From the beginning, I understood my posture was a problem, but I didn't understand all I would need to do to change it. My teacher, wisely, did not hit me with the whole "fix" at once. I have since learned that posture is a function of how I use, or fail to use, my postural muscles. I know that sounds a little redundant, but you rarely hear anyone use that terminology these days. I'm convinced many people--like me--have complicated feelings about the whole issue of posture. As a result, the people I've trained with tend to use the "P" word sparingly. Truth be told, Pilates instructors are almost always addressing posture directly or indirectly. All that talk about your "core" muscles? Little secret; it's the same thing, just a different name.
The first building block of "good posture" is the position of your lumbar spine, AKA your lower back. A healthy spine should have a gentle curve in the low back, not too little and not too much. Many, but not all, Pilates instructors teach their clients how to maintain this "neutral spine" position using their abdominal muscles. By the time my teacher was giving me the message I needed to improve my posture I'd already been doing Pilates for years. My abs were strong and I didn't have much trouble mastering the art of stabilizing my low back. My problem lay somewhat higher--in my thoracic spine.
[I've tried to finish this piece for weeks. I keep finding myself right here, stuck at this spot. My first attempt was way too technical. But avoiding the anatomical details and launching right into the meat of the issue feels scary. I've pretended to myself that I don't want to use my clients as examples in case someone reads about herself and feels betrayed. But I'm not sure anyone actually reads my blog, and I wouldn't use any names or other identifying descriptions. Everyone has a spine, after all, how would anyone be sure I was talking about her? But still I'm stuck. So here's the plan. I'm going to write the rest of the piece with my internal critic turned off. I'm going to just let is flow and see where it goes. If anyone reads this and thinks I am writing about your alignment, please be assured I am writing about most of the women I work with. ]
Standing up straight (that is, with good posture) means maintaining a slight convex curve in the upper spine--also known as extending the back. Without this curve it is difficult to keep the head over the pelvis, where it belongs. After several weeks of strengthening my upper back, I was better equipped to stand with my upper back in extension. But it was one thing to stand that way in the studio and quite another to go out into the world with my new and improved alignment. Because establishing that all-important curve requires me to bring my ribcage and sternum forward. It feels scary because it forces me to thrust my chest out and with it my breasts.
The first time I took my more perfect posture out into the wild was a revelation. I felt at once regal and terrified, conspicuous and vulnerable. I was sure people were wondering, "Who is that woman?" or perhaps, "Who does she think she is, Queen Elizabeth?" My muscles were strong enough to keep me standing correctly much longer than my emotions could sustain it. I felt exposed. And while I've never actually experienced anything negative, I have to keep reminding myself I'm okay because I keep expecting something bad to happen.
I've finally concluded the bad thing already happened. It happened a long time ago and it's done its damage. I spend part of most of the lessons I teach undoing that damage.
I work on posture with all of my clients. I've learned to start teaching extension face down on the floor. It's easier for many women to bring their upper backs into extension in this protected position. I've watched an expression of pure terror flash across my client's face when I've cued her to bring her sternum up and out while standing or sitting. It is painful to see the emotion of a frightened little girl play over the face of a mature, adult women.
But I have good news. I've been practicing for a long time now and it gets easier.
Monday, December 15, 2008
The "P" Word
I was raised to believe poor posture is a sign of poor character. No one ever said it in so many words, but the implication was clear from the severe tone of voice and punitive context whenever I was ordered to "Sit up straight, young lady, and stop slouching!" Later I came to understand "She has such lovely posture" to be the highest of compliments--conveying much more than the mere observation of an erect spine.
I started ballet lessons at age 5. Although I enjoyed learning all the positions and leaping across the room with my leotard-clad classmates, I knew why I was there--to overcome clumsiness. I was "tall for my age" and prone to tripping over my own limbs--or at least that is what I recall overhearing. My only memory of actually feeling awkward in my body was years later when I sprouted hips overnight and kept bruising them on desks and tabletops.
I'm sure my mother was both pleased and vindicated when I grew to eventually earn praise for my posture. She believed this to be a triumph over one of femininity's greatest challenges to tall women. She wanted me to be willowy--simultaneously long and elegant, but still supple enough not to seem intimidating. She had two seemingly contradictory fears--that I would not stand up straight enough to be attractive and that I would stand up for myself and repel men by appearing to lack the essential quality of submission.
Her friend Sally, 5' 10" and slender, was deemed tall enough to wear big hats--an asset--but ruined it all by standing with a distinct forward bend of the upper back. I have to admit Sally looked a little like a question mark from the side, but I have her to thank for at least knowing I was among the lucky ones who could manage a wide brim if I wanted to. Otherwise, as far as my mother was concerned, my height was just a source of worry.
I, on the other hand, had a great time being tall. And, as far as I knew, my posture was just fine. Then, in my early 50's I started getting really serious about Pilates. It is not for nothing Pilates instructors are sometimes known as the "posture police". My Pilates teacher placed a foam roller against my back as I stood and pointed out that my head was nowhere near its correct position. Instead of floating comfortably over my tailbone, my head was out in front of my sternum causing all sorts of problems for my neck and upper back muscles. Thus began my quest for better posture.
More to come. Please comment.
I started ballet lessons at age 5. Although I enjoyed learning all the positions and leaping across the room with my leotard-clad classmates, I knew why I was there--to overcome clumsiness. I was "tall for my age" and prone to tripping over my own limbs--or at least that is what I recall overhearing. My only memory of actually feeling awkward in my body was years later when I sprouted hips overnight and kept bruising them on desks and tabletops.
I'm sure my mother was both pleased and vindicated when I grew to eventually earn praise for my posture. She believed this to be a triumph over one of femininity's greatest challenges to tall women. She wanted me to be willowy--simultaneously long and elegant, but still supple enough not to seem intimidating. She had two seemingly contradictory fears--that I would not stand up straight enough to be attractive and that I would stand up for myself and repel men by appearing to lack the essential quality of submission.
Her friend Sally, 5' 10" and slender, was deemed tall enough to wear big hats--an asset--but ruined it all by standing with a distinct forward bend of the upper back. I have to admit Sally looked a little like a question mark from the side, but I have her to thank for at least knowing I was among the lucky ones who could manage a wide brim if I wanted to. Otherwise, as far as my mother was concerned, my height was just a source of worry.
I, on the other hand, had a great time being tall. And, as far as I knew, my posture was just fine. Then, in my early 50's I started getting really serious about Pilates. It is not for nothing Pilates instructors are sometimes known as the "posture police". My Pilates teacher placed a foam roller against my back as I stood and pointed out that my head was nowhere near its correct position. Instead of floating comfortably over my tailbone, my head was out in front of my sternum causing all sorts of problems for my neck and upper back muscles. Thus began my quest for better posture.
More to come. Please comment.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Sitting Pretty - Take 1
This is a draft of what I hope will be my first exercise video. If you watch it you'll note that I suddenly have a lisp. Apparently the little tiny microphone on my digital camera cannot handle the "s" sound. I'm not dressed appropriately and the lighting is not good. If all goes well, I will have the help of a film student to improve the production values of this first effort, but the message will be pretty much the same.
Here's the introduction I plan to add:
If you are like most people I know, you don't think you have good posture. Somebody said you were slouching back when you were small. "Sit up straight, young man/lady. Your posture is terrible!" But did that person tell you how to fix the problem? No!! So here's the answer to the question nobody ever bothered to answer, "What can I do to sit with good posture?"
Let me know what you think unless you're laughing too hard to type.
Here's the introduction I plan to add:
If you are like most people I know, you don't think you have good posture. Somebody said you were slouching back when you were small. "Sit up straight, young man/lady. Your posture is terrible!" But did that person tell you how to fix the problem? No!! So here's the answer to the question nobody ever bothered to answer, "What can I do to sit with good posture?"
Let me know what you think unless you're laughing too hard to type.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
A Mighty Host of Women Sing
I started singing with the Distaff Singers in late February. By spring I knew members of the women’s chorus usually told someone if they would miss a rehearsal. So I let my section--the second sopranos--know I would miss our rehearsal on June 1 while visiting New Orleans. As it turned out, I was back home on June 1, but I was busy having surgery to repair the shoulder I had broken while riding a Segway on a tour of the French Quarter. That was the first of two surgeries required to repair my broken humerus. The surgeon installed four pins the size of knitting needles to hold the bone together while it healed. He cheerfully scheduled a second surgery to remove the pins six weeks later. I had no idea what I was in for.
For the first several days I managed to move around the house and even walked around Lake Merritt six days after surgery, my arm immobilized in a sling and swathe. But, as the days passed, the tissue around my pins started to shrink—first as the swelling subsided and later as my arm muscles atrophied with disuse. By the end of the second week I could see the end of one of the pins pressing up under my skin. Climbing the stairs became a painful challenge as the slightest jarring sent jagged bolts of nerve pain down my arm all the way to my fingers. I became increasingly skilled at timing my pain pills to coincide with any necessary movement. Bathing was the worst. Even with a Percoset taken 20 minutes before my shower, I had to use all my La Maze breathing techniques to get through the daily ordeal.
I stopped sleeping in the matrimonial bed and opted instead for the family room couch. My husband insisted on breathing and had the potential to inadvertently touch me if I tried to sleep beside him. Alone and propped against the upholstered cushions worked much better, especially with two Percoset tablets and a glass of water within reach. I tried to sleep through the night. But once wakened by pain I would check the clock and if I was still awake an hour later I’d take a pill. This went on for what seemed like forever, but it was actually six increasingly miserable weeks.
One thing that kept me going through those long, long days and even longer nights was our weekly Distaff rehearsal. The second sopranos made sure I had a ride to the church were we gathered every Tuesday night to learn our music. All I had to do was get in the car. I quickly learned to bring a pill along in case my pain got out of hand, and I was very tired by the time the rehearsal broke up around 9. But singing with all those other women was worth everything it took to be there because I got to experience at least one thing from my normal life still working.
The pins finally came out and my arm is now, four months later, well on its way to a full recovery. I have put the worst of the whole episode behind me now, as I focus on gaining more strength and range of motion. So I was taken by surprise during the Distaff performance on November 1 when tears started streaming down my cheeks. We were singing “Still I Rise”, our big finale. The recurrent image of being lifted on eagle’s wings took me back to those difficult weeks when my voice—weak and uncertain—melded with the strong and confident sound of forty mighty women singing together. Those voices were the eagle’s wings that helped carry me toward wholeness. I am so grateful for that gift.
Happy Thanksgiving!
For the first several days I managed to move around the house and even walked around Lake Merritt six days after surgery, my arm immobilized in a sling and swathe. But, as the days passed, the tissue around my pins started to shrink—first as the swelling subsided and later as my arm muscles atrophied with disuse. By the end of the second week I could see the end of one of the pins pressing up under my skin. Climbing the stairs became a painful challenge as the slightest jarring sent jagged bolts of nerve pain down my arm all the way to my fingers. I became increasingly skilled at timing my pain pills to coincide with any necessary movement. Bathing was the worst. Even with a Percoset taken 20 minutes before my shower, I had to use all my La Maze breathing techniques to get through the daily ordeal.
I stopped sleeping in the matrimonial bed and opted instead for the family room couch. My husband insisted on breathing and had the potential to inadvertently touch me if I tried to sleep beside him. Alone and propped against the upholstered cushions worked much better, especially with two Percoset tablets and a glass of water within reach. I tried to sleep through the night. But once wakened by pain I would check the clock and if I was still awake an hour later I’d take a pill. This went on for what seemed like forever, but it was actually six increasingly miserable weeks.
One thing that kept me going through those long, long days and even longer nights was our weekly Distaff rehearsal. The second sopranos made sure I had a ride to the church were we gathered every Tuesday night to learn our music. All I had to do was get in the car. I quickly learned to bring a pill along in case my pain got out of hand, and I was very tired by the time the rehearsal broke up around 9. But singing with all those other women was worth everything it took to be there because I got to experience at least one thing from my normal life still working.
The pins finally came out and my arm is now, four months later, well on its way to a full recovery. I have put the worst of the whole episode behind me now, as I focus on gaining more strength and range of motion. So I was taken by surprise during the Distaff performance on November 1 when tears started streaming down my cheeks. We were singing “Still I Rise”, our big finale. The recurrent image of being lifted on eagle’s wings took me back to those difficult weeks when my voice—weak and uncertain—melded with the strong and confident sound of forty mighty women singing together. Those voices were the eagle’s wings that helped carry me toward wholeness. I am so grateful for that gift.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Sunday, November 9, 2008
The Art of Conversation
Perhaps I should have labeled this entry, "the dying art of conversation." I have no right to complain. I'm not a particularly good conversationalist. But I think laptops, ipods, and smart phones are cutting into our already shrinking opportunities for real, live, face-to-face conversation. And let's face it, carrying your side of a good conversation is a 'use it or lose it' skill.
I'm home alone a lot these days, not engaging in verbal intercourse for many hours at a stretch. Sometimes, when I finally have someone to talk to, I kind of bubble over and overwhelm my poor listener with a long unbroken rant. There is no conversation under these circumstances because the victim with whom I am trying (unsuccessfully) to interact beats a hasty retreat to avoid being trapped by another monologue. By the time I realize what has happened it is too late. I am left with regrets and no one to tell them to.
What is the solution?
I think I need to relearn the skill of conversation the same way I would become proficient at a game; I need to practice. But first I need some ground rules. Below is my attempt at drafting guidelines for promoting good conversation. I hope someone will comment on and perhaps improve on my ground rules. It would be almost like having a conversation.
1. Establish a topic.
It's easier to successfully start a conversation if you begin with a topic of mutual interest. I've thought about inviting people to a party and asking them to wear stickers on which they would write desired topics of conversation. I suppose I could post topics I'd like to talk about on Craig's List and invite people to meet me at a cafe.
2. Take turns.
Even though I suffer from Inappropriate Communication Syndrome (see http://turtletodragonfly.blogspot.com/2007/05/delightfully-inconsistent.html for more on ICS) I really do want to hear what you have to say. It's like I accidentally get on the freeway when I really want to be on a surface road with all the amusing scenery, opportunities to stop for a snack, and potential unexpected side trips. Maybe I could train myself to stop talking after no more than 60 seconds and ask, "So, what do you think about that?"
3. Listen.
This is the really hard one. I'm usually so nervous about thinking up something interesting to say I don't fully listen to the other person. Even if I manage to come up with something witty it has nothing to do with the other person's contribution to the conversation. What I hope will be an interaction quickly becomes a form of parallel play. Wasn't I supposed to leave that behind with my toddlerdom?
4. Disagree respectfully.
I would like to be able to share and hear different points of view, but I'm afraid someone will not agree with me. I'm 54 years old. I should be beyond worrying someone won't like me, but that sort of thing just does not go away. How about if I always say, "I respectfully disagree," and use the person's name? I would then explain my reasons for feeling differently without belittling the other person and with genuine interest in how we each came to different conclusions. I would just have to hope everyone I talk with would do the same if they disagree with me.
Please comment if you have any ideas or thoughts about my groundrules. I'd like to do something to promote conversation. This is the first step.
I'm home alone a lot these days, not engaging in verbal intercourse for many hours at a stretch. Sometimes, when I finally have someone to talk to, I kind of bubble over and overwhelm my poor listener with a long unbroken rant. There is no conversation under these circumstances because the victim with whom I am trying (unsuccessfully) to interact beats a hasty retreat to avoid being trapped by another monologue. By the time I realize what has happened it is too late. I am left with regrets and no one to tell them to.
What is the solution?
I think I need to relearn the skill of conversation the same way I would become proficient at a game; I need to practice. But first I need some ground rules. Below is my attempt at drafting guidelines for promoting good conversation. I hope someone will comment on and perhaps improve on my ground rules. It would be almost like having a conversation.
1. Establish a topic.
It's easier to successfully start a conversation if you begin with a topic of mutual interest. I've thought about inviting people to a party and asking them to wear stickers on which they would write desired topics of conversation. I suppose I could post topics I'd like to talk about on Craig's List and invite people to meet me at a cafe.
2. Take turns.
Even though I suffer from Inappropriate Communication Syndrome (see http://turtletodragonfly.blogspot.com/2007/05/delightfully-inconsistent.html for more on ICS) I really do want to hear what you have to say. It's like I accidentally get on the freeway when I really want to be on a surface road with all the amusing scenery, opportunities to stop for a snack, and potential unexpected side trips. Maybe I could train myself to stop talking after no more than 60 seconds and ask, "So, what do you think about that?"
3. Listen.
This is the really hard one. I'm usually so nervous about thinking up something interesting to say I don't fully listen to the other person. Even if I manage to come up with something witty it has nothing to do with the other person's contribution to the conversation. What I hope will be an interaction quickly becomes a form of parallel play. Wasn't I supposed to leave that behind with my toddlerdom?
4. Disagree respectfully.
I would like to be able to share and hear different points of view, but I'm afraid someone will not agree with me. I'm 54 years old. I should be beyond worrying someone won't like me, but that sort of thing just does not go away. How about if I always say, "I respectfully disagree," and use the person's name? I would then explain my reasons for feeling differently without belittling the other person and with genuine interest in how we each came to different conclusions. I would just have to hope everyone I talk with would do the same if they disagree with me.
Please comment if you have any ideas or thoughts about my groundrules. I'd like to do something to promote conversation. This is the first step.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Just because you have a hammer doesn't mean everything is a nail
Another initiative on California's ballot would require parental notification if an underage women wants to end her pregnancy with an abortion. A local rabbi opposes the measure but has suggested mandatory counseling in place of parental notification for underage women seeking an abortion.
I think the rabbi (who trained initially as a psychologist) is putting the therapist before the cart. He seems to think counseling a young woman after she is already pregnant is a meaningful intervention. But the reality of access to abortion for many women--even here in California where it is legal--can be difficult at best. In many parts of the state women already have to travel away from their home towns to acquire an abortion. They have the expense of travel, overnight accommodations, meals etc. in addition to the cost of the procedure. They have to take time away from work or school and make excuses in order to protect their privacy. Requiring another step, another appointment, another hurdle, could result in removing the option altogether.
I agree with the rabbi that young women may be more likely to keep their babies if we as a society can demonstrate our commitment to supporting their dreams for themselves and their offspring. But we won't have to counsel them against the fear of losing their jobs, ending their education, being in poverty, etc. if that is no longer the reality for many young mothers. Unfortunately, we are a very long way from being able to assure a young woman that she will not end up struggling for herself and her child given the lack of services and support available.
It is too bad some people don't make the same choices that Rabbi L. would make for them. But I am much too concerned about protecting the privacy and choices of all young women to risk placing another impediment in their path to belatedly correct the behavior of a minority.
I think the rabbi (who trained initially as a psychologist) is putting the therapist before the cart. He seems to think counseling a young woman after she is already pregnant is a meaningful intervention. But the reality of access to abortion for many women--even here in California where it is legal--can be difficult at best. In many parts of the state women already have to travel away from their home towns to acquire an abortion. They have the expense of travel, overnight accommodations, meals etc. in addition to the cost of the procedure. They have to take time away from work or school and make excuses in order to protect their privacy. Requiring another step, another appointment, another hurdle, could result in removing the option altogether.
I agree with the rabbi that young women may be more likely to keep their babies if we as a society can demonstrate our commitment to supporting their dreams for themselves and their offspring. But we won't have to counsel them against the fear of losing their jobs, ending their education, being in poverty, etc. if that is no longer the reality for many young mothers. Unfortunately, we are a very long way from being able to assure a young woman that she will not end up struggling for herself and her child given the lack of services and support available.
It is too bad some people don't make the same choices that Rabbi L. would make for them. But I am much too concerned about protecting the privacy and choices of all young women to risk placing another impediment in their path to belatedly correct the behavior of a minority.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Is it really us and them?
I live in California. We have a measure on the upcoming ballot that would eliminate the right to marry for same-sex couples. I oppose Proposition 8. I have compared it to the infamous Nazi Nuremberg Laws. Did you know Section 1 of the Nuremberg Laws also applied to marriage? Outlawing marriage between certain Germans was just one of many steps taken to legally dehumanize Jews. I wonder if the people who support Proposition 8 realize how closely their constitutional amendment to “preserve marriage” from the nonexistent threat of marriage equality echoes Nazi laws designed to “safeguard the future of the German nation”? I pray that, like some good Germans, these folks will stop listening to their leaders and listen instead to their hearts.
Proposition 8 is wrong. It seeks to institutionalize prejudice. I really hope I don't have to decide what to do about living in a society that would do something so backward as denying gay couples the right to marry.
P.S. I had a No on 8 sign in my front yard for the past several weeks. Yesterday I noticed it was gone. Someone removed my sign. Apparently some of the people who want to amend our State Constitution to deny the right for some citizens to marry are also willing to trample on the U.S. Constitution--denying me my freedom of speech. I am afraid "America land of the free" has been replaced by America the intolerant.
Proposition 8 is wrong. It seeks to institutionalize prejudice. I really hope I don't have to decide what to do about living in a society that would do something so backward as denying gay couples the right to marry.
P.S. I had a No on 8 sign in my front yard for the past several weeks. Yesterday I noticed it was gone. Someone removed my sign. Apparently some of the people who want to amend our State Constitution to deny the right for some citizens to marry are also willing to trample on the U.S. Constitution--denying me my freedom of speech. I am afraid "America land of the free" has been replaced by America the intolerant.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
A New Year
Rosh Hashanah usually sneaks up on me. It is supposed to be a time of reflection. But it comes at a time of year that is so full of activities I'm generally unprepared when the holiday actually hits.
Not this year. I was ready to reflect and consider, regroup and assess. It has been a very long, painful Summer and getting a New Year seemed like a really good idea. I have plans for getting my body back into condition, my house back in order, and my business...well, just back.
Rosh Hashanah is an opportunity to put everything back on track. And boy do I need that. For starters I need to feel more centered in my own being. So there will be more breathing. And maybe, just maybe, I will take my own advice and think long and hard before I say "Yes" to another committment.
We'll see.
Happy New Year!
Not this year. I was ready to reflect and consider, regroup and assess. It has been a very long, painful Summer and getting a New Year seemed like a really good idea. I have plans for getting my body back into condition, my house back in order, and my business...well, just back.
Rosh Hashanah is an opportunity to put everything back on track. And boy do I need that. For starters I need to feel more centered in my own being. So there will be more breathing. And maybe, just maybe, I will take my own advice and think long and hard before I say "Yes" to another committment.
We'll see.
Happy New Year!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Oh yeah, the plays!
Our trip to Ashland was in honor of our 21st anniversary. Our one and only previous experience at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival was a fifth grade field trip with our youngest child. We were chaperons. It was not romantic.
This trip was different. The plays were a reason for our particular destination, but the real purpose of the trip had more to do with our relationship than any drama on the stage. I mention this because we did not plan the trip with meticulous attention to which plays we would see, who would take the lead roles, or even what the subject matter might happen to be. It was mostly a matter of two from column A and two from column B. If you know what I mean.
That said, we did indeed enjoy the plays. The first was A View from the Bridge, by Arthur Miller. The tension built steadily from when the action began in the first scene until just before the intermission. As it reached its crescendo--in scene that involved lifting an ordinary chair with one hand--I gasped out loud. I would have been embarrassed, but I was far from the only member of the audience who had become so caught up in the play.
That evening we saw The Comedy of Errors, by William Shakespeare in the open air Elizabethan Theater. Set in the Wild West, Will's hilarious story fairly bubbled along with several songs that borrowed language from the Bard so skillfully they did not feel like additions. I did not care for the characterization employed by one of the female leads, but she didn't ruin it for me. I was intrigued by role played by the male lead from A View from the Bridge. The same actor who had played the tortured, tragic father now appeared as a comedic snake oil salesman. I was virtually certain it was the same man, but I still had to check my program to be sure because his performance had nothing in common with the earlier role.
The next day we saw Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner, by Luis Alfaro. I had high expectations because I thought it was about food. I'm way into food. It wasn't about food. We weren't really sure what it was about. Still, bumkin that I am, I love to see a live show and thoroughly enjoyed the novel staging, costumes, and acting. Once again it was fun to compare the performance of an actor from the previous evening who had a very different role in this contemporary play.
Our last play was The Clay Cart, a 2ooo year-old play from India by Sudraka. The romantic comedy has aged well. The female actor I had not liked much from Comedy of Errors had the female lead again. Fortunately, her odd body language and incessant head-whipping did not recur. She was lovely as the courtesan who falls in love with an impoverished Brahmin with a heart of gold, although I could not buy her rendition of classical India dance. It looked a little to Hip Hop to me.
I'm sure the critics have found flaws in all these efforts. But I don't go to the theater to look for mistakes. I go to be transported. OSF does a great job of finding people willing to work very hard at making theatrical magic happen and I am a willing participant.
This trip was different. The plays were a reason for our particular destination, but the real purpose of the trip had more to do with our relationship than any drama on the stage. I mention this because we did not plan the trip with meticulous attention to which plays we would see, who would take the lead roles, or even what the subject matter might happen to be. It was mostly a matter of two from column A and two from column B. If you know what I mean.
That said, we did indeed enjoy the plays. The first was A View from the Bridge, by Arthur Miller. The tension built steadily from when the action began in the first scene until just before the intermission. As it reached its crescendo--in scene that involved lifting an ordinary chair with one hand--I gasped out loud. I would have been embarrassed, but I was far from the only member of the audience who had become so caught up in the play.
That evening we saw The Comedy of Errors, by William Shakespeare in the open air Elizabethan Theater. Set in the Wild West, Will's hilarious story fairly bubbled along with several songs that borrowed language from the Bard so skillfully they did not feel like additions. I did not care for the characterization employed by one of the female leads, but she didn't ruin it for me. I was intrigued by role played by the male lead from A View from the Bridge. The same actor who had played the tortured, tragic father now appeared as a comedic snake oil salesman. I was virtually certain it was the same man, but I still had to check my program to be sure because his performance had nothing in common with the earlier role.
The next day we saw Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner, by Luis Alfaro. I had high expectations because I thought it was about food. I'm way into food. It wasn't about food. We weren't really sure what it was about. Still, bumkin that I am, I love to see a live show and thoroughly enjoyed the novel staging, costumes, and acting. Once again it was fun to compare the performance of an actor from the previous evening who had a very different role in this contemporary play.
Our last play was The Clay Cart, a 2ooo year-old play from India by Sudraka. The romantic comedy has aged well. The female actor I had not liked much from Comedy of Errors had the female lead again. Fortunately, her odd body language and incessant head-whipping did not recur. She was lovely as the courtesan who falls in love with an impoverished Brahmin with a heart of gold, although I could not buy her rendition of classical India dance. It looked a little to Hip Hop to me.
I'm sure the critics have found flaws in all these efforts. But I don't go to the theater to look for mistakes. I go to be transported. OSF does a great job of finding people willing to work very hard at making theatrical magic happen and I am a willing participant.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Before I Segue For Good
My Physical Terrorist--I mean Therapist--let's call him Wayne (again), says I'm likely to regain most if not all of my range of motion. The pain isn't gone yet but it's manageable and I'm completely free of narcotics and the lovely withdrawal symptoms that followed physical dependence. So I'm ready to move on from the whole incident. But, before I do, I feel compelled to list a few of the things you should consider before you decide to take a ride on a Segway:
How long do you think you could function without the use of one of your arms? Try wiping your bottom, zipping your sweatshirt, hooking or unhooking your bra, tying on your apron (never mind, you can't do any cooking), washing dishes (really, try washing dishes with one hand, even your dominant hand), driving, styling your hair, or putting on socks. I could go on. I could add other intimate activities that might prove embarrassing. But you get the idea. I want you to think long and hard. And if you decide to go ahead, that's cool, just be prepared to assume the risk. I did and it sucked.
How long do you think you could function without the use of one of your arms? Try wiping your bottom, zipping your sweatshirt, hooking or unhooking your bra, tying on your apron (never mind, you can't do any cooking), washing dishes (really, try washing dishes with one hand, even your dominant hand), driving, styling your hair, or putting on socks. I could go on. I could add other intimate activities that might prove embarrassing. But you get the idea. I want you to think long and hard. And if you decide to go ahead, that's cool, just be prepared to assume the risk. I did and it sucked.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Towns That Time Forgot
I'm just back from a quick car trip up to Ashland where we saw four plays. On the way, we stopped over at the foot of Mr. Shasta and spent two nights in a yurt. Our visit to the formerly thriving town of Weed established the theme of this entry.
We were in no particular hurry when we set out to make our way north from Oakland on Route 5. Hunger pangs hit about two hours from home near the town of Arbuckle. The town consisted of about 12 buildings including three Mexican restaurants. We chose one and enjoyed an unremarkable but perfectly acceptable meal of tacos (me) and enchiladas (Phil). If they hadn't overcharged us I would probably be giving the place at least a lukewarm recommendation. But, alas, they'll never see our yuppie faces again.
It looked like Arbuckle's claim to fame is a big rice processing plant. There certainly isn't anything else there to attract attention.
We continued up the road until we decided we needed fuel. During our fill-up, I noticed a sign directing traffic to the "historic district" of Cottonwood. I persuaded my traveling companion to take the small detour into town. We found a nest of buildings linked together by high cement sidewalks reminiscent of the wooden ones you'd see in the Old West. I even noticed large iron rings embedded in the cement that appeared to be for tying up horses.
We spent a few minutes peeking into windows on one side of the street--a large former barn is now a fitness center, there was also a hairdresser, automotive parts store, quilting shop, and western gift shop. But the biggest concern in Cottonwood (other than a restaurant on the other side) was a multi-room gift shop full of huge decorated Christmas trees, a few antiques and lots of pottery, linens, and home accessories that no one really needs. The trees had distinct themes but I only remember one. It was layered with ornaments in shades of olive green and lots of glitter--mushrooms, dragonflys, lizards, salamanders, knomes, and fairies with scary faces and lots of claws. The decorations were so thick you could see very little of the artificial tree underneath. There was nothing remotely Christian about it. Instead it exuded the very essence of pagan.
The proprietor of the shop was friendly and talkative. She asked us where we'd come from and how we happened to visit Cottonwood. "Did you see our new sign?" she asked. "It's just there since April." I ended up spending some money in her shop (not on Christmas ornaments) so I guessed it works!
We took a drive into Weed from our yurt in the woods the next day. Public works was busy resurfacing the road, but the place still looked pretty depressed. Many of the shops were clearly closed for good and we saw very few people.
A sign on North Main Street directed us to the Weed Historic Lumber Town Museum. But we were hungry again. A local resident gave us two options when we asked about a place for lunch. Ellie's was the place for gourmet coffee, espresso drinks, and sandwiches, but for "something a little more substantial," he recommended the Hi Lo Motel and RV Resort coffee shop. We eat gourmet in Oakland so we were instantly sold on the HiLo.
One excellent meat loaf and one pulled pork sandwich (with onion rings) later we proceeded to the museum. We were greeted by Sam Catalano, age 87, a lifetime resident of Weed and 47 year veteran of the lumber mill that once employed the whole town. Sam told us stories drawing from his own experiences, bonafide history, rumors, and tall tales. We learned a lot about the once lively town and left feeling as though we had broken ranks with typical tourists who skip Weed altogether in favor of the town of Mt. Shasta. We took the road less traveled and learned to tell the tale!
Next up: yurt living!
We were in no particular hurry when we set out to make our way north from Oakland on Route 5. Hunger pangs hit about two hours from home near the town of Arbuckle. The town consisted of about 12 buildings including three Mexican restaurants. We chose one and enjoyed an unremarkable but perfectly acceptable meal of tacos (me) and enchiladas (Phil). If they hadn't overcharged us I would probably be giving the place at least a lukewarm recommendation. But, alas, they'll never see our yuppie faces again.
It looked like Arbuckle's claim to fame is a big rice processing plant. There certainly isn't anything else there to attract attention.
We continued up the road until we decided we needed fuel. During our fill-up, I noticed a sign directing traffic to the "historic district" of Cottonwood. I persuaded my traveling companion to take the small detour into town. We found a nest of buildings linked together by high cement sidewalks reminiscent of the wooden ones you'd see in the Old West. I even noticed large iron rings embedded in the cement that appeared to be for tying up horses.
We spent a few minutes peeking into windows on one side of the street--a large former barn is now a fitness center, there was also a hairdresser, automotive parts store, quilting shop, and western gift shop. But the biggest concern in Cottonwood (other than a restaurant on the other side) was a multi-room gift shop full of huge decorated Christmas trees, a few antiques and lots of pottery, linens, and home accessories that no one really needs. The trees had distinct themes but I only remember one. It was layered with ornaments in shades of olive green and lots of glitter--mushrooms, dragonflys, lizards, salamanders, knomes, and fairies with scary faces and lots of claws. The decorations were so thick you could see very little of the artificial tree underneath. There was nothing remotely Christian about it. Instead it exuded the very essence of pagan.
The proprietor of the shop was friendly and talkative. She asked us where we'd come from and how we happened to visit Cottonwood. "Did you see our new sign?" she asked. "It's just there since April." I ended up spending some money in her shop (not on Christmas ornaments) so I guessed it works!
We took a drive into Weed from our yurt in the woods the next day. Public works was busy resurfacing the road, but the place still looked pretty depressed. Many of the shops were clearly closed for good and we saw very few people.
A sign on North Main Street directed us to the Weed Historic Lumber Town Museum. But we were hungry again. A local resident gave us two options when we asked about a place for lunch. Ellie's was the place for gourmet coffee, espresso drinks, and sandwiches, but for "something a little more substantial," he recommended the Hi Lo Motel and RV Resort coffee shop. We eat gourmet in Oakland so we were instantly sold on the HiLo.
One excellent meat loaf and one pulled pork sandwich (with onion rings) later we proceeded to the museum. We were greeted by Sam Catalano, age 87, a lifetime resident of Weed and 47 year veteran of the lumber mill that once employed the whole town. Sam told us stories drawing from his own experiences, bonafide history, rumors, and tall tales. We learned a lot about the once lively town and left feeling as though we had broken ranks with typical tourists who skip Weed altogether in favor of the town of Mt. Shasta. We took the road less traveled and learned to tell the tale!
Next up: yurt living!
Friday, September 5, 2008
SRD ??? - Bored now
I just reread Season Eight of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (it's in comic book form) and was reminded of what the brilliantly evil Willow said just before she flayed Warren. "Bored now." I too am bored.
The closest I could get to flaying anyone was a carefully crafted letter to various people at my HMO. I told the alarming tale of being blown off THREE times upon asking for help detoxing from Percoset, to which I had become physically dependent. Many of the details of that experience are included in earlier posts. I won't bore you with them now. It's over. I'm finally withdrawn. If I'm having any symptoms today they are easily confused with my usual allergy attack at this time of year. My arm is still a bit sore and it will be months before I regain all of my range of motion and strength. But that process is bound to be a bit of a snooze too, so it is time to move on. At least for the purposes of this blog.
I am trying to be greener. It is not easy to change habits of a lifetime. Turning off lights when I leave a room. Remembering to bring bags with me to the market. Staying out of my car unless it is absolutely necessary that I drive.
Today I took my recently acquired wire shopping cart and went shopping for several items that would otherwise be too heavy to bring home on foot. It was a splendid success. I saved a little gas, prevented a tiny measure of CO2 to accumulate, and got a bit of exercise without having to skimp on the number of cans of soup and juice I purchased.
Okay, less boredom. Greener is good.
The closest I could get to flaying anyone was a carefully crafted letter to various people at my HMO. I told the alarming tale of being blown off THREE times upon asking for help detoxing from Percoset, to which I had become physically dependent. Many of the details of that experience are included in earlier posts. I won't bore you with them now. It's over. I'm finally withdrawn. If I'm having any symptoms today they are easily confused with my usual allergy attack at this time of year. My arm is still a bit sore and it will be months before I regain all of my range of motion and strength. But that process is bound to be a bit of a snooze too, so it is time to move on. At least for the purposes of this blog.
I am trying to be greener. It is not easy to change habits of a lifetime. Turning off lights when I leave a room. Remembering to bring bags with me to the market. Staying out of my car unless it is absolutely necessary that I drive.
Today I took my recently acquired wire shopping cart and went shopping for several items that would otherwise be too heavy to bring home on foot. It was a splendid success. I saved a little gas, prevented a tiny measure of CO2 to accumulate, and got a bit of exercise without having to skimp on the number of cans of soup and juice I purchased.
Okay, less boredom. Greener is good.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
SRD 41 - The light at the end of the #@&*%$#!!
It's been four days since I took my last chip of Percoset. It was roughly 1/16th of a pill. I was tired of the whole business and it seemed likely my symptoms wouldn't be a lot worse than they already were. It was pretty intense for the next 24 hours. Since then it has been slowly getting better. I think I've got another two or three days of discomfort to go. Mostly the stomach thing. But the great news is I slept all night last night! That was a first since breaking my arm 3 months ago.
I had a follow-up appointment with my surgeon yesterday. I could see on the x-rays where my humerus had healed. I have a lot of work to do for the next year but the doctor thinks I could regain close to 100% of my range of motion. It is moving better and hurting less. I'm on the mend.
I've written a letter to the folks at my HMO. The first sentence reads, "[My HMO] gatekeepers were unresponsive, unsympathetic, and inappropriate when I asked for help withdrawing from Percoset." It goes on to describe how my HMO failed to offer assistance when I realized I was hooked on my pain killers and hadn't a clue how to stop taking them. It's a really ripping read, let me tell you!
I took a copy of the letter to the follow-up appointment with my surgeon. It was 2 PM so I was right in the middle of the worst withdrawal of the day. It always gets pretty yucky in the middle of the day. So there I was all edgey and extra-sensitive while trying to relate a rather emotion-laden series of events. I think I'm pretty expansive in my communication style under normal circumstance. This was not normal. So I probably appeared a bit unglued. I certainly felt that way.
Oh, well, as my dear friend Dawn might say. I have a strong opinion about being left on my own to deal with narcotic withdrawal and I wasn't going to sugarcoat it.
Despite my exuberant and impassioned presentation the doctor encouraged me to send the letter. So I'm sending it. Then we'll see if anything happens.
Meantime, I still have some detoxing to do.
I had a follow-up appointment with my surgeon yesterday. I could see on the x-rays where my humerus had healed. I have a lot of work to do for the next year but the doctor thinks I could regain close to 100% of my range of motion. It is moving better and hurting less. I'm on the mend.
I've written a letter to the folks at my HMO. The first sentence reads, "[My HMO] gatekeepers were unresponsive, unsympathetic, and inappropriate when I asked for help withdrawing from Percoset." It goes on to describe how my HMO failed to offer assistance when I realized I was hooked on my pain killers and hadn't a clue how to stop taking them. It's a really ripping read, let me tell you!
I took a copy of the letter to the follow-up appointment with my surgeon. It was 2 PM so I was right in the middle of the worst withdrawal of the day. It always gets pretty yucky in the middle of the day. So there I was all edgey and extra-sensitive while trying to relate a rather emotion-laden series of events. I think I'm pretty expansive in my communication style under normal circumstance. This was not normal. So I probably appeared a bit unglued. I certainly felt that way.
Oh, well, as my dear friend Dawn might say. I have a strong opinion about being left on my own to deal with narcotic withdrawal and I wasn't going to sugarcoat it.
Despite my exuberant and impassioned presentation the doctor encouraged me to send the letter. So I'm sending it. Then we'll see if anything happens.
Meantime, I still have some detoxing to do.
Friday, August 15, 2008
SRD 30: It's All About the Smack
I'm still withdrawing from Percoset and it sucks. Imagine waking up everyday knowing you will feel like a piece of old cheese for anywhere from an hour to all afternoon. I say "like a piece of old cheese" because I really don't know how to describe the physical and mental intrusions caused by withdrawal. This is one of those things you cannot know unless you've experienced it. All those years working with social model recovery folks I had to just believe what they said--it takes a drunk/junkie/addict to help a drunk/junkie/addict. Now I know why.
When I came home from family camp I could see I'd be tapering, and withdrawing, for at least another couple weeks. The person I needed to talk to was Wendy. The ONLY person I'd met who has actually gotten off prescription pain pills. The only person I trust to get it. She delivered the bad news without exerting any energy to soften the blow. Withdrawal symptoms are more likely to worsen than improve as the dose is tapered. This can be mitigated a bit by taking the process real slow. But, basically, it's going to get worse.
How do people do this? I have an ideal situation: comfortable and stable home; reliable spouse/partner; grown, relatively self-sufficient children; access to acupuncture; and financial security. And yet this is really, really difficult. How do women with small children, no partner, no roof, or unpaid bills do this?
I would just take the damn pills. I wouldn't be able to do any of it while having withdrawal symptoms--drag myself through a day at work, attend to the needs of a dependent child, or plan, shop for and prepare meals. I can barely manage this WITH the hot tub in the backyard. And I've got another two weeks to go.
Here's the plan; I started out at one pill every 4 - 6 hours. I knocked my dose to 1/2 pill every 4 hours to start tapering. Ten days later I reduced to 3/8 of a pill every 4 hours. Now I'm taking 1/4 of a pill. Soon I'll drop to 1/8 of a pill. Wendy says it will be bad again for several days, maybe a week. But after that I plan to start dropping doses. The 3 AM will be the first to go. Then maybe the 3 PM.
I'll let you know how it goes.
When I came home from family camp I could see I'd be tapering, and withdrawing, for at least another couple weeks. The person I needed to talk to was Wendy. The ONLY person I'd met who has actually gotten off prescription pain pills. The only person I trust to get it. She delivered the bad news without exerting any energy to soften the blow. Withdrawal symptoms are more likely to worsen than improve as the dose is tapered. This can be mitigated a bit by taking the process real slow. But, basically, it's going to get worse.
How do people do this? I have an ideal situation: comfortable and stable home; reliable spouse/partner; grown, relatively self-sufficient children; access to acupuncture; and financial security. And yet this is really, really difficult. How do women with small children, no partner, no roof, or unpaid bills do this?
I would just take the damn pills. I wouldn't be able to do any of it while having withdrawal symptoms--drag myself through a day at work, attend to the needs of a dependent child, or plan, shop for and prepare meals. I can barely manage this WITH the hot tub in the backyard. And I've got another two weeks to go.
Here's the plan; I started out at one pill every 4 - 6 hours. I knocked my dose to 1/2 pill every 4 hours to start tapering. Ten days later I reduced to 3/8 of a pill every 4 hours. Now I'm taking 1/4 of a pill. Soon I'll drop to 1/8 of a pill. Wendy says it will be bad again for several days, maybe a week. But after that I plan to start dropping doses. The 3 AM will be the first to go. Then maybe the 3 PM.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Friday, August 1, 2008
SRD16 Resuming this blog
Let's see, I think the topic was P.G. Wodehouse.
My husband started reading aloud to me many years ago, I don't remember exactly when. I do remember we were on vacation, we were in bed, and the book was The Heart of a Goof. I was laughing so hard I had to sit up and will myself to stop so I could catch a breath. It was several years before reading aloud at bedtime became a near-nightly ritual. I think it evolved after our son no longer required my husband to read to him at night. Over the years, we have tried other authors--the names of which I do not recall--but no one else works as well as Wodehouse.
The world occupied by Wodehouse characters is entirely free of serious hardship of any kind. Young people are temporarily thwarted in their efforts to marry the girl/boy of their dreams. Practical jokes go terribly wrong, threatening to cast nephews into ill favor with their aunts. Feuds between elderly country squires cause friends and relations to conspire for their reconciliation. Golf is a religion of sorts. In short, nothing that might lead to nightmares ever happens in a Wodehouse story. You can safely drift off in mid chapter without fear of introducing strife or conflict into your dreams.
And that is exactly what I do every single night. My husband reads from whatever book we are working on , stopping periodically to ask, "Shall I continue?" I follow the tale for anywhere from 30 seconds to 20 minutes. If I fail to answer his query, my husband repeats the question. If I fail to respond the third time, he places the bookmark in the book and puts it away for the night. If I answer, he continues reading for another few minutes before asking the question yet again.
I was recently informed, since breaking my shoulder two months ago, the rules have changed a bit. He quits the moment he hears me snore. If I answer, "Shall I continue?" in the affirmative, he is not above quizzing me to see if I'm really awake. I can often repeat the last word but have no idea what else he has just read. That gets me cut off too.
I know what you are thinking. Why does he put up with me falling asleep every night while he is trying to read to me? I can only answer that the ritual seems to work for him as well as it works for me. If it ain't broke you really don't need to fix it.
These days I need P. G. Wodehouse as much as I need my little 1/2 pill of Percoset every four hours. It is, fortunately, a much more benign addiction.
Hiatus: I'll be away for a week. Look for new posts starting around August 11
My husband started reading aloud to me many years ago, I don't remember exactly when. I do remember we were on vacation, we were in bed, and the book was The Heart of a Goof. I was laughing so hard I had to sit up and will myself to stop so I could catch a breath. It was several years before reading aloud at bedtime became a near-nightly ritual. I think it evolved after our son no longer required my husband to read to him at night. Over the years, we have tried other authors--the names of which I do not recall--but no one else works as well as Wodehouse.
The world occupied by Wodehouse characters is entirely free of serious hardship of any kind. Young people are temporarily thwarted in their efforts to marry the girl/boy of their dreams. Practical jokes go terribly wrong, threatening to cast nephews into ill favor with their aunts. Feuds between elderly country squires cause friends and relations to conspire for their reconciliation. Golf is a religion of sorts. In short, nothing that might lead to nightmares ever happens in a Wodehouse story. You can safely drift off in mid chapter without fear of introducing strife or conflict into your dreams.
And that is exactly what I do every single night. My husband reads from whatever book we are working on , stopping periodically to ask, "Shall I continue?" I follow the tale for anywhere from 30 seconds to 20 minutes. If I fail to answer his query, my husband repeats the question. If I fail to respond the third time, he places the bookmark in the book and puts it away for the night. If I answer, he continues reading for another few minutes before asking the question yet again.
I was recently informed, since breaking my shoulder two months ago, the rules have changed a bit. He quits the moment he hears me snore. If I answer, "Shall I continue?" in the affirmative, he is not above quizzing me to see if I'm really awake. I can often repeat the last word but have no idea what else he has just read. That gets me cut off too.
I know what you are thinking. Why does he put up with me falling asleep every night while he is trying to read to me? I can only answer that the ritual seems to work for him as well as it works for me. If it ain't broke you really don't need to fix it.
These days I need P. G. Wodehouse as much as I need my little 1/2 pill of Percoset every four hours. It is, fortunately, a much more benign addiction.
Hiatus: I'll be away for a week. Look for new posts starting around August 11
SRD14 - We interrupt this blog
After whining in my last post about finding a comfortable position in which to sleep, I had to report this breaking news.
Yesterday, my PT, let's call him Wayne, showed me how to get a better night's sleep. It involves wearing my sling, lying on my back and placing a pillow on my stomach. I rest my arm on the pillow and viola! I can relax and go to sleep just like a normal person.
Now, you may be asking yourself why I didn't figure this out by myself. Good question. But I do not care. I'm just happy to be able to settle down without twitching around like a manic cat.
Yesterday, my PT, let's call him Wayne, showed me how to get a better night's sleep. It involves wearing my sling, lying on my back and placing a pillow on my stomach. I rest my arm on the pillow and viola! I can relax and go to sleep just like a normal person.
Now, you may be asking yourself why I didn't figure this out by myself. Good question. But I do not care. I'm just happy to be able to settle down without twitching around like a manic cat.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
SRD 14 Better
Now that I've been detoxing for a few days I've had a chance to notice a pattern. I feel mildly crappy in the morning. I wake up with a sore arm and remember that I'm going to be managing withdrawal symptoms for the next 24 hours--not the best way to start the day. But the afternoons are always the worst.
I think it's partly a function of fatigue. As the day wears on I become more aware of the pain in my arm as I have less reserves to call on. The withdrawal symptoms seem to magnify at exactly the same time. I reach a point where I can't read or write or talk on the phone. I certainly can't pay bills, answer emails, cook or tidy-up the kitchen. I eventually find myself on the couch with the remote control in my hand. Thank God for Oprah and DVDs!
My son and I watched eight episodes of "How I Met Your Mother" yesterday. It's so much easier to just let Ted and Lily and Marshall and Barney and Robin deal with their lives while mine remains on hold. Some form of video crack gets me through the couple of hours it takes for the worst of the symptoms to pass. Then I'm mainly tired. But I'm usually too stubborn to just go to bed. Instead I soldier on until my 10:30 PM dose.
By the time I've taken my half-pill of Percoset, choked down a teaspoon of dry herbs (Did I forget to mention constipation? It isn't bad enough narcotics cause major plugging of the plumbing while still helping with the pain, they continue to slow digestion to a painful crawl even when you are getting nothing but withdrawal symptom relief.), washed my face, and changed into my nightgown, I'm so exhausted I feel like crying.
I finally get in bed and spend several minutes--no exaggeration--finding a comfortable position for my arm. This is complicated by the fact that my right humerus has migrated far forward in the shoulder joint due to a very tight pec muscle. Simply lying on my back creates a gravitational pull on the joint that feels simply awful--think weight-bearing on a very tight, sore muscle. I have to shift around until I find the one position in which I can relax into the mattress without encountering that icky sensation.
But it is all worth it because this is when P. G. Wodehouse takes over.
Coming up: the ultimate soporific
I think it's partly a function of fatigue. As the day wears on I become more aware of the pain in my arm as I have less reserves to call on. The withdrawal symptoms seem to magnify at exactly the same time. I reach a point where I can't read or write or talk on the phone. I certainly can't pay bills, answer emails, cook or tidy-up the kitchen. I eventually find myself on the couch with the remote control in my hand. Thank God for Oprah and DVDs!
My son and I watched eight episodes of "How I Met Your Mother" yesterday. It's so much easier to just let Ted and Lily and Marshall and Barney and Robin deal with their lives while mine remains on hold. Some form of video crack gets me through the couple of hours it takes for the worst of the symptoms to pass. Then I'm mainly tired. But I'm usually too stubborn to just go to bed. Instead I soldier on until my 10:30 PM dose.
By the time I've taken my half-pill of Percoset, choked down a teaspoon of dry herbs (Did I forget to mention constipation? It isn't bad enough narcotics cause major plugging of the plumbing while still helping with the pain, they continue to slow digestion to a painful crawl even when you are getting nothing but withdrawal symptom relief.), washed my face, and changed into my nightgown, I'm so exhausted I feel like crying.
I finally get in bed and spend several minutes--no exaggeration--finding a comfortable position for my arm. This is complicated by the fact that my right humerus has migrated far forward in the shoulder joint due to a very tight pec muscle. Simply lying on my back creates a gravitational pull on the joint that feels simply awful--think weight-bearing on a very tight, sore muscle. I have to shift around until I find the one position in which I can relax into the mattress without encountering that icky sensation.
But it is all worth it because this is when P. G. Wodehouse takes over.
Coming up: the ultimate soporific
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
SRD12 & 13 The Clinic
A/N: Life as a detoxing, shoulder rehabbing, therapeutic cooking, non-teaching Pilates instructor is so busy I'm falling behind on my blog! If you're reading this I'm pleased. If you would care to comment I would be even more pleased.
I arrived at the acupuncture clinic a little before 9 to fill out my paperwork. While I checked the appropriate boxes and signed the various consent forms required for free acupuncture, I noticed a little table near the door was slowly being covered with baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables, tubs of chunky peanut butter, and plates piled high with whole grain rolls. A large metal bowl filled with freshly picked spring mix sat next to two small jars of salad dressing. Smaller bowls held two different types of roasted vegetable salad. The food smelled fantastic even though I was too full to eat any of it.
The acupuncture clinic flyer had promised breakfast, but when I read "breakfast" I visualized cheap, store bought danish and weak coffee. So I still made a point of getting up early enough to eat my own home cooked steel cut oats with goat yogurt, walnuts, fresh blueberries, and maple syrup. As other participants filled their plates with wholesome goodies, I had to admit I hadn't expected the people taking advantage of free acupuncture for withdrawal symptoms would partake of such excellent fare. I guess I'm a food snob.
Because it was my first time there, I had to speak with a counselor before I could have a treatment. Amanda led me down a long hall to her office. She asked me very little about why I was there and seemed most concerned that I consider the psychological impact of being disabled and unable to work. I considered both and admitted that they suck.
Having met all the requirements for treatment, I followed Hope, the clinic's acupuncturist, to the treatment room. I soaked a cotton ball with alcohol, as previously instructed, and rubbed both ears clean. Hope handed me a piece of paper with the number "7" written on it and a clean cotton ball. I sat on a stool while she inserted seven needles; two in my right hand (for the pain in my shoulder), two in my right ear, and three in my left ear. Then I moved to one of the large, comfy chairs lining three sides of the room and sat in near silence just like the other 10 or 12 people with needles stuck in their ears.
Talking is actively discouraged in the treatment room. Most people seem to just close their eyes and chill. I took their suggestion and did the same. I've had acupuncture many times before so I wasn't surprised by the sudden calm. It was extremely refreshing to feel like I could relax in my own skin for a change. Next to nausea, feeling irritable and jumpy is the worst of the withdrawal symptoms. I sat back and enjoyed a vacation from those unpleasant feelings for about 40 minutes.
When I felt finished, I pulled the needles out of my hand and used a mirror at the front of the room to remove the needles from my ears. I stuck the needles into the cotton ball and showed them to Hope before dropping the whole thing into a container hanging on the wall.
I stopped by the reception office to say goodbye and made a little peanut butter on whole grain roll for the road. I still wasn't hungry but it seemed such a shame not to enjoy some of the bounty.
I had decided to try walking home. I stopped about halfway to take my 10:30 AM dose of Percoset, pleased I hadn't been looking at my watch for the past 15 minutes willing the time to pass.
Next up: afternoon is always the worst
I arrived at the acupuncture clinic a little before 9 to fill out my paperwork. While I checked the appropriate boxes and signed the various consent forms required for free acupuncture, I noticed a little table near the door was slowly being covered with baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables, tubs of chunky peanut butter, and plates piled high with whole grain rolls. A large metal bowl filled with freshly picked spring mix sat next to two small jars of salad dressing. Smaller bowls held two different types of roasted vegetable salad. The food smelled fantastic even though I was too full to eat any of it.
The acupuncture clinic flyer had promised breakfast, but when I read "breakfast" I visualized cheap, store bought danish and weak coffee. So I still made a point of getting up early enough to eat my own home cooked steel cut oats with goat yogurt, walnuts, fresh blueberries, and maple syrup. As other participants filled their plates with wholesome goodies, I had to admit I hadn't expected the people taking advantage of free acupuncture for withdrawal symptoms would partake of such excellent fare. I guess I'm a food snob.
Because it was my first time there, I had to speak with a counselor before I could have a treatment. Amanda led me down a long hall to her office. She asked me very little about why I was there and seemed most concerned that I consider the psychological impact of being disabled and unable to work. I considered both and admitted that they suck.
Having met all the requirements for treatment, I followed Hope, the clinic's acupuncturist, to the treatment room. I soaked a cotton ball with alcohol, as previously instructed, and rubbed both ears clean. Hope handed me a piece of paper with the number "7" written on it and a clean cotton ball. I sat on a stool while she inserted seven needles; two in my right hand (for the pain in my shoulder), two in my right ear, and three in my left ear. Then I moved to one of the large, comfy chairs lining three sides of the room and sat in near silence just like the other 10 or 12 people with needles stuck in their ears.
Talking is actively discouraged in the treatment room. Most people seem to just close their eyes and chill. I took their suggestion and did the same. I've had acupuncture many times before so I wasn't surprised by the sudden calm. It was extremely refreshing to feel like I could relax in my own skin for a change. Next to nausea, feeling irritable and jumpy is the worst of the withdrawal symptoms. I sat back and enjoyed a vacation from those unpleasant feelings for about 40 minutes.
When I felt finished, I pulled the needles out of my hand and used a mirror at the front of the room to remove the needles from my ears. I stuck the needles into the cotton ball and showed them to Hope before dropping the whole thing into a container hanging on the wall.
I stopped by the reception office to say goodbye and made a little peanut butter on whole grain roll for the road. I still wasn't hungry but it seemed such a shame not to enjoy some of the bounty.
I had decided to try walking home. I stopped about halfway to take my 10:30 AM dose of Percoset, pleased I hadn't been looking at my watch for the past 15 minutes willing the time to pass.
Next up: afternoon is always the worst
Monday, July 28, 2008
SRD11 Hitting bottom
Everybody is familiar with the concept of "hitting bottom". I feel compelled to acknowledge my "bottom" was roughly the depth of a kiddie wading pool.
Wendy, my drug dependence counselor, buzzed the CDRP doctor to ask for help figuring out what to do with me; the problem client who wasn't messed-up enough for the clinic. When the doctor joined us in Wendy's office I recognized her immediately as a fellow family camper. We'd been in a play together.
It was surprisingly not awkward to encounter someone I knew in a completely different context while being counseled for drug dependence. In fact, it was kind of great.
The doctor confirmed what Wendy had already said and then proceeded to tell me what I needed to do to get off Percoset. In about 5 minutes, I learned enough to leave the CDRP confident I could detox safely on my own. It's not rocket science, it's actually quite straight-forward, but I didn't know several things that made a big difference. For example; I had been trying to wean myself by increasing the amount if time between pills. The doctor said they recommend reducing the dose but keeping the time interval constant. I also learned that narcotic withdrawal is not life-threatening. Unlike kicking Valium or alcohol--which can cause serous problems like seizures--people withdrawing from narcotics may feel like dying, but it won't kill them. Good to know.
After fleshing out my self-guided detox program, the doctor wished me the best of luck and departed--no doubt to help someone who was in vastly worse shape than I. As soon as the door closed Wendy took me into her confidence.
"I didn't want to say anything while the doctor was here," she said. "But I don't think the doctor has actually experienced narcotics withdrawal, and I have."
With that, Wendy pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and laid it on my lap. "That's my back," she said.
It was an x-ray showing two rods and four bolts installed in the lumbar region of Wendy's spine. "That's how I got hooked on narcotics," she said. "I was never addicted either. But I can tell you from personal experience that it's going to take more than a week to wean yourself."
Wendy proceeded to amend the time-table I had discussed with the doctor. Rather than 3 days, she suggested I spend 5 to 7 days at each dose level, moving on only when I felt ready. If the symptoms get too intense, she explained, I could always go back to the previous dose. But the whole process would be much easier if I take it very slow.
Here's the plan:
Take one-half of a pill every 4 hours.
Drink detox tea (chamomile, mint, licorice, skullcap, and hops) all day long.
Get daily acupuncture treatments for free at a local public clinic.
Reduce the dose to one-quarter of a pill after 5 - 7 days.
Repeat.
Coming up: the acupuncture clinic
Wendy, my drug dependence counselor, buzzed the CDRP doctor to ask for help figuring out what to do with me; the problem client who wasn't messed-up enough for the clinic. When the doctor joined us in Wendy's office I recognized her immediately as a fellow family camper. We'd been in a play together.
It was surprisingly not awkward to encounter someone I knew in a completely different context while being counseled for drug dependence. In fact, it was kind of great.
The doctor confirmed what Wendy had already said and then proceeded to tell me what I needed to do to get off Percoset. In about 5 minutes, I learned enough to leave the CDRP confident I could detox safely on my own. It's not rocket science, it's actually quite straight-forward, but I didn't know several things that made a big difference. For example; I had been trying to wean myself by increasing the amount if time between pills. The doctor said they recommend reducing the dose but keeping the time interval constant. I also learned that narcotic withdrawal is not life-threatening. Unlike kicking Valium or alcohol--which can cause serous problems like seizures--people withdrawing from narcotics may feel like dying, but it won't kill them. Good to know.
After fleshing out my self-guided detox program, the doctor wished me the best of luck and departed--no doubt to help someone who was in vastly worse shape than I. As soon as the door closed Wendy took me into her confidence.
"I didn't want to say anything while the doctor was here," she said. "But I don't think the doctor has actually experienced narcotics withdrawal, and I have."
With that, Wendy pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and laid it on my lap. "That's my back," she said.
It was an x-ray showing two rods and four bolts installed in the lumbar region of Wendy's spine. "That's how I got hooked on narcotics," she said. "I was never addicted either. But I can tell you from personal experience that it's going to take more than a week to wean yourself."
Wendy proceeded to amend the time-table I had discussed with the doctor. Rather than 3 days, she suggested I spend 5 to 7 days at each dose level, moving on only when I felt ready. If the symptoms get too intense, she explained, I could always go back to the previous dose. But the whole process would be much easier if I take it very slow.
Here's the plan:
Take one-half of a pill every 4 hours.
Drink detox tea (chamomile, mint, licorice, skullcap, and hops) all day long.
Get daily acupuncture treatments for free at a local public clinic.
Reduce the dose to one-quarter of a pill after 5 - 7 days.
Repeat.
Coming up: the acupuncture clinic
Saturday, July 26, 2008
SRD10 Through the looking glass
The CDRP is discreetly located on the second floor above a discount restaurant supply on a major downtown thoroughfare. My husband and I arrived around 9:30 AM.
When I returned my completed forms to the receptionist, he told me one of the "facilitators" would be with me right after the current group meeting.
The spacious, sunny waiting area filled with participants when the meeting broke up a few minutes later. A man and woman, each wearing staff badges, conferred briefly in the hallway. Then the woman approached me.
I'm thinking, "Ah, they decided I should talk to the female counselor because I'm a woman."
By previous agreement, I kissed my husband goodbye and followed "Wendy" to her office. It was a good size room, filled with sunlight from tall windows overlooking the street below. We sat in side chairs facing each other in front of the windows.
"So," Wendy began, "I've taken a look at your paperwork. It looks like you're here because of Percoset."
I feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders. I'm talking to someone who actually knows something about Percoset withdrawal. I can finally get the help I need.
I proceed to fill Wendy in on the last eight weeks of my life--breaking my shoulder, flying home, the first surgery, the second surgery, and my recent realization that I'm hooked on the pills. I told her how it had been pulling teeth to get a referral to the CDRP. It was only when I finished my story that I noticed Wendy looked uncomfortable.
"I'm not sure how to tell you this," she said, shifting her position in the chair. "We're really not set up to serve people like you. The CDRP is for addicts. You're not addicted to Percoset. You're physically dependent, but you didn't take it to get high, you only took it for pain. To treat you here you'd have to do the whole program. That means coming here for most of the day, everyday for a couple weeks. Can you do that?"
I felt like the floor had just dropped out from under me. Like Alice, I was falling down the rabbit hole. The lovely Victorian office building was just a stage set for the absurdist play of my life.
"The system failed," she continued. "Your regular doctor should have been able to help you handle this problem."
Tomorrow: hitting bottom
When I returned my completed forms to the receptionist, he told me one of the "facilitators" would be with me right after the current group meeting.
The spacious, sunny waiting area filled with participants when the meeting broke up a few minutes later. A man and woman, each wearing staff badges, conferred briefly in the hallway. Then the woman approached me.
I'm thinking, "Ah, they decided I should talk to the female counselor because I'm a woman."
By previous agreement, I kissed my husband goodbye and followed "Wendy" to her office. It was a good size room, filled with sunlight from tall windows overlooking the street below. We sat in side chairs facing each other in front of the windows.
"So," Wendy began, "I've taken a look at your paperwork. It looks like you're here because of Percoset."
I feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders. I'm talking to someone who actually knows something about Percoset withdrawal. I can finally get the help I need.
I proceed to fill Wendy in on the last eight weeks of my life--breaking my shoulder, flying home, the first surgery, the second surgery, and my recent realization that I'm hooked on the pills. I told her how it had been pulling teeth to get a referral to the CDRP. It was only when I finished my story that I noticed Wendy looked uncomfortable.
"I'm not sure how to tell you this," she said, shifting her position in the chair. "We're really not set up to serve people like you. The CDRP is for addicts. You're not addicted to Percoset. You're physically dependent, but you didn't take it to get high, you only took it for pain. To treat you here you'd have to do the whole program. That means coming here for most of the day, everyday for a couple weeks. Can you do that?"
I felt like the floor had just dropped out from under me. Like Alice, I was falling down the rabbit hole. The lovely Victorian office building was just a stage set for the absurdist play of my life.
"The system failed," she continued. "Your regular doctor should have been able to help you handle this problem."
Tomorrow: hitting bottom
Friday, July 25, 2008
SRD9 Intervention
Close readers of this blog probably already figured out why the Percoset I've been taking no longer touches my pain, and I can't stop taking it because I get withdrawal symptoms. I finally got the memo today. I'm addicted. Shit.
I started by calling my surgeon's nurse to ask for assistance. I left a message in his mailbox.
It had been several hours since my last pill and I was already feeling petty squirrely. So, rather than wait around for my surgeon to get back to me, I decided to try calling my regular doctor's office too. The way that works with my HMO is you call a central number and speak to an "advice nurse". The advice nurse asked why I was calling, so I explained that I'd been taking Percoset for seven weeks, I'd developed tolerance and although I wanted to stop taking it I was afraid to stop because the symptoms were so unpleasant. Her reply took me by surprise. She actually said, "I don't know if there's anything you can do about that."
After a brief, stunned silence I said, "Maybe not, but there are people who specialize in detox and I want to talk to one."
"Oh," she said, like that sounded like a good idea, "let me see what I can find out."
While I was on hold I thought, "Is it possible this person whose title is "advice nurse" doesn't have a protocol for responding to patients who call for help with drug addiction?"
When the advice nurse returned to the phone she had a number for me to call. "It's called the Chemical Dependency Recover Program," she said, like shed never heard of it before now. She was obviously reading to me from a brochure or flyer when she told me the hours and address of the CDRP.
I am grateful, truly grateful for the information. But I am appalled that she might have failed to refer me if I hadn't known about addiction specialists.
I called the number and learned I could drop in the next morning and talk to a counselor. I relaxed a little and had started thinking about how to manage my symptoms for the next 18 hours when the phone rang. It was the "triage nurse" from my surgeon's office returning my call. She thought I was running out of pain medication. Once again I explained the situation. "I've been taking Percoset since May 30th," I said. "But now it's not really working as well and I want to stop taking it but I get these awful symptoms."
I didn't get a chance to tell her I had found out about the CDRP and planned to walk in to the clinic in the morning.
"Well what did you expect," she cut in. "You knew you wouldn't be taking those pills forever didn't you? It can be very tough to stop."
I started to come unglued. "That is so not helpful," I answered. "You might want to ask the folks at your Chemical Dependence Recovery Program what you should say when a patient says she is experiencing withdrawal. Since the HMO already offers the service, you might as well be able to refer people who are asking for help."
Tomorrow: the CDRP
I started by calling my surgeon's nurse to ask for assistance. I left a message in his mailbox.
It had been several hours since my last pill and I was already feeling petty squirrely. So, rather than wait around for my surgeon to get back to me, I decided to try calling my regular doctor's office too. The way that works with my HMO is you call a central number and speak to an "advice nurse". The advice nurse asked why I was calling, so I explained that I'd been taking Percoset for seven weeks, I'd developed tolerance and although I wanted to stop taking it I was afraid to stop because the symptoms were so unpleasant. Her reply took me by surprise. She actually said, "I don't know if there's anything you can do about that."
After a brief, stunned silence I said, "Maybe not, but there are people who specialize in detox and I want to talk to one."
"Oh," she said, like that sounded like a good idea, "let me see what I can find out."
While I was on hold I thought, "Is it possible this person whose title is "advice nurse" doesn't have a protocol for responding to patients who call for help with drug addiction?"
When the advice nurse returned to the phone she had a number for me to call. "It's called the Chemical Dependency Recover Program," she said, like shed never heard of it before now. She was obviously reading to me from a brochure or flyer when she told me the hours and address of the CDRP.
I am grateful, truly grateful for the information. But I am appalled that she might have failed to refer me if I hadn't known about addiction specialists.
I called the number and learned I could drop in the next morning and talk to a counselor. I relaxed a little and had started thinking about how to manage my symptoms for the next 18 hours when the phone rang. It was the "triage nurse" from my surgeon's office returning my call. She thought I was running out of pain medication. Once again I explained the situation. "I've been taking Percoset since May 30th," I said. "But now it's not really working as well and I want to stop taking it but I get these awful symptoms."
I didn't get a chance to tell her I had found out about the CDRP and planned to walk in to the clinic in the morning.
"Well what did you expect," she cut in. "You knew you wouldn't be taking those pills forever didn't you? It can be very tough to stop."
I started to come unglued. "That is so not helpful," I answered. "You might want to ask the folks at your Chemical Dependence Recovery Program what you should say when a patient says she is experiencing withdrawal. Since the HMO already offers the service, you might as well be able to refer people who are asking for help."
Tomorrow: the CDRP
Thursday, July 24, 2008
SRD7 & 8 Gingerbread Therapy
If you didn't see this coming you just aren't paying attention.
Yesterday's wallow in self-pity required an intervention. Fortunately, I have a Cook's Illustrated recipe for Gingerbread that has proven palliative properties. (God I love alliteration!) It takes a few minutes to put together--mostly because you have to measure so many spices--but it isn't difficult. I felt better even before the cakes came out of the oven. The glossy, thick batter looked so substantial in the pans. The steam pouring out of the vent perfumed the kitchen with spice and caramelized sugar. No one can resist such smells.
Baking took all morning. The gingerbread helped, but I still maxed out on Percoset pills to get through the rest of the day. At night I couldn't find a comfortable position to sleep in and when I got out of bed my face was puffy and pale. Maybe that was because it was so early. I had a PT appointment at 7:20 this morning. I had to shower, dress, and get out the door. So I didn't have much time to feel sorry for myself.
Thank God for my physical therapist. He stretched and manipulated my shoulder, then he taped it so it wouldn't hurt so much. He is optimistic about the eventual recovery of my range of motion. I came away with exercises and hope.
Yesterday's wallow in self-pity required an intervention. Fortunately, I have a Cook's Illustrated recipe for Gingerbread that has proven palliative properties. (God I love alliteration!) It takes a few minutes to put together--mostly because you have to measure so many spices--but it isn't difficult. I felt better even before the cakes came out of the oven. The glossy, thick batter looked so substantial in the pans. The steam pouring out of the vent perfumed the kitchen with spice and caramelized sugar. No one can resist such smells.
Baking took all morning. The gingerbread helped, but I still maxed out on Percoset pills to get through the rest of the day. At night I couldn't find a comfortable position to sleep in and when I got out of bed my face was puffy and pale. Maybe that was because it was so early. I had a PT appointment at 7:20 this morning. I had to shower, dress, and get out the door. So I didn't have much time to feel sorry for myself.
Thank God for my physical therapist. He stretched and manipulated my shoulder, then he taped it so it wouldn't hurt so much. He is optimistic about the eventual recovery of my range of motion. I came away with exercises and hope.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
SRD6 Are We There Yet?
My arm hurts. I don't think it's fair. I've been doing this for seven weeks and I am tired of being in pain.
The pins are gone and the pain is both less intense and less restrictive. I can move around without inflicting a great stabbing pain in my shoulder. But I am still experiencing a significant amount of discomfort. It is a deep, constant ache that makes it difficult to sleep even though I am still taking pain pills.
I have my first physical therapy appointment tomorrow. I'm holding out great hopes my PT will be able to help me with the pain. But I'm afraid I'm just setting myself up for disappointment.
Other than toughing it out, I don't know what I can do. I don't want to take more Percoset--to which I suspect I have already developed a tolerance. I can distract myself during the day, but as afternoon approaches my energy level drops and I can no longer operate on top of the pain.
That's when I become a pain.
BTW: This is yesterday's post. I plan to add something later today for SRD7.
The pins are gone and the pain is both less intense and less restrictive. I can move around without inflicting a great stabbing pain in my shoulder. But I am still experiencing a significant amount of discomfort. It is a deep, constant ache that makes it difficult to sleep even though I am still taking pain pills.
I have my first physical therapy appointment tomorrow. I'm holding out great hopes my PT will be able to help me with the pain. But I'm afraid I'm just setting myself up for disappointment.
Other than toughing it out, I don't know what I can do. I don't want to take more Percoset--to which I suspect I have already developed a tolerance. I can distract myself during the day, but as afternoon approaches my energy level drops and I can no longer operate on top of the pain.
That's when I become a pain.
BTW: This is yesterday's post. I plan to add something later today for SRD7.
Monday, July 21, 2008
SRD5 Activities of Daily Living
Today was a banner day. I zipped up my hoodie ALL BY MYSELF. I used both hands to put on my socks and earrings. I wore a pullover top. I endorsed a check with my right hand. I cooked dinner. I am touch typing this entry.
You have no idea how many things you take for granted until you cannot do them.
You have no idea how many things you take for granted until you cannot do them.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
SRD4 Divine Spam
A dear, dear friend sent me a chain letter email yesterday. I am very fond of this particular friend; I am not fond of chain letters. I never want to be the one to break the chain and I don't want to impose the burden of not breaking the chain on anyone else. But, because of something that happened yesterday, this chain letter struck me differently.
Yesterday was Saturday and my first Shabbat since the second of two surgeries to repair my broken shoulder. It was, to be precise, my third day of rehab following the removal of four very unpleasant pins that held my bone together while it healed. Although I attend Saturday morning services at my synagogue only infrequently, I wanted to attend this particular Shabbat because my husband was participating in the service. He was scheduled to chant from the Torah; an honor and a mitzvah.
I got up in plenty of time to get myself bathed and dressed--a challenging project with my wounded wing. I even managed to put on a little makeup. Upon our arrival at shul, I greeted people and answered the inevitable questions prompted by having my arm in a sling. We settled into a pew and the service began.
Three notes into the opening song I started to cry. Tears streamed down my face and literally pooled in my lap. My husband took my hand, “Are you okay?” he asked with his eyes. I nodded, mopping my face again and blowing my nose. I was grateful the handkerchief in my purse was a substantial, cotton number with plenty of absorption power. Even so it was thoroughly soaked in minutes.
During the past seven, long, painful weeks since my injury I never cried. Every time I was ready to succumb to despair, I’d look in the mirror and insist I pull myself together. It worked. I’d stayed dry-eyed through it all.
Sitting in the chapel, with the worst of my ordeal behind me, I could not stop the waterworks. But despair and pain were not the source of these tears. I cried in awe of the miraculous ability of my body to heal; the calm, kind, competence of the emergency technicians who transported me to the hospital; the skill of the surgeon who repaired my shoulder. I cried in gratitude for the loving, patient support of my friends and family.
Crying never felt so good.
And that is why I decided to send this chain letter to five people.*
Dear loved one:
HaShem - (neither masculine nor feminine & absolutely no plural); the word means, literally, 'The Name,' & it is the way that Jews refer to G-d when not in a Prayer or Torah Reading or Torah citation context.
HaShem determines who walks into your life ... It is up to you to decide who you let walk away, who you let stay & who you refuse to let go.
HaShem, bless all my friends & special family in whatever it is that you know they may be needing this day! And may their lives be full of peace, prosperity & power.
Amen.
Now send it on to 5 other people, including the person (me) who sent it to you. Within minutes you have caused a multitude of people to pray for others.
*I have no expectation you will send the letter to anyone. But feel free if you are so disposed.
Yesterday was Saturday and my first Shabbat since the second of two surgeries to repair my broken shoulder. It was, to be precise, my third day of rehab following the removal of four very unpleasant pins that held my bone together while it healed. Although I attend Saturday morning services at my synagogue only infrequently, I wanted to attend this particular Shabbat because my husband was participating in the service. He was scheduled to chant from the Torah; an honor and a mitzvah.
I got up in plenty of time to get myself bathed and dressed--a challenging project with my wounded wing. I even managed to put on a little makeup. Upon our arrival at shul, I greeted people and answered the inevitable questions prompted by having my arm in a sling. We settled into a pew and the service began.
Three notes into the opening song I started to cry. Tears streamed down my face and literally pooled in my lap. My husband took my hand, “Are you okay?” he asked with his eyes. I nodded, mopping my face again and blowing my nose. I was grateful the handkerchief in my purse was a substantial, cotton number with plenty of absorption power. Even so it was thoroughly soaked in minutes.
During the past seven, long, painful weeks since my injury I never cried. Every time I was ready to succumb to despair, I’d look in the mirror and insist I pull myself together. It worked. I’d stayed dry-eyed through it all.
Sitting in the chapel, with the worst of my ordeal behind me, I could not stop the waterworks. But despair and pain were not the source of these tears. I cried in awe of the miraculous ability of my body to heal; the calm, kind, competence of the emergency technicians who transported me to the hospital; the skill of the surgeon who repaired my shoulder. I cried in gratitude for the loving, patient support of my friends and family.
Crying never felt so good.
And that is why I decided to send this chain letter to five people.*
Dear loved one:
HaShem - (neither masculine nor feminine & absolutely no plural); the word means, literally, 'The Name,' & it is the way that Jews refer to G-d when not in a Prayer or Torah Reading or Torah citation context.
HaShem determines who walks into your life ... It is up to you to decide who you let walk away, who you let stay & who you refuse to let go.
HaShem, bless all my friends & special family in whatever it is that you know they may be needing this day! And may their lives be full of peace, prosperity & power.
Amen.
Now send it on to 5 other people, including the person (me) who sent it to you. Within minutes you have caused a multitude of people to pray for others.
*I have no expectation you will send the letter to anyone. But feel free if you are so disposed.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
SRD3 Cake and Monkeys
It turns out Percoset withdrawal takes longer than one day. I've added sweaty palms and general squirreliness to my list of symptoms. Also, the arm still hurts a lot; too much to sleep, too much to sit still and watch TV, too much to eat anything more demanding than soup. I decided to take another pill and deal with all this later when my arm doesn't hurt so much. I guess I've got a monkey on my back.
But, hey, cake!! I made a cake yesterday. Friends and family already know that I indulge in therapeutic cooking. When feeling a little blue I often attempt to lighten my mood by baking. Also, the clearest signal I am coming to the end of a cold or virus is the appearance in my kitchen of freshly baked cookies, cake, or bread. It's creative, makes the house smell good, and people can always eat the baked goods. Although I have been known to whip up an old stand-by under these circumstances, therapeutic baking usually involves preparation of something I've never made before. The serious and protracted nature of my recent malady seemed to demand an experiment.
This time it was poppy seed cake with blackberry topping. Upon encountering the stack of sticky bowls and rubber spatulas the project left in the sink, my husband entertained the idea of banning future therapeutic cooking until I am also capable of cleaning up. He changed his mind when he tasted the cake.
I was not prepared to declare the cake an unqualified success when I removed it from the oven. The recipe called for adding the blackberries after 30 minutes of baking. This was designed to keep the berries from sinking into the batter. But either my oven was too hot or my substitution of goat cheese for cream cheese threw off the moisture content, because the surface of the cake was already pretty firm. My berries did not sink, they didn't even stick to the surface of the cake. Instead of creating what I imagined a "berry topping" should look like, my blackberries were precariously perched on top of the cake looking ready to topple off at the slightest provocation. Berries did indeed fall off when I sliced the cake. But all was forgiven when I took a bite. The rich lemon/vanilla/poppy seed cake was just sweet enough to offset the tart berries; definitely a keeper.
But, hey, cake!! I made a cake yesterday. Friends and family already know that I indulge in therapeutic cooking. When feeling a little blue I often attempt to lighten my mood by baking. Also, the clearest signal I am coming to the end of a cold or virus is the appearance in my kitchen of freshly baked cookies, cake, or bread. It's creative, makes the house smell good, and people can always eat the baked goods. Although I have been known to whip up an old stand-by under these circumstances, therapeutic baking usually involves preparation of something I've never made before. The serious and protracted nature of my recent malady seemed to demand an experiment.
This time it was poppy seed cake with blackberry topping. Upon encountering the stack of sticky bowls and rubber spatulas the project left in the sink, my husband entertained the idea of banning future therapeutic cooking until I am also capable of cleaning up. He changed his mind when he tasted the cake.
I was not prepared to declare the cake an unqualified success when I removed it from the oven. The recipe called for adding the blackberries after 30 minutes of baking. This was designed to keep the berries from sinking into the batter. But either my oven was too hot or my substitution of goat cheese for cream cheese threw off the moisture content, because the surface of the cake was already pretty firm. My berries did not sink, they didn't even stick to the surface of the cake. Instead of creating what I imagined a "berry topping" should look like, my blackberries were precariously perched on top of the cake looking ready to topple off at the slightest provocation. Berries did indeed fall off when I sliced the cake. But all was forgiven when I took a bite. The rich lemon/vanilla/poppy seed cake was just sweet enough to offset the tart berries; definitely a keeper.
Friday, July 18, 2008
SRD2 (shoulder rehab day 2 for you newbies)
Day 2; less than 48 hours since the surgery to remove my pins. My shoulder is still sore, but bearable with a minimum of medication. Which brings me to the fact that in addition to rehabbing my shoulder I am also detoxing from seven weeks of narcotics.
Since my shoulder collided abruptly with the sidewalk in New Orleans, I've taken morphine, Demerol, Dilaudid, and Vicodin, but mostly it was Percoset. I've had a bottle of Percoset in my pocket or by my beside at all times. I counted the remaining pills and calculated the days before my second surgery, computed the average number of pills consumed per day and considered various back-up plans for securing more pills if I should run out. I think it is safe to say that I was drug-dependent and I don't think it is a stretch to think that I could be addicted.
I've already experienced some of the classic withdrawal symptoms; stomach upset, sleeplessness, anxiety, and muscle pain. But I'll never know if it's a result of actual physical dependence or a product of compulsively researching Percoset withdrawal for the past three weeks. Either way, none of the symptoms are particularly intense.
I'm going to go with "over-active imagination" rather than "strung-out middle-aged mom."
Rehab goals for SRD2: walk around the block and bake a cake.
Since my shoulder collided abruptly with the sidewalk in New Orleans, I've taken morphine, Demerol, Dilaudid, and Vicodin, but mostly it was Percoset. I've had a bottle of Percoset in my pocket or by my beside at all times. I counted the remaining pills and calculated the days before my second surgery, computed the average number of pills consumed per day and considered various back-up plans for securing more pills if I should run out. I think it is safe to say that I was drug-dependent and I don't think it is a stretch to think that I could be addicted.
I've already experienced some of the classic withdrawal symptoms; stomach upset, sleeplessness, anxiety, and muscle pain. But I'll never know if it's a result of actual physical dependence or a product of compulsively researching Percoset withdrawal for the past three weeks. Either way, none of the symptoms are particularly intense.
I'm going to go with "over-active imagination" rather than "strung-out middle-aged mom."
Rehab goals for SRD2: walk around the block and bake a cake.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Flash forward 6 weeks or so
Today will be known henceforth as Shoulder Rehab Day 1 or SRD1. The pins are out! My arm is moderately sore and my biggest challenge is not overdoing it the day after surgery. Stay tuned. My rehab focus of the day (SRD1) is rest.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Pins come out in three days
We left New Orleans promptly on the morning after my injury. Changing our return flights was expensive and we ended up flying through Cleveland, adding a significant number of miles and a few hours to our trip. Still, considering my 100% displaced humerus—the trip could have been worse.
I maintained a steady level of percoset in my bloodstream and used a wheelchair whenever possible. While waiting to board our flight from Cleveland, I was one of five passengers seated near the gate in wheelchairs. A frantic airport employee rolled another wheelchair-bound passenger toward us shouting, “Hurry up!” and “Get out of my way!” With one arm in a sling and about 15 milligrams of percoset circulating in my system I was ill-equipped to respond. My four wheelchair companions, all older and clearly wiser travelers, stared calmly ahead, ignoring the fellow. When he finally wandered off, leaving behind the wheelchair containing his former passenger, she sighed with relief.
I don’t remember anything else. The rest of the trip was unremarkable. The percoset allowed all the details of our return travels to merge into memories of other trips, other flights.
Once I was home, our HMO was ready, willing, and able to care for me. Nobody had to worry about getting paid. A board certified trauma surgeon looked at my x-rays and recommended placing “pins” through my humerus to hold it together while it healed. The pins would remain in place for six weeks and require another operation to remove them. But, my doctor explained, this approach would greatly increase the likelihood my shoulder could regain a full range of motion.
If he said anything else it is lost in the fog of time. Those words, “full range of motion,” were all I needed to hear. I agreed to have four pins—roughly the size of #2 knitting needles—jammed through my muscles and into my bone. The surgeon tucked the ends of the pins under my skin and sewed up the incisions so no one would even know they were there. No one, that is, but me.
Here are a few of the questions I did not think to ask: Will the pins hurt? Will I need to take narcotics day and night to control the pain? Will I have to sleep sitting up? Will the pins press up under my skin and feel like I’m being stabbed from the inside? Will the pain get progressively worse over the six weeks of healing? Will I eventually realize I can go nowhere and do nothing without aggravating the constant pain? Answer to all of the above; yes.
Here’s the question I asked: When will I be able to do push-ups? Answer; three months.
I maintained a steady level of percoset in my bloodstream and used a wheelchair whenever possible. While waiting to board our flight from Cleveland, I was one of five passengers seated near the gate in wheelchairs. A frantic airport employee rolled another wheelchair-bound passenger toward us shouting, “Hurry up!” and “Get out of my way!” With one arm in a sling and about 15 milligrams of percoset circulating in my system I was ill-equipped to respond. My four wheelchair companions, all older and clearly wiser travelers, stared calmly ahead, ignoring the fellow. When he finally wandered off, leaving behind the wheelchair containing his former passenger, she sighed with relief.
I don’t remember anything else. The rest of the trip was unremarkable. The percoset allowed all the details of our return travels to merge into memories of other trips, other flights.
Once I was home, our HMO was ready, willing, and able to care for me. Nobody had to worry about getting paid. A board certified trauma surgeon looked at my x-rays and recommended placing “pins” through my humerus to hold it together while it healed. The pins would remain in place for six weeks and require another operation to remove them. But, my doctor explained, this approach would greatly increase the likelihood my shoulder could regain a full range of motion.
If he said anything else it is lost in the fog of time. Those words, “full range of motion,” were all I needed to hear. I agreed to have four pins—roughly the size of #2 knitting needles—jammed through my muscles and into my bone. The surgeon tucked the ends of the pins under my skin and sewed up the incisions so no one would even know they were there. No one, that is, but me.
Here are a few of the questions I did not think to ask: Will the pins hurt? Will I need to take narcotics day and night to control the pain? Will I have to sleep sitting up? Will the pins press up under my skin and feel like I’m being stabbed from the inside? Will the pain get progressively worse over the six weeks of healing? Will I eventually realize I can go nowhere and do nothing without aggravating the constant pain? Answer to all of the above; yes.
Here’s the question I asked: When will I be able to do push-ups? Answer; three months.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Why I am blogging about shoulder rehab
>Planning our recent trip to New Orleans, my husband and I thought we were being terribly magnanimous. He offers training seminars for users of his software a few times each year. We chose New Orleans so his clients would join us in spending money there—our little contribution to rebuilding the hurricane-ravaged region. Or so we thought.
As it happened, I fell off a Segway at the end of an otherwise delightful 2 ½ hour tour of the French Quarter and ended up placing a burden on the local emergency medical services system
First I needed an ambulance, complete with two friendly, competent and extremely patient emergency medical technicians. They took me to Tulane University Hospital Emergency Department where I occupied a bed in for several hours. The nurse who coordinated my care at Tulane apologized at one point for taking so long to check on me. He was simultaneously responsible for two other patients experiencing cardiac arrest. By then I was hooked up to a bag of Demerol so I didn’t really care.
Meanwhile, outside my room, I could overhear two patients who were in pretty bad shape; a very drunk woman who said she’d been beaten up by her boy friend, and a man who had overdosed on heroin. The woman was loud and mostly incoherent; the man pulled out his IV and trailed blood all over the floor before he was restrained.
When my husband arrived at the emergency room, he called our California HMO to request authorization for my care. The representative listened as my husband explained where we were and what had happened. He then asked what state New Orleans is in. Upon being informed that New Orleans is in the state of Louisiana he asked, “Is that anywhere near Virginia?”
When the x-ray revealed a broken shoulder, we learned Tulane would not schedule the needed surgery for at least four days. Even then, a patient with a life-threatening injury might bump me from the operating room. The medical resident appeared uncomfortable while explaining the surgery situation to us. While he didn’t come right out and say it, he intimated Tulane had experienced difficulty collecting from our HMO for such “out of plan” treatment. I couldn’t help thinking I might have been able to see a surgeon sooner if I was able to pay cash. But looking around an emergency department crowded with uninsured people, I had to appreciate the realities.
The doctors at Tulane deemed my injury stable enough to delay treatment four days, so Kaiser said I’d have to come home for the surgery. All the bottom line people at both institutions were happy and I just had to get home to Oakland with a broken humerus that was 100% displaced. Tulane wrapped my arm in a sling and swathe to immobilize it, gave me a prescription for 60 percoset, and sent me on my way.
Before leaving the ER, we thanked all the doctors and nurses who had cared for me. I especially wanted to know the names of the ambulance EMTs who had transported me as gently as possible through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. The young woman who administered the shot of morphine that helped me endure that painful trip looked down at me as she stood next to my gurney. “It’s Katrina,” she said, responding to my question. And we both just smiled.
As it happened, I fell off a Segway at the end of an otherwise delightful 2 ½ hour tour of the French Quarter and ended up placing a burden on the local emergency medical services system
First I needed an ambulance, complete with two friendly, competent and extremely patient emergency medical technicians. They took me to Tulane University Hospital Emergency Department where I occupied a bed in for several hours. The nurse who coordinated my care at Tulane apologized at one point for taking so long to check on me. He was simultaneously responsible for two other patients experiencing cardiac arrest. By then I was hooked up to a bag of Demerol so I didn’t really care.
Meanwhile, outside my room, I could overhear two patients who were in pretty bad shape; a very drunk woman who said she’d been beaten up by her boy friend, and a man who had overdosed on heroin. The woman was loud and mostly incoherent; the man pulled out his IV and trailed blood all over the floor before he was restrained.
When my husband arrived at the emergency room, he called our California HMO to request authorization for my care. The representative listened as my husband explained where we were and what had happened. He then asked what state New Orleans is in. Upon being informed that New Orleans is in the state of Louisiana he asked, “Is that anywhere near Virginia?”
When the x-ray revealed a broken shoulder, we learned Tulane would not schedule the needed surgery for at least four days. Even then, a patient with a life-threatening injury might bump me from the operating room. The medical resident appeared uncomfortable while explaining the surgery situation to us. While he didn’t come right out and say it, he intimated Tulane had experienced difficulty collecting from our HMO for such “out of plan” treatment. I couldn’t help thinking I might have been able to see a surgeon sooner if I was able to pay cash. But looking around an emergency department crowded with uninsured people, I had to appreciate the realities.
The doctors at Tulane deemed my injury stable enough to delay treatment four days, so Kaiser said I’d have to come home for the surgery. All the bottom line people at both institutions were happy and I just had to get home to Oakland with a broken humerus that was 100% displaced. Tulane wrapped my arm in a sling and swathe to immobilize it, gave me a prescription for 60 percoset, and sent me on my way.
Before leaving the ER, we thanked all the doctors and nurses who had cared for me. I especially wanted to know the names of the ambulance EMTs who had transported me as gently as possible through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. The young woman who administered the shot of morphine that helped me endure that painful trip looked down at me as she stood next to my gurney. “It’s Katrina,” she said, responding to my question. And we both just smiled.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Not the summer I expected (Pilates update)
Laurie’s Pilates Update June 2008
1. Private, personal, peaceful Pilates
2. Dude, where’s my core?
3. Learning about shoulder rehab the hard way
1. Private, personal, peaceful Pilates
Private sessions 1 for $54, 5 for $245, 10 for $440
Duet* sessions 1 for $64 ($32 each), 5 for $300 ($150 each), 10 for $560 ($280 each)
* In Pilates jargon, a duet is a semi-private lesson - two people sharing one instructor (sorry, no singing). Clients choose duets for several reasons; they cost less, an exercise partner can be motivating, and it’s fun. You can find your own partner or let me match you up with someone. Please note; I need to work privately with each person at least once, duets are not appropriate for all clients.
2. Dude, where’s my core?
I continue to offer workplace workshops on upper body releases and strategies for preventing repetitive strain injuries (RSI). During these 45 minute group lessons I teach both standing and sitting exercises, all of which can be done in casual business attire without getting sweaty or wrinkled. Participants learn effective ways to stretch shoulder, neck, and back muscles, sit and stand with good alignment, relieve muscle tension, reduce pain, and prevent injury. A perfect “stretch break” for intensive training seminars or conferences, Dude, where’s my core? is serious exercise that’s fun. $150, plus travel in excess of 5 miles.
3. Learning about shoulder rehab the hard way
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