset of severe chronic pain causes depression in people, but can I deny that I am one of those people.  So the trifecta of pain, physical dissipation and denial hit hard and was manifest in me as rage and hurt.  These states were exacerbated by the anxiety  of projecting that each new day would be worse than the previous ones.  This is an obvious fallacy, the past dose not predict the future.

The answer to this cycle of morbid complexity is simple and it begins by accepting simple facts.  I feel pain today.  A shower feels good.  My mind is clear and I'm writing.  It was very cold and windy when I woke-up at six AM.  Now it is warmer and less windy.  All of life, even the most complex scenarios, can be rendered into simple statements of what is true. It is true that it is cold outside. It is true that my feet hurt when I walk this morning.  It is the case that I can walk.  And on and on.  I had concluded that this conception of true statements required specific future responsibilities. 

But It is not imperative from any set of simple truths that a particular action ought to be done.  I knew that an 'ought' doesn't follow from an 'is'.  However, at that time, I was unable to conceive through the fog of pain that this fallacious belief was destroying my life.  I saw my life as a succession of failing to meet obligations.  The horrible lesson I had learned, pain destroys happiness, caused me to remove myself from all joyous events.  I had to.  I'd have destroyed them.  This darkly prophetic view was self-fulfilling.  If I am the agent of destruction of happiness, then I must subtract myself from all of the good things in my life.  What is false, became true, real through my refusal to be in all familial and social occurrences.  A horrid self-loathing took hold.  I was depressed but wouldn't admit it.  This sharply increased the physical pain that was my constant companion.

Strange ly, I knew all of this before I was a patient at Johns Hopkins but I didn't accept that this was true in my life.  My cognition of a problem is not the same as my accepting that a problem is mine.  If I want to alleviate the pain of my ruined nerves, I have to accept my condition every day without wallowing in self-pity.  I no longer have to endure the pain of disassociation from my physical state. 

There is no trophy for me if I endure hellish pain for the sake of running errands.  Today I look at the facts, a winter storm is pounding NY, ice is thick on the ground, driving is treacherous and lunatics are speeding around town in happy idiocy.  They may discover that four wheel drive is no help when trying to stop on ice.  Today they'll find-out without me because I've decided to stay home. I'll give myself a break, and that's okay.  Life as I know it will not cease if wait a day and go to Department of Motor Vehicles.  My pain is bad today, I won't make it worse.

I haven't subtracted myself from the push and pull of life. I cope with the daily pull to do more by just saying no. But it's not enough for me to simply examine and understand what is and isn't important.  I decide what to do.  I set small attainable goals for myself, lots of them.  In the process of meeting my goals I experience the fullness of my life, both pain and pleasure.  In the past few years I hadn't even noticed that I'd lost the ability to feel pleasure. I felt only pain.  This very day is a joy. I still have pain, but I'm living my life away from daily narcotic induced catatonia. The kids will be home soon and I can't wait.  I used to be in bed when they came home from school.

Debilitating illness comes from a sense that everything in my life is tainted by neuropathy.  I cannot afford that sense if I want to experience the fullness of life again.  I've also learned that the usual pharmacological tools to remove pain also remove pleasure.

So I'm home from the hospital and I feel much better.  I'm no longer a catastrophe looking for victims.  It was an excruciatingly painful program.  There were many days that I thought I would drop unmoving onto the floor.  Many fellow patients, some of whom waited over a year before they were admitted, simply quit.  I feel badly for them.  They quit before the miracle.  By the Grace of God, I made it.  And I feel much better.   

No Good Meds II

I'm home after a two and a half month sentence at the Comprehensive Pain Program at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore MD.  I call my visit to Hopkins a sentence because my pain (sounds like my soul?) so completely racked the body that the mind became unbalanced and I had no choice but to surrender myself for interment to save my family from the demon of me.  Souls and demons?  You betcha and an Irish Catholic priest patiently wait to hear ardent confessions of sin.  And God is good, I completed that hellish program, was released, and after hair-raising dash for a train arrived home to cheering.

The great minds at Hopkins hold an idea that traditional pain med's fail to adequately relieve pain over time.They say that opiods, the class of pharmaceuticals commonly refereed to as narcotics, are ineffective because these drugs are rapidly assimilated in humans; bodies become tolerant to their affect.  And while they continue to erase brain cells, these drugs become antagonistic to neuropathy. They become agents of pain after their effectiveness is done, so sufferers of chronic nerve pain experience a daily "withdrawal" from narcotics.  So we demand ever increasing doses.  The stigmatization of chronic pain patients is complete.  We are all hopeless drug fiends insisting to our doctors that we need more relief.  Doctors become afraid to prescribe doses that would kill an elephant.  So the pain sufferer is in a horrible predicament:  if I'm tolerant to high doses of narcotics and my current high dose causes incrementally higher pain I must ultimately be dosed to death.  A scorpion in the shoe. What a life.

What to do?  Am I condemned to a life of unrelenting nerve splitting pain?  My brain hurts.

Well, at Hopkins I was admitted to a hospital bed for three weeks.  On admittance my daily dose was 60 mg. of methadone, up to 1600 mcg. of Fentanyl and a boatload of Kepra.  With all this, I still felt debilitating pain.  I was primed for change by the disastrous catalyst of my home life; I was a somnolent wrecking ball, a catastrophe seeking victims.  And I found them in my family.  My wife and children were engulfed in my constant stuporous pain spikes.  Something had to be done, and pronto.

So there I was...(?).  More follows!!!!

My spleen is vented for now. I'll continue my saga in the next few days.  At this pace, I won't finish in a month.

Next:  The medieval adjust of med's, No Good Meds III.

 

A Winter Holiday

A couple of years ago I was digging around in our storage and came upon my Gramma Al’s fur coat.  As I looked at the coat, I saw a piece of kleenex, tucked into the cuff on the left arm. 

I unfolded the tissue and saw my Gramma’s lipstick print, just as she had put it there some thirty or so years ago.  And then I held the tissue to my face and breathed in deeply, and I was reminded of her perfume.  In an instant all the sights and sounds of holidays past, came rushing in.

It was a few days before Christmas break in 1968.  I was 8 years old and Clare was 6.  The snow was piling up outside, like good intentions on the first day of school.  The sidewalks were shoveled into trenches to walk in on our way to school.

Clare and I were in boots, snow pants and coats and mittens and hats and scarves.  We were wearing a lot of clothes to walk the six blocks between our house and Beaser Elementary School. 

We dragged our school bags through the snow.  Bags which were full of homework , tablets, pencils, crayons and library books and school shoes.  When we finally arrived at the school, we began to peel off the layers of clothes and deal with the inevitable hat hair.  We both had long hair and we were either battling hat hair or snarls.

It was the last day of school before the Christmas break was met with the same level of anticipation as the last day of school.  No teacher was fool enough to try and teach us anything, so we spent the day singing Christmas carols, and putting on the school program and finishing up our cards and homemade presents for our parents.

As the day progressed the anxious little children became squirmy little wide-eyed children who jumped around like we had ants in our pants.  It was so hard to be quiet and behave when there was a tree at home with presents underneath it and your name on some of the tags.  Who knows what kind of treasures were in those boxes?  No matter what it was, we wanted and loved it and treasured it.  I have a doll I got one year that was so pretty, I never really played with her.  She’s still with me and she still has a tube of toothpaste that came with her.  And I still have her shoes.  I’m a saver, I like to keep everything.  Just ask my husband.

As the day finally drew to a close, we carefully folded the paper chains made by our little hands with loads of paste and construction paper and put them in our school bags for the trip home.  We also tucked in the homemade cards and presents which we made in art classes the week before. 

Clare and I hurried home as fast as we could.  There were only a few stops along the way to climb snow banks and make angels in the snow.  As soon as we got home we unfolded our paper chains and put them on the tree.  Then we turned over our homemade gifts and cards to our parents who were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and trying to relax in the chaos of the holidays.

Clare and I dove under the dining room table to lay on our stomachs and look at the tree.  It kind of freaked us out sometimes when the tree was looking back!  Our cat climbed up the middle of the tree and sat there.  When you walked by, her big yellow eyes would follow you.

If you didn’t know we had a cat it was a little freaky.

By the time Christmas Eve finally arrived we had worked ourselves into the kind of frenzy that can only now be achieved by downing 4 double shot espressos and topping them off with a half dozen red bulls.

We were like live wires, the excitement was palpable.  No amount of coaxing could get us to settle down.

My Mom always let us open one present on Christmas Eve.  I think she had to let us.  We were so excited, we were probably driving her crazy with our begging.  I think this is the only time begging worked out for us.  We must have worn her down.  But I still do that tradition here, I think it’s kind of fun.  But then there was another problem, which one of the mystery boxes would we open?????

Normally we would open our presents from Aunt Marilyn and Uncle Glen.  They lived in New Mexico with their 3 kids, my cousins Nancy, Erica and Peter.  They all looked like they walked straight off a sixties sitcom and I mean that in a good way.  All three kids had blonde hair and beautiful big bright white smiles.  I remember one year we got matching green plaid dresses.  Our cousins Nancy and Erica also got them.  Nancy wore her dress for her school pictures.  I always felt special in that dress, like some of the magic of their technicolor life rubbed off on me.  I felt very pretty in that dress.

So here it was, everything was done, the only thing left was to go to bed.
Christmas Eve is by far the most difficult night of all.  Sleep is the last thing you want to do.  Between our excited giggles we would look out the window and watch the snow fall and wonder aloud about which things were in which boxes.  We also used this time to sing at the top of our lungs.  We did this every night, not just during Christmas.  We mostly sang Beatles songs and Three Dog Night.  My poor parents.  Every time they told us to be quiet, we acted like we didn’t know what they were talking about.

When sleep finally came we slept very hard.  After the past few days of anticipation, our exhausted little minds were filled with dreams of dolls, bikes and teddy bears.

When morning finally arrived, it took us about 1 1/2 seconds to figure out which day it was.  Clare and I would run to the top of the stairs, link our arms and run down the stairs as fast as we possibly could.  We continued this tradition every year well into our twenties.  We would probably still do it but I live in a ranch house.

As we rounded the corner, we peeked into the dining room and there it was.  A bounty of presents appeared overnight!!  Santa had come and left more presents and mixed up our carefully arranged stacks.  What did these boxes hold!!!

It was so exciting, so many things under the tree.  It was almost too much to bear.  And then.....we waited.  Although we were never told to wait, we always waited to open our gifts until after Mom & Dad came down.

Sometimes we would run back upstairs to hurry them along.  Mostly we would just sit and wait.  A few times we made coffee, thinking the aroma would surely make them hurry up.  I was right, it did.  Probably because we didn’t know how to make coffee and it was boiling up and all over the stove.  But they never complained.  Mom and Dad sat with their mugs of really strong coffee and very tired smiles.  Very tired from staying up late to assemble whatever needed it and to move the presents from where they were hidden.

If you happen to be a little kid, you should know that Santa left the presents for us earlier in the night, so our Mom and Dad had to hide them until we went to bed.  Then Mom and Dad  put them under the tree.  You see Santa has a long way to go on Christmas Eve, so sometimes he stops up north in Wisconsin first.  Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Soon we were up to our chins in flying paper and bows.  The chaos inside almost matched the snow blizzard going on outside.  We tore open the packages like they were on fire.  And what presents we got!!  There were the dolls, doll clothes and games.  There were clothes and mittens and books. One year we got bikes from Gramma Al and Grampa Jack.  I would give my right arm to have it back.  Mine was a 3-speed Schwinn, purple metal flake, banana seat and wheelie bar in back.  I loved it.  Clare’s bike was a single speed, marine blue Schwinn also with a banana seat and wheelie bar.  I think she also had a basket and bell.  I’m not sure, but I think she did.  If I wasn’t so lazy I would go and pull out the photo album and look, but it’s Sunday and I’m here alone with Dino.  I’m not getting up for anything except maybe the Milky Way Bar that’s waiting for me in the refrigerator.

Every year we got so much stuff.  One year we got a science project kit that had chemicals and a microscope.  Clare would play with that stuff forever.  She would take it into a closet and sit there by herself mixing stuff up.  She’s a pharmacist now, this was probably good training.

After we played with our new toys, Mom had to practically threaten us to go back upstairs and get dressed.  Christmas dinner would be served soon and our grandparents and Aunt Susie and Uncle Mac would be arriving soon.  We had to put on nice dresses and tights.

And in they came with a rush of cold air and warm hugs.  Gramma Al and Grampa Jack, Aunt Susie and Uncle Mac.  All of them happy to be in from the cold and ready to hug and kiss all four kids.  Mary the oldest, Mike the only boy and the one with the biggest blue eyes, me and Clare the only blonde.  As we greeted each of them, we all got marked by Gramma’s lipstick and surrounded by her loving mink covered arms.

And just like that, my memory is over and I’m standing here in my house in Harmony Grove, looking at my Gramma’s coat and inhaling her perfume as deeply as I could.  I’m not 8 years old anymore and my Gramma, Grampa, Uncle Mac and Dad are gone.  But in my memories, they are right here.

If I shut my eyes, I can almost see Dad mashing the potatoes and Mom putting her homemade rolls on the table, Grampa Jack slicing the roast and Gramma stirring the gravy.  It’s a nice memory and it makes me feel like I’m at home.  After all, they’re not really gone, my family is right here whenever I need them.  I can feel it.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

Thanks for listening,

Anne

I'm Up Again

Hi Friends,

It's been a long time since I've been able to sit at the computer or any place except in  my bed. In fact I still have to sit or lay in the above mentioned and it seems it might be a permanent condition. Since June 6, 2006 and this  past Monday I've had three surgeries on my back due to the pain pump I originally had implanted in 1989. I won't go into all the details now but I do want to let you know I am finally doing some better. The new pump had to be moved to a new site due to infection.  Pumps can cause serious problems as I've learned at a heavy cost.

But don't give up hope, yet. For further information on this subject look under the  "Pain Pumps & Me" articles I''ve posted previously.

Right now my goal is to get out of bed by myself and into my powerchair for an hour or so.

Love to all,

Wanda

No Surfing For Jimmy

Every November, the weather in Wisconsin reminds me of a day in 1975, that is memorialized in a song by Gordon Lightfoot forever.  Cold gray skies and freezing rain bring back that day like a shoe-full of sand reminds me of a sunny day