Pain free

I am in pain every single day of my life. It's just a matter of to what degree.

I'm not sick — I have no disease or debilitating injury. This leads me to wonder if this is "normal" or not. Yes it's my normal — but does everyone feel this way? Is there really something I could do to "fix" it?

I've had chronic back/neck pain and head aches for about 10 years. Less than two years ago I added hand and wrist pain — which was helped by the carpal tunnel surgeries, but it is not gone.

Some days I can take a dose of Ibuprofen and be fine. A lot of days I take a "max" dose (four pills) every four-six hours and it merely dulls the pain, doesn't get rid of it. Hell, sometimes I take the max dose of Ibuprofen and one or two Naproxen, and it still only dulls the pain so I can function. (note — none of my pain medications are prescription strength)

Yes, I've spoken to doctors before about my issues, and I know it's probably about time I bring it up again — but that's not the point of this entry.

The point is, I'm hardly ever actually "pain free." Which is what makes me wonder if anyone is...

Gypsy's tale

Young girl drawn by colors bright,
Transfixed by magic in fire light.
Harken! Drums call feet to stir.
In the dark, the dancers blur.

Gypsy, dance for me.

Older now, her heart is torn,
Drum beats move the men to war.
Thunderous cries drive love to ride,
Across the land, to live or die.

Banners snap along the field,
Brave young souls with sword and shield.
Glint of metal as coins once bright,
By the fires, on hips wrapped tight.

Gypsy, dance for me.

She hears the cries, feels the pain
Of foes and kinsmen newly slain.
Heart pounds out a panicked pace,
Whirling, spinning colors race.

Fires burn, but not for them,
Glowing on ships for fallen men.
Drums in the dark to lead them home,
Pulsing beat through blood and bone.

Gypsy, dance for me.

From inner pain comes new life,
Hailed by dancing fire bright.
What was lost, she now reclaims,
In a daughter of the flames.

Gathered round, the women keep,
by the fire, while men folk sleep.
Feet to earth and hands to sky,
Magic in a young one's eyes.

Gypsy, dance for me.

Barefoot in the kitchen

"Don't run around in your stocking feet!"

That was a constant criticism from my mother growing up. I hated wearing shoes. Particularly inside. 

Granted part of the reason for the command was due to my less than stellar cleanliness habits in regards to my room. Watching me cross the room barefoot would cause my father to cringe. When asked why he'd respond he wouldn't walk into my room without steel toed boots, let alone no shoes at all.

I don't know what all the fuss was about — a few sharp edged toys, a carpet coated in staples, and plethora of tacks, needles and sundry other pointy bits of mass destruction. What's the big deal?

Now that I've reached adulthood and home ownership, I am no longer bound by my footwear. I can wander wherever I like in just my socks or entirely barefoot. 

A couple weeks ago, I was baking up a storm when a package arrived from a dear friend. Opening it I found kitchen based treasures in honor of our new home. My husband started grinning — mischievously. 

When asked what he was thinking, he replied "looks like someone thinks you should be barefoot in the kitchen."

My instant reaction was mock indignation and to smack him for his wiseassery. He dodged and laughed saying "Hun, no, wait, look at your feet."

I paused and looked down. Barefoot. I looked over at the oven timer and my husband nodded at me. "We're still working on the pregnant part," he added, eyes twinkling.

Now my husband is about as far from a male chauvinist as a guy can get — he's a sweet hopeless romantic, who now and again likes to get a rise out of me just because he can. And I had unwittingly played into an archaic archetype.

Sometimes I think my husband wishes I'd wear shoes to protect myself from the collateral damage that is my catastrophic klutziness. But all I'm doing is playing with boiling water, knives, heavy objects and a gas stove — what's the worst that could happen? 

The journey

Today's theme is happiness.  About five years ago, I went through a deep depression. 
I tried a lot of things to get out of it, chocolate therapy, St. John's Wart, seeking support from friends and family — nothing seemed to work.
I lived alone, and I felt alone. 
This feeling lasted for a solid year before I stubbled upon a solution — if I want to be happy, I first have to decide, in no uncertain terms, that I am going to be happy. 

It was my New Year's resolution — I was sick of being depressed, so I was going to stop being depressed. 
I joined a belly dance class, signed up for eharmony, and started actively seeking social interaction.
Soon — through some miracle it seemed — I was happy. And six months later, I happened upon an old friend who later became my husband.


At the start of my happiness revolution, I came across this quote, which is still on my fridge to this day. I give a lot of credit for my turnaround to this excerpt:

"For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin — real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life. This perspective has helped me to see there is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way. So treasure every moment you have and remember that time waits for no one.

Happiness is a journey, not a destination." -Father Alfred D Souza.

Summer longing

Hear the beat of the drums. They meld with your pulse urging you to action. War drums. 

The dust on the road billows orange in the August sun. The scent of hay fills your lungs as you approach the field. The rattle bang of carts toting the implements of battle ring in your ears. 

As the heat of the day starts to meld into place, warriors gather by the hundreds, thousands, ready. They smile as they pass friends and foes. At the ready, you wait.

The canon blast shakes the air and screaming, fighters pour onto the field.

It's a good day to die.

It's a good day to die two, three, perhaps half a dozen times...

Spark. As the sun disappears and a blanket of stars replaces her, the heat of battle is replaced with the crackle of fire.

Hear the beat of the drums. Feel them in your feet, urging you out from your shade tents, out from your shelters. Night has come. The tinkling of coin, and jingle of bells join with the drums in a call to all corners — come out and play.  

A bright menagerie colors swirl around the flames, as feet work the clay in a way that hands never could. Feel your feet connect with the earth. Feel the pull of the music. Time and cultures meld in the flames. 

Here there is no judgment, no insecurity. There's just you and the fire. And the drums...

Gather around now. 

The cool of night draws you toward the fire. Words have power here. Time stands still. Tales of adventures of long ago fill your ears. Drink them in. Songs of heroic gestures, beautiful maidens and journeys to far off lands long since gone. Jesters of a sort bring forth lyrics to amuse, while more serious bards talk of Gods of old. Leave this place for awhile. See the grand viking halls where the Jarl sits with his people holding feast. See the market place and vast palaces of India. See the Russian snows, deep and vast. See the great dragons upon the stoney cliffs turn to butterflies in the summer fields...

As you drift to sleep, warm in the comfort of your bed, distant drums beat a lullaby.

www.sca.org

www.pennsicwar.org

Backwards

My mother says I tackle problems backwards. 

While most people think in terms of "best way to do this" my brain goes through an automatic "most difficult solution" process. The worst part is, I think my brain is doing the "best solution" process same as everyone else.

This was a major point of contention when I was an angsty teen, and requested assistance with my homework. Foolishly, mom interpreted this as me wanting help with my homework. She would then attempt to assist me by jumping to the simplest solution. This does not compute. 

Frustration would ensue and we'd spend half an hour yelling at each other, ended with "fine, do it yourself!" 

A begrudging apology would be given to my mother after my brain caught up with the afore mentioned simple solution.

It wasn't until college that I fully understood why I had had such a problem communicating with my mother over these issues.  

Backwards. 

If there is a more difficult, labor intensive, and complex way to do something, that's what my brain jumps to first. Every time. 

Eventually, through hours of mulling and tweaking, the eventuality evolves into a far less frustrating, far less complex conclusion.

Mom call this my "process."

My husband was at first bemused by this, but has since learned how to deal with it. When I go off on one of my tangents, he just nods and waits. Once I actually looked at him at the end of one of my treks and asked "How long have you known that was the solution?" 

To which he replies "Since the beginning." 

If he thinks I might not come to the easiest path soon enough, he'll speak up with "why don't you try...". Particularly if the path I'm headed down might cause mental or physical harm to either myself or others.

If I don't think things through out-loud, some entertaining situations can arise.

While planning our wedding, a task my husband really wanted no part of (show up sober, in tux, on time, got it), one of the first things I did was order Save the Date cards for our 150+ guests. Because I did not do this process out-loud, we ended up with enough cards left over to paper a wall.

Backwards.

It wasn't until we were working on our first house that I found out I'm not alone.

My husband came upstairs with an odd smile on his face and kissed me on the forehead. He had been working with dad for a few hours. He said "at least now I know where you get it from."

Dad is a thinker. He very rarely reveals these thoughts out-loud. Typically when he talks to someone about something, it's long after the thought process has been completed.

Our house broke him. 

Within a month of working on our house, my father started talking to himself. A constant muttering of measurements, sequences, plans and problems. My husband would follow him around to help him with things, so for awhile we thought dad was talking to him. He wasn't. 

It was shortly after that happened when we discovered — my father tackles problems backwards.

My husband found this highly amusing, considering he had been living with me for a few years and was well aquatinted with the "process." 

He said he had started carefully making suggestions to dad, "wouldn't it be easier to.....". He said dad would stop, think about it, and occasionally respond with "huh. You know, that might work."

So if you ever notice me doing something odd, highly labor intensive and unnecessary, don't worry. This is just my process. I'll get there... eventually.

Short cuts

I grew up in an idyllic, Norman Rockwell worthy, bit of countryside my generation refers to as "the bubble." So named because of its blissful separateness from the rest of the world. 

My childhood was full of community picnics, pool parties, campfire gatherings and Christmas celebrations marked by fond memories and general generosity. As Jack Nicholson puts it in "As Good as it Gets" — "Some of us have great stories, pretty stories that take place at lakes with boats and friends and noodle salad. Just no one in this car. But, a lot of people, that's their story. Good times, noodle salad."

This kind of story would not be complete without a best friend. Someone just down the road to ride bikes and traverse creeks with on long hot summer days. Someone to spend hours with in fabulous imaginary places full of adventure. Someone to brave storms and hide from monsters with. Mine was Stacy Marie. 

She was with me from the age of 5 or 6 right through into adulthood. Together we share the most intimate parts of friendship — from happy memories to broken hearts.

To say Stacy is a quiet person is a bit of an understatement. She didn't start speaking to my parents until we were teenagers, and even then it was tenuous at best.

Which makes the moment at my wedding, when she stood up and gave a speech on our childhood, all the more special. While there were many memories worth noting, among them were the short cuts.

There isn't much to do in a small town, and even less to do out in the boonies. Physical activity is a survival necessity to stave off boredom.

Stacy's talent was for short cuts. 

Every summer she and I would take a bike trek to the village (roughly six miles).  When riding we had a rule: Ride down the hills, walk up the hills. This allowed not only for a leisurely trip but also for chatting along the way. It also added a travel time vs. distance conundrum. While it typically took us only half an hour to get to our destinations, it took us a whopping hour and a half to get home. Answer? Dramatic downhill trajectory into the village. 

For a few years, we took the same route, which landed us close to the McDonalds with a minimal amount of difficulty. One year, as we began our departure, Stacy asked, why not go right instead of left? As our destination lay toward the right, this seemed a perfectly logical route – a short cut.

Over an hour later, we were exhausted, leaning on our bicycles, and only halfway home.

While in a car the chosen route might be the same (or, in actuality .2 miles longer according to google maps) on foot the dramatic increase of the angles of the hills presented a definite problem. Oh yeah, and it had started to rain.

Shortly after that, my father drove up. It seems the fact that we were late getting home had caused some concern so he had come out looking for us. Once he confirmed we were OK, he smiled, waved, and drove off. Thanks dad.

Over two hours into the journey and about a mile from home, dad reappeared with the pickup truck. Apparently he had taken pity on us, all be a only a little, and he gave us and our trusty cycles a lift the rest of the way home.

You may look at this and think "aw, what a cute learning experience." But that journey isn't over yet.

Later on in our wanderings, Stacy suggested another short cut. We were walking along the road to catch up on the latest high school gossip and were turning to head home when she indicated a neighbors field as a viable and possibly more enjoyable detour. We weren't far from home, not even half a mile, and the path she suggested seemed parallel to our typical route, so I agreed. What could possibly go wrong?

About half an hour later we emerged from the woods on the back end of her parents' field. Meaning I would have to first get to her house, then back-track down a road and up a hill to get home. 

These are only two of many stories with similar endings. Granted they are the two most dramatic examples, but still, the fact remains that no learning curve seemed to exist to prevent such misadventures. So why did I follow her? Why didn't I once say "no, I don't think so" or "that's not a good idea"?

To this day I'm not entirely sure why. It could be a prerequisite of best friendship that we go out of our way — even miles and hours out of the way — unquestioningly for said friend. Like Anne Shirley and Diana Barry fighting ghosts of their own making, we traversed the woods confident in our friendship to get us out in one piece. We dreamed of a world much bigger than our own, with bright lights and wonderful adventures, when all the while we had it made. We had the bubble.

As adults we dream of recapturing it. We go back and visit our old haunts and say "remember when we..." and laugh for hours over the retrospection. We long for things to be that simple again, and know in our hearts they never can be, not really. 

Maybe we can get back that life for our children someday — that beautiful idyllic place between reality and dream, that for a brief moment in time, was ours. 

Single woman vs the world

Let me start by saying I'm a catastrophe waiting to happen. 

I'm accident prone and a horrible klutz — both traits I picked up from my parents. Thanks to my dad's myriad of accidents growing up — second degree burns, contusions, sliced off bits — I learned at a young age how to patch myself up. My mother and I both routinely come up with new, eccentric ways to hurt ourselves. Anyone can stub their toe — it takes a master to stab themselves with a fork through a bag they happen to trip over (I still have the scar on my toe).

When I moved into my first apartment in 2007, I was confident I could handle anything. I was 23, on my own, ready to take on the world. My dwelling was adorable — a little one bedroom on the third floor of an old Victorian house in Kingston, NY. Yes, the ceiling leaned in at dramatic angles, but I'm only 5'4", so this wasn't a huge issue. And yes, the apartment held a temperature of at least 75 degrees year-round. But it was mine.

—

My landlord was something else. He was a nice retired gentleman with a daughter just a bit older than myself, so I think he felt a fatherly inclination toward my well-being. 

The water pressure in my apartment was truly awesome. Anything past mid force could knock a glass out of your hand. During my first week on my own, I went to wash up a dish in the kitchen sink and the handle spun loose and wouldn't go off. Water crashed out of the faucet like I'd just let loose the dam. I did what any sane single woman would do, I called my father.

When mom answered, she could hear the rush of something gone terribly wrong and merely replied "yup" when I said "Hi, I need to speak to dad."

Dad calmly walked me through how to find the shutoff and told me to call the landlord.

When Bob arrived, he took a look at the sink and said "Huh, would you look at that."

Turns out my porcelain sink was so old they didn't even make the replacement hardware for it anymore. Bob bought the last two handles the store had, and put the extra under the sink "just in case."

The stove was another matter entirely.

I had never worked with a gas stove before, and this one was, special. Like everything else in the apartment it was likely from the 1950s. It was solid, small and rather grimy under the hood. Re-lighting the pilot light was a regular necessity. 

Early on in my association with the stove, a gas man came around to inspect all the apartments in the building. He looked over the connections and the top without much issue. Then he opened the oven and took a sharp intake of breath.

When the gas guy has that reaction, you don't use the oven. Ever. 

It wasn't like there was a gas leak, or anything like that. Just the pilot light for the oven was broken and would require me reach well within the orifice to light it manually. 

I decided I could live without it.

There was only ever one explosion in my kitchen, and it was safely restricted to a small enclosed area.

The previous tenant had had some strange ideas, not least of which was replacing burnt out 40 and 60 watt bulbs with 100 watt ones. The single bulb stuck in the middle of the vanity lights should have been enough of a warning to check the rest of the fixtures. But I had wanted to reduce my electric bill anyway, so I went around and replaced all the lights with energy saver bulbs. There was no way to prepare myself for what I found in the kitchen.

I heard an odd rattling sound when I went to remove the light cover. Once I got it down I discovered he had placed not one but two 100 watt bulbs in the fixture. This had resulted in the glass melting and separating from the metal bases of the bulbs. The glass enclosures were hanging, balanced precariously over their wire innards.

I grabbed a towel and carefully removed the glass from the fixture (I only dropped one of them, which I chose to look at in a glass-half-full kind of way). 

I had to take a pair of needle nose pliers and carefully untwist the metal from the sockets. After I was certain all the offending materials were out of the way, I installed my two 13 watt (60 watt equivalent) bulbs and thought nothing more of it.

Weeks later, I turned on my kitchen light and had started to cross the room when there was a loud bang and sizzling sound right over my head. I dove across the room as the light went out.

After a few moments I got up, skirted around the offending fixture, and turned off the switch. My parents advised me not to check the light myself, as florescent bulbs contain hazardous material and there was a chance one of them had gone boom. 

Great. 

So I called Bob. He wandered into the kitchen, glanced up at the light and proceeded to calmly remove the cover with his bare hands. I winced. "Huh, would ya look at that" from the unflappable Bob.

Luckily, the argon and mercury were still safely encased in their proper tubing. 

The explosion it turns out was caused by the previous wattage overload. The wires were completely fried, as were other parts of the fixture. Another necessary replacement.

—

I'm an only child, so naturally my mom worried about me. It didn't help matters that dramatic things tended to happen to me while I was on the phone with her.

Once, while retrieving something from the microwave, I made mistake of standing up too quickly and cracking my head on one of the low eves. This resulted in me sprawled out on the floor dazed with my mother shouting urgently in my ear "What was that? What happened? Are you OK??"

This is also how I received my third concussion. 

The worst phone call home happened during my dinner break from work.

I was catching up with mom and decided the apartment needed to be vented. Technically, the windows were supposed to be kept shut and the air conditioner removed during the winter, but I think Bob understood that as my apartment was furnace, I was an exception to that rule.

So I attempted to raise the living room window by pressing up on the frame. It didn't budge. 

I sighed and placed my hand upon the glass, as I had done in the past without incident, and pushed up. 

There was a loud crack as my hand went through the glass and the window shattered into multiple pieces.

Apparently I screamed, though I don't remember. 

All I remember was looking down dumbly at my hand as my mother shouted in my ear "What happened? Are you OK??"

"I put my hand through the window."

"Oh my God, are you bleeding??"

"Yep."

A small chunk was missing between my ring and middle fingers on my right hand.

I told mom it wasn't that bad and proceeded to head into the bathroom to patch myself up. It was soaking through the tissue at an alarming rate as my mother talked me through what I needed to do next. Bandage, gauze, call work, call landlord...

"I can't find any gauze."

"How do you not have gauze?"

This was legitimate question considering my and my parent's track record. Unfortunately, I lacked an interesting answer. I preceded to wrap a bandage around a fresh tissue and make the obligatory phone calls. 

The imperturbable Bob said he be down to check it out. My supervisor responded to "I put my hand through a window" with "why did you do that?"

By the time I made it back to work I had to explain to three more men on the crew, who all asked "why did you do that?" like I had gone into a rage and felt the window deserved a beating. Insert eye roll here. Two asked if needed to go to a hospital. No, but I was in serious need of gauze as it had begun to seep through my makeshift tissue and Band Aid barrier.

One of the other editors managed to find the circa 1970s first aid kit that I've come to believe is standard equipment in most newsrooms. From this I retrieved a slightly yellowed package of gauze, which allowed me to finish my shift.

Weeks later I got a package in the mail. It was from the physical plant at Hamilton College where my father was employed as a carpenter. The guys had packed it full of professional level gauze, medical tape and other "necessities" after my dad regaled them with tale of my ill fated window pane. They knew exactly what I needed — after all, they'd spent years patching up my father.

Story teller

I come from a long line of story tellers. 

Granted, most of the stories my grandmother told were rambling (hours long) historical commentaries that only she could follow (the end result of which was a bewildered and often bored listener). But regardless, she reveled in the opportunity to tell them. My mother loves to pass on amusing anecdotes, from start to finish without missing a detail — often over and over again. However, if it's a good story, doesn't it deserve retelling?

And then there's me. I too tend to tell stories over again (though I try to edit them appropriately based on my  audience), and often to the same people. I can't help it. If it's a good story, I enjoy reliving the joy and laughter it brings — both to myself and others.

Most parents might look at a journalism career with slight trepidation. Mine were damn near jubilant. See, all my inclinations in high school pointed toward "starving artist" — art, theater, creative writing, music. When asked what I wanted to do when I grew up, I would shrug. I had no idea. Finally I came to the conclusion that of all my interests, writing was the one I could put toward something viable. I would be a journalist.

Well, maybe. 

I started out in college with that goal set firm in my mind. I was going to be a newspaper journalist — like Donald Woods or Lois Lane. By the end of sophomore year, reality set in. Turns out not only is a it a difficult job, but it's a high stress, low pay, unstable, ulcer-inducing occupation that you have to be really passionate about or you'll be miserable. Yes, I enjoyed writing, but did I enjoy it that much? I quickly switched gears. 

I was going to be a paginator — a term I didn't discover until I was applying for jobs. I was going to layout and design newspaper pages, and if the opportunity arose, write some feature pieces.

The rest is over four years of "experience" involving late nights, layoffs, promotions, demotions, travel, pain, loss, tears, and finally, love and a home.

My mother has worried since the discovery of "pagination" that I'd give up on creative writing and the dream of some day getting a book published. She's always telling me not to stop writing, and that I need the practice.

So here I am, practicing, for any willing to read it.