Chronic Pain Lifestyle

"I'd done it again...I woke-up. I Didn't Know Him. I Wasn't Wearing My Nightgown...

     ...He was."  A gay friend of mine told me that story years ago.  I'd have been ashamed ,too.  Not so much about the stranger or not wearing clothes, but about the going to bed wearing a nightgown.  I sleep in boxers. I guess my friend liked nightgowns.

     In the late Seventies, NYC was like the wild west.  Those were my college years and the Big Apple was my campus.  The main borough of Manhattan is what people mean when they say New York City; there are four other boroughs: Staten Island, Queens, The Bronx, and Brooklyn.  To give you a sense of the size of my campus, Manhattan itself is 24 miles long, and about 2 miles wide.  The borough of Brooklyn, if it were a stand alone city, would be the fourth largest city in the United States.

     Money could get you anything you wanted in New York, The wildest, sickest, most depraved things were available 24 hours a day, seven days a week in NYC back then.  These were the Studio 54 days, and people traveled from all over the world just to spend $50,000, which could be easily done over a weekend lapping -up the craziness that was NYC back then.

     Here are just a couple of the neighborhoods, and the esoteric fare that the insiders knew to be available.

     Chinatown:  Larger than most medium sized towns in America.  Real live opium dens, one flight up from a street the twisted and wound, touching all points of the compass, criss-crossing many of the same streets which also twisted and wound, no street wider than a side-walk. Unbelievably good, cheap food.  Drug stores that sold unprocessed drugs: tubers, roots, bark.  The only products sold were Chinese knock-offs, weapons, wild street gangs. Chinatown was like a trip to Asia.  Many smaller animals were alive in the butcher shops.  One year the Ghost Shadows, Chinatown's  most notorious street gang, randomly killed a bunch of tourists in an upscale restaurant that had refused to pay tribute to the Triads (organized crime).

     The East Village (Greenwich Village)  Punks, Punks, and wanna be punks.  Yes tattoos, but also body piercing before anyone did it.  Zippers across foreheads were a big favorite.  The local Hell's Angel's Chapter is on East 2nd street; a safe street to walk down, but don't get near the bikes.  Second hand clothes.  Roving parties that moved from closed gas stations to diners etc. a new location every night!  Lots of leather.  Punk Clubs and random brawling a big favorite.

     It was a hell of a thing.  Believe me I haven't even touched the surface.  I got to know about all of these sleazy types of places because of my job.  I drove a cab while in school from 4:00PM to 4:00AM--Lots of tourists wanted to see "Mafia Guys"  And no, Taxi in real life is not like the TV show.

     Not many crumbs left on the table.   

Pain is Miserable, So Why Isn't My Life Dismal?

     When I was a kid, who knows, five or six years old, I told my friend Dougie that I was never going to cry again.  He and I were sitting on the curb smashing rocks with claw hammers into smaller rocks.  That passed for play, or entertainment before adults felt obliged to schedule play dates. We managed that task ourselves by knocking on our friends' doors.

     He hit me on the noggin with his hammer and I cried.

     Not from pain.  I was shamed.

    In first grade, Robbie Budd, beat me up. I ran home crying.  My mother didn't let me in the house,  She stepped onto the front step, turned me back towards Robbie Budd's house with the command, "Hit him back."  It was my mum, so I did what I was told.  Twice later, she said, "Hit him harder".

     I did. He went home crying. Not from pain, but from shame.

     It's an important difference between pain and shame.  I think pain finally beat me; but not without shame in a higher degree than the pain.

      I don't know why it is, but it's still hard for me to admit I'm in pain.  I think it's shameful, which is one of the reasons I'm a difficult patient.  It must be one of those macho holdovers.  People are more sensible, now.  Shame is public, and its cousin, guilt, is private.  It's not so tough living with guilt, that's what Confession is for.

     The last true thing I'll say about shame is that it hurts, but without willingness to risk shame, one would live a dismal life.  Goddamn, give it a shot, fail miserably, weep in shame but grow:  Live a big, hard life, lumps, bumps and all.

      Our lives are miserable with pain.  If you're like me you're also shamed by your weakness; but it's better than that pitiable feeling of guilt that surely accompanies those who feel neither pain or elation, both of which have been mine, God bless, Colin

    

       

They Call Me MR. PURSE

     One of my favorite moments in movie history occurred in the movie, 'In the Heat of the Night"; Rod Stieger snears at Sidney Poitier, and mockingly asks, "And what do they call you at work, Virgil?"  Sidney Poitier, biting his teeth together so hard you'd think they'll break, says that famous building to a cresendo line, "They call me Mr. Tibbs!"

     I can't build up that mad dog rabid anger when I say, "They call me Mr. Purse!"  But I can get mad.  I bought a pouch at Old Navy to free-up my hands helping me to carry stuff like medicine and neurotransmitter controls.  It's not a purse, it's a courier bag. 

     "Hey Alice! Nice Purse!"

    "It's not a purse, it's a courier pouch!"

    "Whatever you say, Gimpy!"

     I've freed-up my hands, and solved one of mankind's great mysteries.  I now know what women carry in pocketbooks.  Guys, if you've ever wondwered, the answer is they carry nothing but junk: pieces of paper, month old reciepts, sticks of gum, Tic-Tacs or smokes, coupons. Wallet and checkbook.  Cosmetics and coins and every piece of trash you could imagine.  But what about a lock washer?  Somewhere in the range of possible to likely.  And how do I know?  That's whats in my courier bag.

      For the first couple of days, my bag was neat and helpful.  I was able to toodle around with my cane, and my relarively empty bag.  I had my neurotransmitter control, which is too big for an ordinary pocket; my cell phone clipped inside the bag into it's pocket.  My wallet, which I no longer have to carry zipped into a secret pocket.  A couple of pens tucked in their slots.

     Then I began to add other useful junk.  A book, and reading glasses became a book , a su doku book and reading glasses and the paper.  The phone became the phone and a back-up mobile charger and spare charged battery.  My pocket knife became a heavy use Emerson CQC-7 tactical folder becuase you never know when you have to save you family from a flaming car wreck, by smashing the car windows and cutting them free of the seatbelts.

     A pack of smokes became two packs, one as a back-up; one lighter become 3, and for springtime fresh breath, Tic-Tacs.  The Tic-Tacs became 2 packs, cinnamon and peppermint.

     My neurotransmitter control wouldn't be much good without spare batteries.

     Water, never part of the original plan, made a brief appearance until I failed to fully close the glacially clean, natural beverage which soaked everything.  Since I had pens, I started paying attention to my recipts: 'Save 15 cents on your next purchase of pineapple Tic-Tacs! I'll have to try them.'

     Nuts made an appearance.  Surprisingly rodents didn't quickly follow. 

     Well, I think you get the idea.  Screw it, my purse has now become a part of my life, as inseperable from me as my family. It weighs 18 pounds and seems to eat.  I've gone back to carrying my car keys in my pocket.  It's too risky to carry them in my purse.

      Did I tell you about my coupons?