Chronic Pain Lifestyle

Science and Research Pages Site Chronic Pain Lifestyle

      Within the past several months, Chronic Pain Lifestyle has been cited by two important scientific web pages:

     Genetics and Health, in an article describing the"GCH-1" gene that appears in an enzyme for human pain, described in an article in Scientific American, ( http://www.sciam.com/article.cfm?chanID=sa003&articleID=0006C34A-11EF-153D-91EF83414B7F0000 ), that linking the GCH-1 to pain is "... unprecedented and represents a marked shift in our understanding," according to pain researcher Dr. Mark Salter, at the University of Toronto.    

     The scientific and medical communities are directed to Chronic Pain Lifestyle "...For a personal perspective on chronic pain" by Hsien-Hsein Lei, PhD.  http://www.geneticsandhealth.com/2006/10/25/gch1-gene-for-pain/#more-1183 , This prominent site sports a Technorati rank 8100.

     Also, Disability Studies, Temple U. has referenced Chronic Pain Lifestyle twice in the last four months, http://disstud.blogspot.com/ .  Site publisher, Michael Dorn, PhD. has indicated on Technorati the we are among his favorite sites.

     Temple U. is a must stop site for everyone.  While it's nice to be mentioned by the "heavy" science guys, many of those sites are best suited to readers who have a particular knowledge or expertise in those disciplines. Colin

Do You Have a Right to Recovery?

       Do you believe that Americans have a "Right to Recovery"?

     I believe that that no one speaks for the rights of Americans who are disabled, and trapped in a life of meaningless, empty disability. 

     I believe that many "disabled" Americans truly want to work, yet feel trapped by a maze of legalistic, contract driven policies that preclude their even attempting to re-enter the workforce.

     I believe that the language of corporate benefits, while well intended, rule-driven disability contracts, and a desperate need to provide a measure of financial stability for our families are a "legion of doom" for the truly disabled who want to work.

     I believe that fear of penury, an unintended consequence of the hidebound disability carriers in their war against fakers, has created a class of dependent Americans.

    The hobgoblins of recovery are:

• byzantine, myriad insurance contracts;
• a complete and total inability of these same carriers to explain these contracts to the beneficiaries thereof;
• a total failure of Human Resource departments to perform the function of representing the interests of itself as a corporation to the carriers it hires;
• the inability and unwillingness of human resources departments of said corporations to represent the interests of its employees who want to work, to the insurance carriers with whom it has entered into a contractual relationship.

     I have asked my own company to explain my benefits, through HR, to me.  They, after more than a year's effort,  still cannot do this without involving the insurance carriers on conference calls with me.  These insurance representatives simply read the language of the policy to me over the phone.  In answer to the question, am I allowed to try to earn money under conditions that I can medically tolerate,I am often answered, "that is a case by case scenario."  Or, "you may risk your benefits in part or in whole if you become gainfully employable".

     To the question, "In my case, what would make me "gainfully" employable?"",  the answer is, "It depends on the circumstances."  The circumstances are also "case by case".

     A Gordian knot, an insoluble paradox makes up disability benefits.  The easiest answer is don't rock the boat, or simply, stay disabled.  This leaves me unhappy, costs the insurance company money, unless it can figure a way to eliminate me from the roll of the disabled, and deprives my firm of whatever work product I might be able to do in a 2-3 hour workday.

     If I could work on a pay for project basis, without risking the financial benefit my family needs, with protection of my original benefit if I physically couldn't do this work, I'd try it in a flash.

     Instead, the maze that is the pathway between basic questions and basic answers, the benefit itself, which I paid for, is a disincentive to attempting to become productive.

     Every disabled American with whom I've spoken, wants to be productive.  Few will ever take that chance and do you blame them?

     Disability contracts don't seem to allow for the possibility that a disabled person, who can't walk or sit without excruciating pain, still has a brain that works.

     We have no advocate.  So our experience and intelligence languishes in dormancy.

     It's not right.  Give us a fair shot.  A plan that allowed the insurance company to recapture "disabled earnings" on an after-tax basis, and protected the disability award (less earnings), a frozen benefit, indexed to the CPI, allows everyone to benefit.

     Many private policies provide for this already.  Most corporate plans don't.  Law should protect all.

Right the Injustice, Protect the Innocent

   I urge that you stop what you're doing and follow this URL, http://savecharlotte.com/ .  This site is censored in Great Britain.  Rarely are we charged with acing on so blatant a moral imperative such as this.

   I quote Lord Matt, "

Readme file for Protect the innocent :: Charlotte Wyatt

For reasons I don't even care about anymore the UK courts forced Google to remove the blog from the blogger servers.

Was it the embarrassment they hated or the faith and hope the parent have shown dispute the way it has slowly broken their lives to do so?

What ever the answer the fact remains there is no good reason to censer this blog.

This is a copy of googles cache of the site. Saving the cache seems to have had the added bonus of restoring most of the images.

I am asking ALL who care about blogger freedom to download and mirror the zip file of the blog and to publish the contents on other servers the world over. Let's do this as fast as possible to stop the courts forcing me at gun point to take it back down again.

I have done nothing to stop you navigating the file system so please honour this and do not hot link the images found here.

Click here to navigate the directory.

-Matt

    Bloggers, we have a responsibility to act.  For thoughtful coverage of this outrageous behavior, please read:  http://lordmatt.co.uk/  or http://lordmatt.co.uk/lordmatt/

     This is one of those terrible stories.  Doctors, no doubt cost-bound, it seems were able to convince a judge that Charlotte, would not live, and the judge soon after her birth upheld the hospital's contention that Charlotte should not be resuscitated, DNR.  The details of the story are horrifying; Google in it's wisdom removed all references in the blogsphere, shutting a site on Blogger that Lord Matt has provided a back door link to.

     Act according to your conscience, but act. God bless. Colin

Pain Pumps and Me Part3

  I left off at about two weeks post op with my new Medtronic programmable pain pump. Things seemed to be going along just fine or as expected with surgery of any type.

There is a big however here. I began having minor but strange symtoms and problems that didn't seem to be connected. I had used dilaudid for over 17 years and my pain doctor thought that I needed a change. With only three narcotics being approved for use in the pump I only had one choice. I can't use morphine because it makes me itch. The only one left is fentynal AKA Duragesic Patch. I couldn't use it. I had some very strange reactions to the patch in a very low dose. I told the pain doctor when I saw him to discuss the pump surgery that I couldn't use it. He assured me that intrathecal fentynal doesn't act like the patch and no one who has had problems with the patch and then tried it in the pump had any problems with it. It's supposed to be almost 100% safe because it doesn't cause a histimine increase which causes an allergic reaction. Mine wasn't allergic. My reactions are listed under ADVERSE REACTIONS. On all subsequent visits I asked to see the doctor or to have an appointment made for another day. No such luck. In fact one day I had a refill and an appointment with him to follow but when they finished the refill, they couldn't find him. I could see where he was standing just a few feet in another hallway. I was sent home sans doctor visit.

These reactions have built up without me or my husband realizing what was happening. Since I wasn't sleepy or dizzy or anything like that with the fentynal in my new pump, we just didn't connect the dots until Tuesday October 24th. Going all the way back to July when my pain doctor ordered my refill to be half dilaudid and half fentynal without telling me, I've been sick with one thing or another but my internist couldn't find anything wrong except a sinus infection which took over two months on medicines to get rid of. So lets look at a few of these impossible symptoms that the patch can cause but intrathecal fentynal can't cause (according to the pain clinic nurses who we will get to later on). There's dry mouth which is the first thing I noticed because I already have that problem and it got much worse. Abdominal pain and distention; headache; fatigue; back pain other than the usual; fever; flu-like symptoms; nausea; constipation (mine got worse); insomnia; confusion; dizziness; anxiety; depression; abnormal coordination, thinking, gait, dreams; sinusitis; depressed respiration which can lead to death. There are more but I won't bore you. These are just the ones that have affected me. Not the death, at least now yet.

I've been telling the nurses I see at my pain clinic all about what's happening and asking to see the pain doctor. I've been assured that the doctor is well aware about my problems and has ordered increases in the fentynal every refill since surgery. This is "fine tuning", getting the correct dose of medication(s) and is done slowly with an increase every three to four weeks. I myself have asked for two increases thinking that my pains are coming from my worsening adhesive arachnoiditis. Now today, October 26th I am in pain from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. Every joint hurts. I have severe muscle cramps. This is the worse all-over pain I've ever had to deal with since my lupus was diagnosed. I'm now in remission, praise God! I told the pump nurse this and she said that sometimes happens with fentynal and turning the pump flow rate down takes care of it. Do you read the discrepency here? I heard it loud and clear.

I was told to come in today, the 26th, and I went to the clinic thinking I would be seeing the doctor since this has turned into an emergency situation. Not so. I saw a new RN who has only worked in ICU or critical care and knows zilch about pain management but wants to learn. That's what she told me and she is nice but this isn't her fault. It's not the new pump nurse's fault either. Both talked to the doctor and he refused to see me.

Why do I consider this an emergency? For one thing I have Clonidine in my pump. It is a blood pressure medication but in pumps it's also a pain reliever. Mine was put in my pump in 1996 for both reasons and I was warned by the original neurosurgeon who added it in that if I had any problems with the pump to go to ER immediately because my blood pressure could shoot up high enough to cause a stroke or heart attack. (My subsequent pain clinic doctors have confirmed what she said including this one.) On top of that I have an AVM (arteriovenous malformation with aneurysms) in my spinal cord in the thoracic region which also is involved with adhesive arachnoiditis. My normally low blood pressure is now 150/83. By decreasing the flow rate he has also cut the Clonidine which is now barely keep the old BP in check. But he is too busy doing "procedures" to see me. He sent me a verbal message via the nurses that I should see my internist about my BP. The internist says I should see the pain doctor about all this new pain I'm having since the surgery. Where do I go? What do I do?

There is not another pain clinic around here that will take me as a patient because of all my health issues not related to pumps. He's it and he knows it. He now controls me. I knew when I got a pump in 1989 that I would have to go every six weeks for a refill and that has controlled my flexability in lifestyle. I've always been able to work around it. I've never had another pain doctor refuse to see me when I asked even if it was just at the refill that I asked to see him/her. So now I've learned another valuable lesson, not for me because it's too late for me to turn back, but for anyone else considering a pain pump. Know your doctor very well and make sure you don't get caught up like I am now.

I never knew that having a pain pump could turn against me in this way. It isn't the pump or how it works that's at issue here. It is one pain management doctor.

The thing that hurts me most about all of this is that this man has a medical magazine article that was written about his clinic in March 2005 hanging in his waiting room. Why does that hurt me? In it he explains how God has lead him into this work and how God has blessed him and that his psychologist is also a minister in a local church. His approach is Biblical according to him and entails all aspects of life. There is a Bible on the table under the picture frame that holds that article. He has a chapel in the building. Yet, he couldn't step across the hallway to help me, the woman whose hand he held before surgery and prayed for, when I am in so much pain and distress. How do I even know if he understands my problem since he won't talk to me or my husband?

If my "gasket" doesn't blow before I am supposed to see him (if he doesn't duck out on me like he did before) maybe I'll get some answers to my questions.

Wanda who lives where fall has finally begun.

It's Only Pain, Rule #18

     I forget what number I'm up to on this list, so rather than do the work, I'll arbitrarily assign a number.  Rule # 18, "STOP THE MADNESS".  If it were so easy to just stop doing harmful things to ourselves then we'd do it.  The problem is that many of these things were taught to us in childhood, and became "habits".  ( I'm ill from quoting that harpy that used to be on TV).

     The nutty lesson that I learned as a child was to face unpleasantness, including fear and pain, head-on.  To quit in fear of some outcome or because some part of my body was in pain was unthinkable and the only way to overcome these things was total denial of their existance.

     I hate to digress but I'm teaching the same lesson to my kids, much to my wife's displeasure.  For example, last Saturday my son was injured in a football game, hauled-off the field, then checked by the team doc who pronounced him fit to play after taking a breather and running in place to loosen his injured ankle.  Deaf to his complaints that his ankle really hurt, I told him the doc said he was okay, and to tell his coach he could still play.  He went back in.

     Later that day, his ankle diagnosed as broken was put in a cast.  His coaches were astonished that he played the second half of a football game with a broken leg.  I wasn't. I was proud and why not?  Hadn't I wrestled an entire season, placing in the states with 4 broken ribs.  I can't count the number of concussions, broken fingers and dislocations I'd played with.  Why?  My dad told me to.

     Pain in my family was just another thing to be endured as life marched on.  Our mantra was, "Suffer in Silence."  As a kid, an almost unforgivable sin in my house was to insist on a trip to the emergency room at the hospital because God alone could help you if there wasn't anything wrong except a sprain.

     Sure, we had our share of broken things that couldn't be ignored.  From my experience an arm wasn't one of them.  We weren't much different in this respect than our friends.  Just about everyone would rather have and live with small broken bones, like fingers, than a hopped-up Irish dad whose son was such a pussy that he had to go to the hospital for a broken nose!  That could be fixed at home...and was.

     So I have a tough time now admitting to any pain, which makes me a difficult patient.  In our house a bridge was built that spanned childhood and adulthood.  The toll to get across the bridge was how much one could endure and continue on.

     My recovery might move along much easier, maybe quicker, too if I could just tell my doc in answer to the question, "So, how are you doing?" with something other than, "Okay."

      In a way, I'm kind of like a busted switch, off and off.  I don't have a pain scale.  Is a ten the time I was punished for having 18 cavities by having them filled with no Novocaine?  I remember that hurt like a mother, but I can't remember what it felt like.  Does that make it a one.

      Most of the broken bones I endured probably hurt a lot, but like my cavities, I can't remember them, except that I was proud of my toughness.  Is that a one or a ten?

     Do my feet burn right now? Yup!

     Can I urinate? Nope!

     Will I admit it?  I won't even remember it tomorrow.

     I promised that I'd never teach my kids to suffer.  I struggle every day not to break that promise.  I'd said that my behavior caused my wife displeasure. 

     It's one of the sins that could send me to hell.  God bless, Colin

Your Health and Your Vote

Hi,

The site below was in Sunday's paper. Just FYI,

Thanks to Wanda

YOUR HEALTH & YOUR VOTE

Health care is a priority for many Americans, but most don't know where their Congressional candidates stand on issues such as stem-cell research. Research!America, a nonpartisan organization dedicated to health education, can help. Its new free voters' guide shows how candidates answered basic questions about health and medical research. Visit: www.yourcandidatesyourhealth.org  to learn more.

Colin

The Road to Stowe, Vermont

    I live about 300 miles South of Stowe, Vermont.  My wife and I were long overdue for a private, no kids or couples vacation.  If you're married and one of you has arachnoiditis, it's hard to adjust to the ebb and flow of the magnitude of the afflicted partner's pain.  So why subject myself to a six hour drive?

     We'd found that just talking was becoming more and more difficult to do.   And we've got a good marriage.  Speaking for myself, this unexpected circumstance became nearly as devastating as the daily pain I feel.  There isn't another person on the Earth with whom I'd rather spend time with than my wife, but I found myself isolating, too often embarrassed to talk about me, us, and our life together.  Private time was just what we needed.

     We were going to fly, but at the last minute I changed my mind and I decided to chance the 6 hour drive.  Time together in the car, a seat that reclines, the foliage, the discomfort of airports made up our minds that flying, which takes about as long as the drive, was a bad idea. 

     We'd taken many long drives together and I've always enjoyed the intimacy of a car ride; we don't listen to the radio, instead we talk.  A long chat while enjoying the scenery through the mountains sounded like a good idea.  It was.

     We stopped about every hour so I could walk around loosening my back.  Nonetheless, it was a tough but enjoyable ride.  It took me 2 solid days to recover from the drive North; lots of naps and short day-trips into the cutsie shops in town.  A quick drive through Smuggler's Notch before Winter conditions closed it down, and antique shops filled our time during the day.  Nice quiet dinners casually eaten in small cozy restaurants before bed, interrupted by slow walks under a magnificent star-filled sky...the air smelled of snow.  This is my favorite time of year, spent with the woman I love.

     Unfortunately, just as I was feeling a bit better, we had to drive home.  I'm just, a week later bouncing back from the drive South.

     So, I learned a few things:

• Those things that are meant to be, like loving my wife, don't really change.  I still love her as much as I always did. 
• The gifts that God gives, like my wife loving me, will only change if I refuse to accept them.
• The truly valuable things in my life aren't always free.  So, when when gifts are bestowed without cost, be really grateful.
• When it hurts, I appreciate His gifts even more.

     I waited 20 years for a quilt, and when I found the quilt I wanted, I knew it was the one I'd been waiting for.  A silly thing, a quilt and there it was on the weekend when my wife and I drove 6 hours looking for the marriage which had never even been taken away.

     I don't believe God gives us "stuff".  It's funny though, when we do right things, and in doing those things we serve one another little good things sometimes happen.  I love that quilt, but I didn't endure a 6 hour drive to buy a quilt; my wife doesn't like that quilt, at all, but she won't deprive me of it.  These acts of love, enduring pain and enduring "risky" swatches of cloth, are the tiny little things we can do for one another, things we have done for one another and by His grace, will continue to do for each other are gestures of love: I did it for her, she did it for me, those things when we serve one another without expectation for some pay-off, are, I think, what He means when he speaks of love.

     What a great future awaits if I can serve an interest ahead of my own.

     What would a day be like if everyone did just one thing for someone else before doing for oneself?

    

Empowered to Build a New Life

       I didn't think about disability until I was around 40 years old.  Despite participating in violent sports, and having been warned at a young age that many "old" injuries might come back to haunt me later in life, I never thought I'd be the one.  I was wrong.

     The absolute worst thing about disability is not the pain.  It's not the loss of my career, and the stress on my wife and I to adapt to my new lifestyle.  It's not even the immobility and the Grey boredom that sets in daily.  The worst thing about my disability is the loss of choices.

     I live in a world of pain, which is a constant, but becomes manageable from time to time.  I daydream about the skills I've mastered and how to deploy them in a new career.  My wife and I discover daily that hell and high water, we still love one another, and have painfully learned to ride out the bumps.  My sedentary life gives me opportunity to read more, and work on a book that I've always thought was inside of me.

     But, damn all it's hard not to feel like a victim.  When I was young, knowing the stats on disability didn't convince me that I'd ever become a "gimp" (No, that's "Gimp".  Say it with pride!).  My attitude changed at around the age of 40.  I got scared.

     Poor people are afraid they'll run out of money; rich people are afraid that they'll lose their money.  It this point in my life I was in my peak earning years, and thing were really looking-up.

     Ten or fifteen more years of hard work, with 3/4's of my workday spent building a fortress around my job so that I could safely pull down some serious wood (money), and my wife and I would be set.  The kids schools would be paid for, including graduate school, with enough left over for starter money for houses and such; my wife and I saw a straight path to luxurious retirement.  Then BAM!

     Anyone who says that money won't make you happy, has never bought a pair of shoes when suffering the blues.  Of course it makes you happy.  That's not to say you can't be happy without it, but you stuff has to wired tight.  Most of my work life was pretty miserable, and in exchange for that misery, you get money.  Today I can tell you money for misery is a bad trade.

     Things still look pretty good, but not through the rose colored glasses that were my lenses.

     I found my kids.  I am now finding what love for my wife means.  I watch "The Office", and deeply identify with the woman who works for the corporate office.  I could tell you a lot about what her days are like.

     The big choice is gone:  HOW MUCH SHOULD I PAY TO ASSURE PERMANENT WEALTH?  It's gone and I miss it. 

     But look at the new stuff I got instead.  That's a good trade.

     At least I don't look at the sanitation man anymore thinking he's really got it made.  God bless, Colin

The Great Leaf War of 1972

  My husband and I have been watching our new puppy explore our backyard. Dino runs through the yard with wild abandon and is excited about everything. He loves it when the wind blows a leaf across the yard. He stalks the leaf like a lion hunting it’s prey. Then when he thinks he has it cornered, he jumps on it and runs back to the house with his trophy leaf in his mouth. It makes us laugh, what a silly dog thinking of a leaf as a treasured bounty. But then I remembered something from my own past, I had almost forgotten, The Great Leaf War of 1972.

I was 12 years old in 1972 and in the Sixth Grade at Beaser Elementary. The fall was relatively warm for Ashland, and we were enjoying it like no other year before. You see, the teachers were on strike and there was no school. So those warm fall days normally spent in classrooms, were actually spent outdoors with our friends just like we had spent the entire summer.

My house had a lot of tall trees around it and each fall we would rake up all of the leaves and build forts in the front yard. Having a leaf fort was a priority. It made a nice break from the unrelenting wind off of Lake Superior and it was great for playing hide and seek.

We raked up the leaves and we ran and jumped in them. We wrestled each other in them and got so many knots in our long hair, we would have to spend many painful nights having our Mom’s try and untangle the mess.

Our leaf pile was something to be proud of. We could easily hide in it and it was big enough for all of our friends to run and jump in it. But then it happened.

A rival gang of kids from a few blocks over tried to tell us their leaf pile was bigger than ours and better. At first we ignored them, but before long our curiosity got the best of us and we stealthily spied on them and their leaf pile.

It was such a shock to see all of those leaves in someone else’s yard. They did have a big leaf pile and they were getting more from a neighbors yard.

Well we ran back and swung into action. We manned our wagons and picked up our rakes and got to our neighbors’ houses as fast as we could. We raked their yards, put the leaves in the wagon, sat one of the little kids(probably Timmy Fleck or his little sister) on the leaves so they wouldn’t blow out and hurried back to dump the new load of leaves on our pile.

We kept this up for a couple of hours and we amassed a great pile of leaves. Of course, this kind of pile was not anything to be left on it’s own. After all, we had procured these leaves from other houses and how did we know if someone would want to come and steal them all back? So we patrolled the front yard with our rakes walking back and forth keeping guard over what was surely the biggest leaf pile in town.

We won that war and we were so proud of our work. I don’t know why my parents didn’t scold us for hauling all of those leaves into our yard, but they didn’t. I expect they didn’t want to burst our bubble by telling us that the leaves were actually a nuisance.

I wonder if having AA will actually be something that someone would be jealous of. What if having it was actually prized? what if people wanted to have it and were upset if they didn’t? Would we see our disease any differently?

We could win the Great AA War of 2006, by valuing all of the things we can each still do because of or in spite of having AA.

How about a value on the fact that we are able to communicate via computers? How about the good friends we’ve made since we came down with AA? How about all of the soul searching we do each and everyday to talk ourselves into putting a smile on our faces when we greet our friends and family regardless of how much it hurts? All of those things are of great value and we would have none of them if it weren’t for AA.

So in a weird way, I will value AA for all that it has brought me just like Dino values that leaf . I will treasure all of the things AA has given me. New friends, a forum for my thoughts and time to reflect on just how great life can be if you take the time to look at it. All of the family and friends that I love make a huge difference to me. I know I don’t feel that great and I’m not getting any younger, but I’m happy. It doesn’t matter why, I just am and that’s the best gift of all.

Drama Queen

  I admit it, I am a drama queen. Over the past three years I’ve perfected my “It’s not that bad” act. Only my husband seems able to see beyond this performance. He tells me that he can tell how I feel by looking in my eyes. Therefore, sunglasses have become necessary sometimes.

I don’t like to act, but when you have a great family and wonderful friends, you don’t want to become a complainer. I don’t want people to expect me to be depressed and anxious. Pain is hard enough everyday, I don’t want to add to it by causing my family any pain. So I act. It’s something I’ve done since I was a little kid.

I grew up in a normal middle class family, in a little town on Lake Superior. I was the third of four children. I had an older brother Mike and an older sister Mary and my little sister Clare.

Like any other family, we spent time together at meals and in the evening before the advent of multiple TV’s, we watched TV together.

i remember my bedtime was 7:30. This proved to be a thorn in my side. I was always trying to get away with staying up late like Mike and Mary. Even though Mike was 6 years older than me and Mary was 12 years older than me. I was always trying to stay up like the big kids.

I thought if I was just quiet enough, I would get away with it. So I would sit quietly, kind of next to the couch, in the corner where it was a little dark. If I sat there, I just might get to watch the end of Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In or maybe the second half of Star Trek. Just once I wanted to know how Perry Mason ended.

It was especially difficult when Jody, our neighbor got to stay out until dark in the summer. Dark!! We were going to bed at 7:30 and Jody was out playing Tin Can Alley in the dark with her brother and friends. We could only watch from our bedroom window. Clare and I were in our pajamas and supposed to be in our bunk beds. There we were while the rest of the world was still doing stuff.

So to pass the time, Clare and I would sing. We would sing and sing and sing at the top of our lungs. Most often it was Beatles songs. At the time of course I didn’t really know that Day Tripper was about a hooker, but I knew all of the words and that is what we sang. As loud as we could.

My Mom would come up stairs all red in the face and tell us to be quiet and we would look at her with big eyes and say “What? we weren’t singing, honest:”

And then it happened, the nightly concerts were silenced when Mom separated us. I would have to go to bed in my Mom and Dad’s bed and then somehow, I woke up in my own bed the next day. It seemed my parents used the divide and conquer strategy. It worked in war so it was very effective in child rearing.

But I still wanted to be an actress. I had quite an imagination and my sister Clare and I would spend hours acting in musicals in our room. We would put a soundtrack on the record player and sing and dance like we were in a show. It was a great way to pass the long winter in Ashland. We would put on Mom’s old clothes for our costumes or tie an apron to our heads. We had a wonderful time.

One evening when we were all sitting around watching a scary movie, my parents noticed that I was still up and Clare was in bed. It was after 7:30 and I knew I had to go to bed. A feeling came over me that I had to do something to distract them so I wouldn’t miss the end of the movie again.

I never got to see the end of anything and I was desperate. The movie we were watching was called “Frenzy” and now that I’m an adult, I don’t know why I wanted to see it. It’s about a serial killer and it was really scary. But there it was, another movie and I wouldn’t see the end. I wouldn’t know if the bad guy got caught, I wouldn’t be able to see the policeman arrest this guy, I was not happy.

So, what could I do? As I stood up, I decided it was time to pull one of the most infamous stunts I ever pulled, it was time to pull out the one thing I hadn’t shown anyone, I fainted. I had seen actresses do it all the time in movies, I knew it couldn’t be that hard, or they wouldn’t do it so often. And whenever anyone fainted, they generally got a lot of attention and got put to rest on the nearest piece of furniture. So I thought, if I faint, they’ll bundle me up on the couch, probably get me something to drink, maybe even ice cream and I would finally see the end of a movie.

So I did it. Dead to the world, I fell over like a ton of bricks. My Mom screamed, my disabled Dad jumped up and they were all hollering and then Dad reached down to feel my pulse and I laughed. I wasn’t counting on that. I’m very ticklish, and I laughed.

My dreams of watching the end of that movie were over in the blink of an eye. These people were not happy with me.

Boy did I get in trouble. I heard a lot of “How could you? and Why did you? and Do you know how scared we were?” It didn’t work, I still had to go to bed and I got yelled at too.

I knew that I shouldn’t have scared my parents that way, but it was kind of cool the way I just dropped to the floor. I didn’t get hurt either. I was proud of myself. I was never able to convince my Mom or Dad that it was really cool the way I just dropped to the floor. I was just another misunderstood actress who suffered for her art.

Today things are much different. There are no fainting spells and people rushing to my aid. But somewhere, deep inside, that little actress is there just waiting for her big break. will it be stage or screen? or will it be the living room? I’m not sure, but one of these days, I will bring out my old act and drop like a ton of bricks.

AA robbed me of a lot of things. I can’t perform on stage anymore because I can’t count on feeling well enough to make the rehearsals or performance schedules. I can’t even play in a community band or orchestra. I loved performing, but I simply can’t do it anymore, so my family will have to be my audience. And AA will be just like a writer’s strike in the middle of a TV show, it interrupts, but will not cancel the show altogether. I’m not ready to turn over my role to anyone else and I’ll never stop hoping that the Oscar is just around the corner.

POST SCRIPT

Now that I’m grown up and my sisters both have children, the story about my fainting act was brought up again after I taught my sister Mary’s kids Carrie and Bobby how to do it. They’re pretty good at it too. It must run in the family.