Finding Our Way

Small Victories

2011-03-26T16:25:00Z

Okay, you know me (or you know people like me): I am one who, for good or for ill, tends to live pretty radically in the present moment. I'm also fairly positive, even cheerful, in any given moment - though I'm not opposed to taking any moment that demands it and thoroughly giving myself over to grief or sadness, but that's just because one has to give these things their due - recognize them for what they are and then move on, preferably back to equanimity and cheer.

Living in "this space" means I am in a good position to recognize and celebrate Small Victories. In fact, my happy life is probably made up of stringing together Small Victories and celebrating them in one way or another.

For me, proceeding through the second half of my life here, each day is full of opportunities to "win" against the pervasive annoyances of aging, managing money or lack of same, work tasks, emotional drama around me, and suffering the presence of fools (sometimes the fool is me!).

Herewith are some categories and lists of victories:

FOOLS

I walk into the grocery store and I see this in the produce section. Immediately, I think, "What fool approved this advertisement??" [The it's is supposed to be its.)

I took out my pen and scratched out the apostrophe and wrote a note on the box: "no apostrophe." For months, that box with my pen edits on it sat there in the produce section. I can only imagine what people thought who saw it. Probably ran the gamut from, "What asshole know-it-all prick did that?" to "Now, Sarah honey, here's an example of what Mommy was trying to show you in your homework assignment last night." I'd grin every time I saw it, amused at my need to correct it there on the box. Then, one day, I walked in and I saw this:

I cheered right there in the store! Victory!

AGING

OMG, so much material. Let's start with this morning. I put my jeans on while standing, and not leaning on anything - first one leg, then the other. This is a big deal. It is a sign of victory over the debilitation that has been my arthritic knees the past 9 months. It meant I am stable and strong and balanced. I celebrate by noting this progress to my husband, to my doctor, to myself, and giving happy thanks for progress.

It is a small victory every time I make it up the stairs, or manage to get off the bus after sitting cramped for 90+ minutes (that is torture on arthritic knees) and put one foot in front of the other and walk to my office. I celebrate this by taking a deep breath of thanks and with a smile on my face, greeting others with "Good Morning!" because it is.

It is a small victory when it hurts again and again and I have to move so slowly and I don't just sit down and cry. I celebrate this by walking more and by quietly giving thanks for being able to keep on keeping on.

It is a small victory when I do cry but then get past it and accept the grace and beauty that is my life just as it is now. I celebrate this by basking in the glow of what it means to be human, and feeling at one with others who suffer, offering a prayer of compassion for them.

It is a small victory when I manage to be wearing or carrying the right combination of items to help me see. This means:

If I wear my contacts, I also have reading glasses with me.
If I wear my glasses, I don't drive into the sun, cause I can't wear sunglasses over them.
If I'm driving at night, I have Gil or Mary to offer to drive because my current contacts create a circus of lights and auras and stars with any light source at night.
If I'm driving at night without someone else to take over, that I don't get so enamored looking at all the pretty light show that I endanger myself.
And if I want to pluck my eyebrows, I have to wear no glasses or contacts at all cause the glasses get in the way, and with the contacts I can't see that close!

I celebrate the victories of sight by reading, driving, taking photos and writing about the beauty around me.

It is a small victory every time I clean the bathroom, empty the dishwasher, manage another load of laundry, wash the floor, vacuum or dust off the furniture. Truthfully, after so many years of doing these tasks over and over, I am tired of it, and that work is just always there, as a by-product of living. I look at it and just wilt sometimes and want to say, No - somebody else do it. So. That's why it is a small victory every time I "just do it" - as with so many things in life we do even when we don't want to! I celebrate with the enjoyment of a cleaned up home and the satisfaction of knowing an adult still lives here and will take care of things!

Likewise cooking. It is a small victory for me every time I manage to pull together a nice meal for the family, especially on a week night when we're all so tired from working all day. Or even on a weekend, when we all just want a break. Thich Nhat Hahn said, "...some people live like clouds...". That would be me. I intuit and float my way through life. So, managing to reach down from the clouds and pluck out a steak and bake a potato and toss a salad to the delight of the hardworking folks of this household is, each and every time, a small victory for me. Victory over inertia and wanting-to-be-doing-something-else. I celebrate by enjoying the food with the family and being glad that the clouds settled long enough for us to eat.

DRAMA

It is a small victory when I am able to still my mind for even a minute. My meditation practice gives me 20 minutes at a time, but monkey mind swings and chatters all the while... until... stillness comes. And it is as vast and beautiful as the Void and there is nothing but peace. I celebrate this by surrendering. And by letting my heart be educated by the stillness.

It is a small victory when I can leave the gossipy drama of the workplace or the bus or family and just let it be. Without taking sides or judging or worrying, just let it be and be compassionate for those who suffer for it. It is a small victory to remain sanguine and supportive of my fellow humans, no matter how much of a mess they are. I celebrate this by loving people.

It is a small victory whenever I can forgive and forget. Grudges help no one, and hurt both parties. Forgiveness is the best broom, the best wind, the best balm there is for cleaning up and healing. And the resulting fresh relationship is worth celebrating. I celebrate this with an embrace, a kiss, a handshake, a touch, with grace.

It is a small victory when I feel depression coming on and I don't give into it or slide down its slippery slope. As a woman, hormonal fluctuations throw me off kilter regularly, and it is a victory when I recognize what's going on and just hang on one more day instead of giving up. I celebrate this with gratefulness and peace when I lay down to sleep at night.

It is a small victory that as challenges multiply in my line of work till I feel stretched and scattered and overwhelmed, I still show up; I still do a good job; I maintain a positive outlook. I celebrate this by being there for my co-workers who are likewise stressed and who need to hear a good word.

NATURE

It is a small victory when I weed and mulch my garden. It takes more effort now than ever, and is so worth it. I celebrate this by delighting in the work and in the stained work clothes and in the knowledge that I am following in the footsteps of my hardworking parents.

It is a small victory to go into my garage and see two 2-ft tall mimosa trees I put in there last fall, to shelter them against the winter. No water, no light except one window in the garage side door, and there are green buds on the bare branches. I celebrate this by remembering that growth happens even in the dark and the cold and neglect, and I reach down and touch the green in my soul that will come out some day.

It is a small victory that our fearful, neurotic dog that we rescued 1 year ago is now... happy. He loves us. He wags his tail (this was something he didn't do for a good 6 months) and follows us around and plays and rides in the front seat of the truck. He's normal. I celebrate this by brushing, walking, cleaning, petting and loving this beautiful boy.

It is a small victory that the 3-inch, bare-root sticks I planted a couple years ago have grown into trees with buds ready to burst in a couple weeks. I celebrate this by learning that growth takes time and rejoicing in the patience and care that life demands.

I could go on. My tagline for years has been from Philo of Alexandria -

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

This is true. I know it is true for me. But, amid the battle there are many, many Small Victories that keep me going, and, more than that, keep me joyful, celebrating, learning and grateful.

Copyright (c) 2011

To Portland and Rainier Diary

2010-08-12T00:07:39Z

Sunday

Just two weeks ago, we were schlepping through airports back and forth to Minnesota. Gil and I shared a large duffle bag-type of luggage which had one bum wheel. The bum wheel finally broke off and drove Gil crazy as he bumpity-dragged it around. So, the day before this trip, we went to the outlet mall in search of the Samsonite store and a replacement large duffel-like bag with good wheels. The outlet mall is huge and sprawling. “Where would you like me to park, Carrie?” “Next to the Samsonite store.” (With my knees, I did not want to be walking further than I had to.) “Well, where’s that?” “What? you didn’t research its precise location before bringing me here?” (I was just messing with him.) I said, “My instinct tells me we should park on this end. Look, there’s a spot right there. And by the way, what are all these people doing here?? How can this place be overrun with people if we are in an economic slump?”

We park. We walk to a directory. The Samsonite store is in the opposite end of the mall. We parked in exactly the wrong spot. Never listen to me when it comes to matters of geography; never. “Oh, man. I’m not walking over there.” Then Gil notices a Tumi store right in front of our noses and says, “Isn’t that a luggage store?” It is. We go in and find a suitable, light-weight replacement duffle-style bag. Its outlet price is an additional 25% off. We’re thrilled. On an enthusiastic high, I entertain some of the other specialty bags there. I find a leather bound, teal blue traveling contacts case with the L/R contacts holder, little bottle of solution and a mirror, all zippered together securely in this adorable little case. “I’ll take this too,“ I say. She starts to ring up our purchase while Gil looks in his pockets over and over and finally says, “I, uh, don’t seem to have the card I meant to use to pay for this…”. “What? How convenient. Okay, I get it. Do you see what’s going on here?” I’m teasing, but he feels badly. “And the contacts case is $54.00,” says the clerk. Choke, chortle, “Excuse me??” Retail price on this specialty item is $98.00. This fact does not help. “I’m sorry. It’s a wonderful piece, but that’s too much. I’m not going to buy this.”

That night we had fun packing our stuff in the new bag. It was a little like changing purses though – you know, just after you get comfortable knowing which pockets and sections hold which essentials, you go and change it all and it can be a challenge. We were planning to put stuff for both of us into this one bag (two adults’ clothes for a week, including all the toiletry stuff that is gel or liquid or cream that can’t go in that single quart size zip-lock bag in carry-on luggage). We figured it all out and met our goal: one big common bag. The rest of it was tucked into our carry-on computer bags. Can you believe it? Gil and I each brought our own computers this time!

Gil and I sprung for Economy Plus on United so that we’d have more leg room and that was a good decision. We were just behind first class. We noted that up in First Class there was what sounded like a young baby (4-6 months?) SCREAMING its lungs out for a long, long time before take-off. Holy cow, we thought. Can you imagine paying all that money to sit in First Class and then having to endure that screaming? Although there were babies in our cabin, there was no screaming, thank God. So, our flight proceeded without incident unless you count the silly woman who rummaged in the overhead bin – over my head – and couldn’t see (as I could, clearly) that she was going to drop a piece of luggage on my head. Since I saw it coming, I defended myself as it dropped onto me, suffering only a broken finger nail. She didn’t care; it wasn’t her bag. She apologized and stuffed it back up there. The only other casualty was that my earphone channels 1 and 10 were not working. This would impede my ability to enjoy the “in flight movie,” in either English or Spanish, which is one of the things that makes the long, cross-country flight bearable. And I also get to go home and tell Mary that I saw such-and-such movie during my flight, almost always one she hasn’t seen yet, and she always replies with the satisfying exclamation of mock-jealousy. Well, for Mary, it’s only partly “mock.” J The flight attendant’s impromptu attempt to fix this situation for me was to ask the person sitting next to me if he was going to use his headphones jack, and if not, would he mind if I used it? Only after asking did he ask if we were traveling together. Can you imagine asking a complete stranger to give up his audio for me? Gil was glad to share, because he was basically just hanging on till the end of the flight – very uncomfortable with allergies and his knee, the weather-predictor, had been killing him. He was pretty darn uncomfortable the whole flight – had the “jimmy leg,” which meant I was uncomfortable too, seeing as I was sitting next to someone constantly shifting and stressing the whole time. Interestingly, when I went to finish up my notes about this trip, I could not remember for the life of me what was the movie I watched. I tried for two days. I finally had to scrounge it up out of a no-longer published .pdf on a united airlines web page. The apparently completely forgettable movie? "Last Song" (Miley Cyrus).

When we made it in to Portland, we were 20 minutes early, 8:40 pm West Coast time, which meant it felt like midnight our time. We were both pretty darn beat, especially Gil who was feeling desperate to get out of that pressurized environment (with his allergy affliction, his left ear was completely blocked too). He hadn’t eaten dinner on the flight either, so, we got our rental car and proceeded to Shari’s, which is open 24 hours. Across the table, I watched Gil making extreme face contortions and repeatedly shaking his head like when you get water in your ear. This was just weird, but I was too tired to try to explain it to the nice waitresses. We ate and then checked in to our suite and pretty quickly fell asleep. I set my alarm for 7:00 a.m.

Monday

Well, as Gil had suggested might happen, I awoke to my East Coast body-clock at 3:45 a.m. Hmm. I took a Vicodin, figuring it would put me to sleep and also calm the foot and knee pain; win-win. I slept till 6:00, which was good enough for me. Gil let me in on a little secret: he told me to go look in the suitcase's inside pocket, where I found a gift. It was the fancy contact lenses case, with solution and mirror all zipped together in lasting teal blue leather. He said he felt bad about sticking me with buying the suitcase Saturday and he wanted me to have this little luxury. So now I have a little piece of “specialty luggage” fit for Paris Hilton. What a sweetheart.

We ate at the famous Staybridge buffet (free) breakfast. Gil dropped me off for my 8:30 class at 8:29 and then commenced Day 1 of my technical training. It is so embarrassing falling asleep in front of the teacher, but the subject matter is kinda dry. There were whirring, humming telephone servers and switches in the back of the room - "white noise." The teacher would turn off the lights in front when she was using the projector. And the thing she was projecting was a page of the classroom manual text - which she was reading to us. White noise, dark room, teacher reading from a telecommunications text book. Can you spell ZZzzzzzz?

Met Gil for lunch and we went to a nearby deli called Capers. We both had great grilled sandwiches – Gil a grilled turkey Panini and me, pastrami on rye. We ate outside on the patio under a canopy of trees in 72 degree warmth. At home on the East Coast, people were sweltering in 95 degree heat.

After lunch we spent a few minutes at the Leatherman retail shop attached to their factory. Such an exciting place. Next time you think about getting a Swiss army knife, stop. Get a Leatherman instead. What a treat! I bought two lil’ ones. Then, back to class. Fighting sleep again.

After class let out at 4:30 we took off with one of my classmates, Elmer, and we all went to the Japanese Gardens. Oh. My. God. Such hand-tended beauty. I had forgotten to bring my camera, but Elmer brought his and took over 150 photos in less than an hour. He says he’ll share them with me! The lush greens and manicured edges, the sands, fountains and stones, were all balm for the soul. We bought a few special items at the gift shop. One of them was a 2011 calendar with gorgeous 4-season photos of the gardens. When I opened it after getting home, I found it had two Aprils and no August.

Afterward, we ventured out to find a place to eat. Although none of us was picky (except for sushi; none of us wanted sushi), we all agreed we’d rather try a neighborhood place than a well-known chain we could get anywhere. The GPS has a dining feature – it will list restaurants by nearness. We picked the Thai Orchid, a little restaurant beneath a fire escape in an old stone tenement building. Parking was really hard to find, so Gil dropped us off and went searching on his own. When he finally made it, we ordered duck, lamb and mixed seafood. The duck and the lamb both came with lots of green peppers which neither of the guys liked, so they picked them all out. My lamb came with a curry sauce and an interesting combination of starches (which I find weird, since you put it over a bed of rice, which is also starch) – pumpkin and potato chunks, carrots and peanuts. We were glad to be at a neighborhood place, but, we wouldn’t go back, because the food was not memorable. We also had to endure a truly weird sound track (for us). I suppose it was Thai versions of American pop, because I recognized a lot of the songs, but the voices were a couple octaves higher than anyone should be singing or hearing; sometimes it literally sounded like Alvin and the chipmunks, I kid you not. It was not pleasant.

Elmer and I waited across the street while Gil kindly hiked to go get the car. He pulled up and we got in. I fired up the GPS to get us home. I scrolled through “Favorites” which are saved destinations, chose "Staybridge Suites," and Gil started following the directions, which all sounded reasonable and good, getting us onto the bridge out of town and onto Route 205. Until the next direction said, “Stay on Route 205 for 176 miles…”. Say what?? 176 miles? Oh, good Lord, I’ve entered the address for the Staybridge Suites in Bloomington, Minnesota! We got a good laugh out of that. I am SO geographically challenged I can even mess up with a GPS.

I reprogrammed the GPS and we all made it home. It was past midnight East Coast time. Gil stayed up to do some work and I got to bed.

Tuesday

Got up and went to breakfast in the hotel. My chauffer, Gilbert, dropped me off at class at 8:29 for the 8:30 class. I made a little bit of a fuss because they had 6 computers for 5 students and yet they couldn’t make three of them work. They brought in a tech to fix one so I could have my own PC and switch. He worked on it for 45 minutes, left his half drunk coffee cup next to my stuff and declared there was nothing wrong with it. So, I got my own PC and it worked. Class was frustrating but this is my job.

Gil met me for lunch and we went to the elegant Embassy Suites near the airport. Service was slow but the food was good. He delivered me back to class where, even though I’d had a cobb salad for lunch, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Some person there interrupted us at 2:00 to say there was cake and ice cream for one of the training center staff’s birthday. I passed. Or passed out, more like, putting my head down on my desk to sleep and just hoping I didn’t end up with funny marks on my forehead or start to snore.

Gil picked me up and I went back to the hotel to crash for awhile, a little overwhelmed with input and a little dismayed with my tiredness and achy legs. Gil’s job on this trip is to be my chauffeur and concierge, so he had scouted out a fine French restaurant (my favorite kind of food) right across from a downtown movie theater. He made reservations.

The restaurant was called The Heathman – “Where Service is Still an Art” – where the doormen wear fancy king’s court braided and gilt velvet red coats and hats, tights and such. There was a lounge with impressive Harry-Potter-Great Room-like furnishings and ornamentation, dim, with spotlights and a chandelier. I swear we spent 15 minutes perusing the cocktail menu alone. I decided on a refreshing one made with “Absolut Citron vodka, Pimm’s No 1, fresh cucumber and fresh lemon.” It was great. For an appetizer I had their country pork pate, and for dinner, “Pekin Duck a la Fromboise – grilled breast and confit leg with raspberry sauce and fresh raspberries, potatoes salde, and sautéed local green beans. Dessert was a trio of sorbet – mango, raspberry and lemon – and cappuccino. Those nice men with the princely clothes were also our valet parking guys and they let us leave our car there while we went across the street to the Broadway theater to catch the 8:00 pm Inception. I only had to wake Gil up once during the movie, but I figured it was all the same to him since the movie is dream-scene after dream-scene. It lived up to its press, leaving the audience with a hushed, “Wow,” in the end. My favorite part was the look on Cobb’s face when he woke up in the airplane, nearing the end of his 10-hour flight. Those of you who have already seen this movie know what I’m talking about. Those who haven’t, well, go see it; it’s unique.

This was very late for us East-Coasters, getting home just before midnight. They say it takes one day for each hour time difference to adjust. By the time I’m all adjusted, I’ll be going back East.

Wednesday

Up a little bit later today. That means 1) I stayed up late last night and 2) I’m getting used to the time difference. Had a Belgian waffle and coffee at the hotel (butter and syrup, none of that whipped cream, fruit compote or chocolate stuff) and got to class a little early. Everyone else was already there waiting.

Class was… difficult. I did not cry until I got into the car with Gil at lunchtime. He does not like to see me upset and he was hungry, two things that combined to make him surly with the long wait at Shari’s, where we had chosen to go for lunch. When we paid the bill, we bought a Marion Berry pie. We figure we have a refridgerator, and what we don’t eat, we’ll drive to Tanya’s later this week. Marion Berry pie makes us giggle every time we encounter it. For people here in the Northwest, marion berries are just something that grows out here. For people near DC like us, we can’t help but think of the infamous and popular, ever-in-the-news, Marion Barry, former DC mayor.

Gil delivered me back to class and promised to pray for me. The afternoon was better, although I did one of those falling-asleep moves where your head falls with a jerk and nearly hits the table. I hate that.

Gil was very excited about our dinner plans – he made reservations for us at Wilf’s at Union Station. We got to travel South to a whole different area of Portland, over a very cool bridge unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Parking was free, and the restaurant was all local, organic food, tucked into a charming renovated part of the train station. Trains went right by the windows – the old Union Pacific freighters. Inside had very high-backed, cushy wing chairs and artsy chandeliers. We had table-side-made fresh Caesar salad, where we watched him squish and blend the ingredients – garlic, fresh ground pepper, anchovies, egg yolk, Lea & Perrins, salt, olive oil, grated cheese, tossed with romaine lettuce and toasted croutons. For dinner Gil had salmon patties and I had the table-side prepared steak diane. Cooked to perfection! Another huge treat was the live jazz band – talented and delightful. Piano, big ol’ bass, and a big ol’ jazz singer with flair. We left after their first set and made it home at a reasonable 9:00 pm. Dessert was MarionBerry pie.

Thursday

Let’s see if I have the chronology right: 4:00 a.m, I’m awakened by a buzzing in the room. I realize it is my Droid, across the room, on the table, plugged into its charger, set to vibrate mode. It’s a phone call. I get up and look at the number, falling back into bed. It’s someone from work. Ignore. 20 seconds later, there it is again. Is that my CFO’s number? I answer. It is not the CFO. It’s someone who is working at home, who has a task to do at 7:00 a.m. East Coast time and he knows I’m in early. “I’m in Portland,” I say. Then I check calendars and give him the number of someone who is in at 6:30 on the East Coast. I also call “the server guy” to give him a heads-up, and make sure someone knows about this need.

Gahhh. Back to sleep. At 5:00 a.m., I’m awakened by a piercing pulse in the room. I get up and realize it is the fire alarm. Yep. Get some clothes on. Interesting what we think to take in a fire. This is what I grabbed: my contact lenses case, my purse, my camera. Gil took even less -- didn’t take the hotel room key, but I had one in my purse. When we got out into the dark, bleary-eyed, I was surprised and disappointed I didn’t think to bring the Droid, which was after all, right there on the bedside table from the earlier call. Interesting too how much we rely on these things – a communication hub, through which I could make phone calls, send and receive personal and business e-mails, check calendars, bank accounts, reservations, take pictures and recordings. Yeah, I left that in the room. Of course Gil hadn’t grabbed his cell phone either.

We sat there in the dark in the parking lot thinking we were glad we didn’t have a plane to catch, and that it wasn’t cold out. In what seemed like 30-45 minutes, we wandered through the front door and asked if it was safe to go to the room. The alarms were still sounding. They said, yes, they hadn’t found any fire, and suspected some overload condition in the attic. I went back to the room. Gil said he wouldn’t until all the noise stopped. I went back to bed. Fell asleep. Of course, that’s when Gil decided to knock on the door (not having a key) and wake me up again.

The Portland weather continues to be an idyllic 70-80 degrees with sunshine and low humidity every day. Gil scouted out a really nice deli for lunch (Harry’s) and then took me back to class. Class went better today. My hormones were probably in a better place or something. He picked me up at 4:30 and we went back to the hotel to freshen up and wait for Marna and Lars who were picking us up to take us to a beautiful restaurant in a resort lodge. This breathtaking place sits in the heart of the Columbia River gorge between the Mt. Hood National Forest and the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. It was so beautiful driving along the river on the left and immense volcano- and flood-made cliffs on the right. They are so big it boggles the mind, but the strength of the rocks and the generous lushness of the green all around is so good for the soul.

So is time spent with Marna and Lars – family friends from Niagara Falls. They arranged for a window table in the restaurant, with a panoramic view of the river and mountains. Closer in, we overlooked fields where we observed teens playing Frisbee, and a little further out, a bride having pictures taken. Closer, we overlooked a large stone fire pit, with fire lit in it, and a circle of Adirondack chairs. We shared a meal with scrumptious appetizers, lively dinner plates and nearly orgasmic desserts. Conversation was, as always, a delight. I sometimes whine about my “personality flaw” -- that I am incapable of having a superficial conversation. With these folks, I can be myself because they are so intuitive as to confidently engage in the substance and true heart of any conversation – they hear the meaning and the depth behind almost anything we say, and respond accordingly. How refreshing. It’s like being with a conversation connoisseur – one whose linguistic and emotional palate is so sophisticated, she can deconstruct any conversational dish into its individual ingredients – the meat, the fat, the spice, and even venture a good guess about how it was cooked.

After dinner, they drove us back to our hotel, telling us more stories about the Columbia River gorge area, past and present. We like what we find here. Considering that the Virginia we have called our home for the past 36 years has just had a record-breaking heat spell, this Portland weather looks so good to us. We like the diversity, and we like the way they think; it gets so wearying living in our “red state” and struggling with the mindset there. Who knows? Perhaps retirement will find us in the NorthWest. There is precedent for that in my family!

Friday

Got up and packed. Went to class for the final half-day.

Class ended a little early – (supposed to be noon, but out by 10:45). I texted Gil to come get me and we went back to the room where he worked on the computer doing high priority stuff for work, and we figured that we’d chill out till the noon check-out time. At 11:11 we get a call from the front desk asking why we weren’t checked out yet – check out time is 11:00. Doh! We bugged out, zipping up the last items and being sure to get the pie from the fridge. Had a chili cheese dog at Harry’s. Then took off in the car – I slapped Gil on the thigh – “Hey! We’re traveling together! You love this.” Big smiles, and we were off to Washington.

Stopped just over the border to gas-up ($3.11/gal for regular). While Gil used the facilities (which turned out to be an outdoor port-a-potty!) I retrieved from the trunk my laptop and my camera. I also took the opportunity to wash the windshield through which I’d might be taking pictures with that camera.

A road sign I appreciated: “If you Litter, it Will Hurt.”

Another: “Skookumchuck River.” I read this aloud as we passed it. Gil repeats, “Skookumchuck. Hey, Chuck! Whaddya doin’? Skook ‘um! Sook ‘um, Chuck!” Shortly thereafter, I looked up as we passed a great excavation project – a mountain 5 stories high, with a snaking path of loose dirt for the big earth-mover equipment to careen down, at a good 45 degree angle. “Oh, boy!” I said. “The guy who drives that big equipment must LOVE coming down this hill! When he was little he probably played with toy trucks just like the one he gets to drive down that path.” “I bet his name was Chuck,” says Gil. These are the geezer blatherings we have during the hours of being in the car together between my dozing.

We made it to Tanya’s house, opened the heavy swinging metal gate meant to keep people out of the Weyerhauser forest. I volunteered to jump out of the car to open this gate, as always, forgetting my knees situation ( I really hate having it determine what I do). So I get out of the car and, after sitting in the car for two hours, and my knees protested. I have learned that when they do this, I just… go slow. So there I was, walking in uber slow motion up to the gate. I had to laugh at the scene. Gil could have read an entire chapter in a book while waiting for me. But I did it, and by the time I walked back, pushed it closed, and back to the car, my knees were warmed up and felt better. We, drove up the quarter mile long gravel driveway with the forest brambles, flowers and blackberry vines reaching out from either side and up to the next gate, the deer gate with the grapevine star lashed onto it as a welcome. I got out and opened that too – significantly faster than the first gate. I did not walk up the hill, but got back in the car and Gil drove us up to the house.

We were greeted by Tanya and granddaughter Tasha, both looking healthy and hail, bookends of a lovely lineage of women. Hugs and smiles and into the earth-sheltered home to sit under the light of the skylight dome and chat about life.

Tanya kindly prepared a dinner using a lot of her garden produce, including her famous purple potatoes, which she says are the original potatoes, because potatoes originated in Peru, and this variety is from Peru. Do not confuse this with the red-skinned potatoes. These are purple through and through, and it feels like I’m eating something from a Dr. Seuss book. Tasha’s mama came and joined us, and it was good to see her too.

We all retired early, Gil, to mom’s bedroom, me to Tanya’s, while Tanya slept on a matt in the back storage room, because, she said, she didn’t want to disturb us if she gets up in the middle of the night, which she tends to do. I’m always impressed with the kind attention to consideration my sisters display, and there was no dissuading Tanya from sleeping in a storage room because she seriously saw it as her choice and no big deal, so I didn’t even try. She also apparently remembered that in one of my visits as I lay in her bed in the wee morning hours, I heard her dispensing her dozens of supplements and various pills from their plastic bottles – there are a lot of them, so the racket went on for four or five minutes, and I called from the bedroom, what is all that racket?? I do not remember this, but she does, so in preparation for my visit, she measured out and packed all her pills in little plastic zip-lock bags, hand-sewn into three partitions for pills, so that she wouldn’t make racket in the morning and disturb me. Any of my sisters who are reading this will recognize this kind of care and smile, I think. Thank you all J.

Saturday

Up for breakfast together, I decided that in memory of my mom, I would do cereal in the mode to which my mother was accustomed, that is, with decadence. So, I got a cup of cranberry macadamia nut cereal, topped it with a half cup of vanilla yogurt, a splash of organic milk, a handful of pecan halves and a handful of fresh blueberries. Heaven. We had the day to ourselves to do “whatever I wanted,” and I had said I wanted to go to the ocean. I have been longing for the experience of running with the waves as they come ashore, feeling the wonderfully ionized air, and contemplating while watching the waves for long minutes at a time. But we did not have a plan for this, and every plan we tried to craft, from Tanya’s “Fun” file folder with its informative clippings, to the Google-delivered information, did not pan out because it was too long a drive -- although I was willing to drive to Forks if we could get a place to stay overnight – or the places we’d stay were all booked, or the trip made it doubtful we’d get back in time for preparation for tomorrow’s commitments, or the forecast was for rain and cold, or Gil simply refused to sleep in a tent, which was Tanya’s and my preference for the whole adventure (didn’t have to worry about a hotel room).

After we’d exhausted our arguing over Carrie going to the ocean (or not), we took a look online at “Things to do in Tacoma” (since that was the near metropolis and Tanya gets the willies just thinking about venturing into Seattle). We found scintillating choices like, “Rose Garden Pruning/Deadheading.” This is just what is sounds like: you show up at a Tacoma Public Rose Garden on the day that volunteer old ladies prune and deadhead the flowers and you follow them around and watch them saying, “Hey Flossie, howsitgoing? What kind of rose is that there? How long you been doing this? So, what happens if you cut it up there instead of down there? Got any kids?” Another event listed was “Goldfish Gallop.” I did not find out details on that, but it didn’t sound much more exciting than deadheading roses. Good God.

I decided on the Museum of Glass. Wanting to get Gil’s buy-in on this, I yelled from the computer desk over to him in the dining room, “Hey Gil. I found where we will go today: to the Ladybug Museum!” Groaning, clearing of the throat and “Oh, geez…” from Gil. “OK, then how about the Museum of Glass instead?” “That sounds better; okay,” he says. And we were off to Tacoma to the museum.

We got there and enjoyed a live demonstration of glass sculptures being made for a visiting artist who was preparing a work that would incorporate all these glass pieces being wrought there in front of us. Their workshop with the fire ovens and spinning rods and pads and tools and all was in the middle of a big room, around which they built raised theater seats so the public could come in and actually watch the work being done. It was pretty neat. We toured the gallery of finished work. One of our favorites was the project they did where they asked 6-10 year olds to draw creatures and then the glass blowers would create the creatures out of glass. Gil liked the glass baskets and translation of Tlingit tribal art to glass. I also bought a fascinatingly effective smooth glass nail file in the gift shop. ===

There was a “glass bridge” that was part of the whole shebang and we thought we ought to walk across it, just because. Now, with an unexpected lack of hospitality, we found that the elevators in this museum were, uh, by appointment only. You had to ask a guy with a key to come and unlock it and let you ride it and this was only if you had “special needs.” I watched this going on as a woman about 15 years my senior was trying to tell a museum guy she had special needs (her knees, I think) even though she was walking around, seemingly fine. He acquiesced. When I was ready to go to the roof to make my way across the bridge I had already walked through several galleries, had sat down for awhile to let my legs recover and was on my second wind. It annoyed me to have to go beg this guy to let me use the elevator, so I looked at the ridiculous levels of steps and saw there was an alternative “ramp” route, and thought, OK, I’m goin’ up. I had already used up my “32 good steps in a row” and this ramp took 248 (yes, I counted) steps to get to the top, but I made it. When we got up there, there was the unlikely site of a large wedding party getting pictures taken up there on the roof.

I also got a chance to see more of Tacoma spread out in all directions and the more closely I looked, the more convinced I became that Tacoma has to be the ugliest city I’ve ever seen. Every direction I looked, there was a tangled, confused mess of architecture, style, purpose, materials, and color. There was no theme anywhere, no design. Streets and overpasses and architecture criss-crossed at weird angles, and sometimes led nowhere. It was dirty and rusted. The landscaping along the streets and highways were exactly the wrong choice of plants for the venue, and their unkempt, craggy and bristly nature made it look like the caretakers were just so disappointed in their presence that they stopped pruning them at all and just left them to go to seed. There were potentially interesting things like wall murals and waterfalls but they were always placed in precisely the wrong neighborhood, next to the wrong stuff that just grated against it in design and function, so it just ended up looking stupid. It was astonishing how bad it was. The city from up there looked like a college student’s laundry basket dumped out onto the floor: every color jumbled together because they’re too lazy or foolish to separate the colors, the telltale white-underwear-turned-pink, all wrinkled, some shrunk because they’re not smart enough to hand-wash where appropriate, bits of destroyed tissue or paper left in pockets, a dollar bill and a bottle cap, some clothes ruined with streaks and blotches of chewing gum, also left in pockets, strewn all over the place in a disheveled mess. Yeah. That’s Tacoma. Or at least, that’s the docks, the port section of the city where we were. There was literally nowhere I could look, no element of that part of the city, its buildings, bridges, businesses or streets that was not ghastly in its placement, façade, utility or design.

Even the glass museum displayed this ridiculousness. While there were a handful of elegant pieces, most of it was gaudy and gross. It would be polite, but incorrect, to simply characterize it as “eclectic,” or, “whimsical.” A two-and-a-half-foot-tall golden blown glass vase wrapped in gold glass ribbon to which is affixed two chubby clear glass cherubs juxtaposed with the long tentacles of two giant squid who are climbing down the ribbons on the vase is… damn, just, ewwww.

It was past noon so we were hungry, but we also wanted to get the heck out of Tacoma, so we drove down I-5 until Tanya got the idea to go to Norma’s Burgers which she’s always heard and read so much about but had never visited. We knew we were in the right place when Lee, our GPS-dude announced it on the right. There was a big Bulldog Tattoo Shop sign leading up to it, and then we saw Norma’s with the big burger sculpture on the roof, and the motorcycles and vans parked out front near signs for parking that said “For Cougars Only” “For NASCAR Fans Only” “For Old Farts Only”. We parked in the Old Farts section. Inside, they were really friendly, experienced, and efficient. There was very little place to sit inside this lopsided, clapboard box with screens, but lots of tables outside next to the busy traffic in Lacey, so we went out there to eat. In the rain. Tanya says no one in the rainy Northwest uses umbrellas. I guess that goes for the umbrellas over outdoor tables, because they were closed up tight, so I put my hooded sweatshirt on and we ate in the drizzle, which was fine. Tanya and Gil each had the mushroom-swiss burger which they declared delicious. I was taken by the sheer audaciousness of the “John Wayne Burger,” a.k.a. “the Duke.” I didn’t realize at the time that it had been voted the Best Burger in the State. Here’s what was on it: double meat, double cheese, ham and bacon, pineapple, jalapenos, mustard, special sauce, tomatoes, pickles and lettuce on an onion bun. It was pretty bodacious. I had to wash up after eating it.

We came back to Tanya’s, napped, talked, ate a nice fresh tomato, lettuce, bacon and avocado sandwich on dill bread – much later in the evening! I went through a box of my mom’s labeled “family stuff.” She was a record-keeper, she was. Every important date or happening or event got written down somewhere. The most amusing for me was the old, brown-cover, spiral-bound columnar journals. The content of these were a fascinating mixture of organization and disorganization. The organized parts were the pages marked “Orders,” and headed with the name of a fabric store, such as “Fine’s” or “Associated Fabrics Co.”, followed by lines for sewing supplies:

Quantity	Order No	Description	Color	Price	Total Price
20 yds	#6	Moss fringe	Silver	.12	2.40
25 “	#8	Ric Rac	Silver	.10	2.50
36 piece		2” cello braid	white gold		5.50
4	Pr	Epaulette		1.00	4.00
5 doz		¾” Military Buttons	gold	.35	1.75
4 yds	360	Luster satin	red	.70	2.80
7 “	360	Luster satin	white	.70	4.40
3 ”	368	Glazed cambric	Kelly	.40	1.20
3 “	“	“	Spotlite blue	.40	1.20
3 “	“	“	red	.40	1.20
6 “	303	Rayon Gabardine	Marine Corps blue	1.25	7.50

She was the seamstress for the dance company where her girls took lessons and had recitals. This was 1952, before I was born. She sewed the whimsical dance costumes in exchange for lessons for her children.

Interspersed on the pages of this same notebook were hundred-word journal entries marking important times in her family’s life – Tanya’s graduation from college, Daria’s (that’s how she spelled what we now spell as Darya) graduation from high school, Daria’s subsequent trip to NJ to look for a summer job, Tanya’s Washington job offer, and one chaotic day that marked Daria’s arrival home from NJ, and Carrie’s first day of kindergarten, and Tanya picking up her plane ticket for her new job in Washington.

What was “disorganized” about this was that these “event entries” were not in chronological order, but instead, they were entered on the pages wherever the right amount of space was available for the entry. So, a single page could have entries from Jan, 1963, Mar, 1963, and Mar, 1974. In between all this was, I think, her menstrual cycle record and then more orders for fabrics. Ahhh… a peek into the life of the 1950’s busy housewife that was my mom.

Sunday

'Rose around 5:30, completely adjusted to Pacific Coast time, just in time to fly back to the Atlantic Coast tomorrow. Whereas the weather in Portland, OR was around 75-80 each day and sunny, the weather in Rainier, WA has been a cool 60-something each day, cloudy, and yesterday we had a satisfying, soaking rain. I really like the air out here, and the quiet. Meditating outside this morning, I could close my eyes and it felt like I was air in the evergreen trees, or moisture on the lettuce leaves, or color in the asters. It was easy to move as spirit as well as be in a body.

Gil and I took a little mosey around the house, me using Mom’s walking stick and Gil’s hand as support. We observed the orchard with the plum, peach, cherry and apple trees. We walked into “the pit” and observed berry bushes and a berm with Jerusalem artichokes growing. We walked back up and said hello to the daylilies, sedum, daisies, Echinacea, monarda, alussum and more. We stood and listened to birds and the breath of trees and enjoyed the fresh air. We walked by and looked at the vegetable garden with happy lettuces, broccoli, and other stuff, bordered by asters, petunias, marigold, dianthus, snap dragons and geranium, before coming back inside.

We ate eggs, toast, coffee, cereal and talked. Gil announced that he wanted to go over to St. Clement’s for mass. I asked if that was the same place we went last year. Yes it was. Oh, I can’t be going there. (There’s a recounting of that experience in this blog from that time - scroll to "Sunday".) He was okay to venture out on his own; everyone benefits from solitude, especially when you want to pray.

Tanya went to retrieve Tasha from Lyd’s again. Together they went to the garden to harvest carrots and cabbage Tanya used to make fresh coleslaw for dinner at Jen’s. Visiting Jen was a treat because 1) we got to see new daughter Callea in person – cutie with an engaging spirit! 2) we got to see Jen and husband – “my-favorite-Fritz” again, both happy and thriving in their new home with their new daughter 3) we got to spend time with the rest of the family, Ari, Lydia, Tasha and Tanya. Family is important. The bloodline is important; it has a special gift to give the world.

Back home Tanya made me a bowl of popcorn and we sat on the sofa and chatted. Gil and I packed as much as we could, trying to make sure we could haul back to Virginia all the stuff we bought or accumulated in Portland and Rainier. It was tricky but we managed. Tanya gave Gil a Niagara/Mohawk bag to carry on as his “personal item” and we stuffed a lot into that. We decided we’d target 5:30-6:00 to leave the house to be sure we go to the airport, returned the rental and got through security in plenty of time. So, I set the alarm clock on my Droid, picking the least offensive ringtone (classic bell alarm clock sound) and went to bed.

Monday

In Tanya’s terradome home, you can hear everything. Every sound - even two rooms away - is carried perfectly to your ear. Gil and I were sleeping two rooms apart cause that’s where the beds were, and at 3:30 in the morning, his snoring jarred me out of my sleep and kept me awake… for an hour. I finally gave up and just decided to get up. I went to my phone to disarm the wake-up alarm so as not to disturb anyone and, what do you know? I hadn’t set it properly. That alarm, set for 4:30, would not have gone off at all. So if Gil hadn’t awakened me, we all may have slept straight through the time we needed to be leaving. Still, I relished using the rackety coffee grinder at 4:30 a.m., which I knew would wake him up!

We ate breakfast, packed the trunk, hugged Tanya good-bye, and got in the car. “Where’s my cell phone?” Gil says. “Whaddya mean where’s your cell phone? How can you not have your cell phone?” “I don’t have it. I didn’t see it. I haven’t used it much…”. “It’s probably in your pocket, Gil. Did you check your pocket?” After some dithering and verbal hand-wringing, trying to decide whether to go back and scour the house even though we had already done a clean sweep, he gets out of the car to go back to the house and he finds the phone… in his pocket.” “I TOLD you five minutes ago it was in your pocket!!” Shades of the Costanzas (Seinfeld).

Tanya rode with us out to the gate, which she unlocked and swung open for us. She walked the quarter mile back to her house, while we and Lee-the-GPS-dude, made our way to Portland International airport. By the way, if you ever have to visit this area of the country (Rainier, WA) fly into Portland, OR (PDX), not Seattle, WA (SeaTac). The drive from the airport is about equal, but with Portland you won’t experience heinous traffic, delays and confused congestion. It’s clear sailing and easy in and out in Portland.

Apparently the same is not true of San Francisco. Being on the Bay as it is, cloud cover can be a problem. While our little puddle-jumper flight to San Francisco at 10:22 a.m. seemed like no big deal, it turns out that there was poor visibility in San Fran. In cases when visibility is less than 19,000 feet, they can only use one runway and can only get 30 planes an hour in and out of their airspace. So, our Portland-to-San Francisco plane was not happening until the clouds and traffic lifted – we didn’t leave until 11:30. This wouldn’t have been a problem except that we were supposed to get a connecting flight that left at 12:45 to take us back home to the East Coast. We thought, Well, maybe that one will be delayed too, and so it will still be there. Or, Well, maybe they will hold the plane for us transfer customers. We could only hope, and prepare to run to the gate once we got there.

In the meantime, we sat in our United Airlines Economy Plus seats behind a young mother with a lively 6 month old who ran the entire gamut of baby behavior – squirming, screaming, grunting, giggling, laughing, jumping, playing peek-a-boo over the seats at us, and, at one point I watched the backside of her little pink pants as she crawled up the aisle and into First Class. The baby’s name was Eva, and after a little screaming fit, she slept for the last half hour of the flight. Eva had a 3-year old brother named Brody. He was cheeky and Mom had to play two different personas – sweet and chirpy and light with Eva, and cool and jaunty with Brody. He was in motion constantly, and as the flight wore on, so did he – wore on my nerves, that is. At one point he thought it would be fun to dump his cup of water on his mom. I felt the drips on my leg under the seat. He took to shouting in his best big-boy, I’m-the-king-of-the-castle voice. Sometimes he shouted actual exclamations about things; sometimes it was just cabin fever get-me-out-of-this-tin-box-at-30,000-feet desperation Tarzan “vocalizing.” All this was not pleasant. I was very happy, however, that I did not get a headache. One must find things to be happy about in these situations.

We landed in San Francisco and in my head, I did a cripple’s version of O.J. Simpson’s run through the airport, all for naught, because we missed the connecting flight by 20 minutes. Next one wasn’t for four hours; that would get us home the next morning. I had to pee. Gil was saying, “Shit. I don’t have my cell phone…”. (AGAIN??) My nerves were rattled; I just wanted to go to the ladies’ room and cry a little bit. I sent him back to look for his phone on the plane while I slowly made my way to the restrooms. When I emerged a few minutes later, he was out there, on his phone, calling me. Okay; time to re-group. The phone was found. We had boarding passes for another flight to Washington. Time for lunch.

We found a Gordon Biersch place which Gil recognized from the East Coast and we went there. ‘Had a burger and a turkey sandwich and two great microbrewery beers while watching the planes maneuver out on the tarmac. From there we moseyed around the terminal buying t-shirts for the girls and making our way to the Red Carpet Club. This is a civilized place with cushy chairs, little tables, a business center, a meeting room, refreshments, a bar and a very nice rest room. It is lots easier to wait in a Red Carpet Club than in the terminal, especially when the wait is more than an hour.

At each San Francisco ticket counter where someone would listen to us, we jockeyed for the “Economy Plus” seats we had already paid for. Each representative “did her best,” and in the end, Gil and I did get a nice seat together in the exit aisle with a ton of leg room and the first cocktail free. Mine was Baileys Irish Cream. The flight was uneventful. We were shocked that our checked bag came on the flight with us instead of going ahead of us on the regular flight. Mary and Seattle kindly came out to Dulles to retrieve us at 1:00 in the morning. To bed by 2:30 a.m.

I managed to set my alarm clock for the usual 4:30 a.m. wake-up call so I could go to work later that morning. I guess I was tired, (ya think?) and messed up the a.m./p.m. setting and the alarm did not go off. But, that would be the subject of another blog, wouldn't it?

Waking Up With the Knee-pain Fairy

2010-07-31T17:12:00Z

I have been visited by the Knee-pain Fairy.

People I have known who have complained of knee pain seem to me to have had it for years, a kind of annoyance, nagging them and getting progressively worse over time. Even though I have been overweight for years, I knew I was fortunate to not be plagued by knee pain. Until this year.

I think it started with Wii Fit. (rft*##!gr@) I had been using it for yoga and step aerobics and stuff and being very careful and conservative, and doing very well. But, I got bored with the same-old, same-old and one fateful day, I decided to try the jogging exercise. I was ever so gentle and jogged a little around my living room. This was a bad idea for the knees. It was after that that I felt twinges and aches in my right knee.

I babied it, iced it, took pain reliever and then ignored it, figuring it would eventually go away. It was a little annoying, but I still got off the commuter bus 5 blocks early in the morning and walked several blocks out of my way in the afternoon, just to get in 25 minutes of brisk walking a day. It was something I could live with and I wasn’t going to let it slow me down. (To be sure, I’d never try jogging again, but walking is something we must do.)

I didn’t go to a doctor about it because it would get better, and then flare up, then get better, and so forth. Then, after several months, it didn’t get better any more, just less worse. I gotta get this checked out, I thought.

So, I called the orthopedist’s office and wanted to make an appointment with the nice young man who treated me when I messed up the tendons in my ankle years ago playing volley ball at my sister’s house, and then again a few years later when I had that infernal plantar fasciitis. He works in a group of doctors that together own the practice. So I call his office and tell them I want an appointment with Dr. P. “Oh, let me give you to his secretary Bonita.” I get transferred to Bonita but she does not answer her phone. It goes directly to voice-mail where she tells me to leave her a message. Geez. I leave her a message saying I want to make an appointment with Dr. P and I give her my work phone number to reach me. My work phone number has the benefit of ringing on my desk, and, ringing on my cell phone simultaneously.   I keep my cell phone with me at all times at work but I do not hear from her that day. I get home and there is a message from her in the middle of the day on my HOME phone. Geez Louise why can’t “Bonita” just do what I asked? And why is this so hard? Pissed off, I leave it alone. For several weeks.

The knee still is not right. I ice it. It does not seem to help. Weeks later, I call the orthopedists’ group again and, thinking I can make my way through some red tape, immediately ask for Bonita. “Oh, Bonita doesn’t work here anymore.” Grrr. I tell the lady I want to make an appointment with Dr. P. “I’ll transfer you to his secretary.” At which point, I get, you guessed it: voice-mail. This time it's for "Linda." I leave a message. She calls me back at some inconvenient time and gets my voice-mail and asks me to call her. Gimme a break. I’m not going through that again.

A few weeks later, I’m still having three bad days to every one good day with the knee, so I call again. I stop the lady before she transfers me to “his secretary” and I beg her to just put me on his calendar because this voice-mail-leave-a-message-crap is driving me crazy and this is my third attempt. She takes pity on me and acquiesces. As she peruses the schedule, she says, “He’s getting married this weekend you know.” I did not know. “And then he’ll be on his honeymoon…”. She puts me on his calendar for a date four weeks later – July 26. I tell her I will be suffering until then so she will feel bad for me but I hang up thinking, well, at least I got an appointment. Maybe I will have some good days and maybe it won’t be too bad for my upcoming trip to our daughter’s college for a full day of student and parent orientation, and maybe it won’t be so bad going on the family trip to Minnesota for a week. I have been dealing with this mostly with denial and positive thinking which in this case are one in the same. There’s also drugs. Four ibuprofen at a time, and we have left over Vicodin from Mary’s car accident….

Enter the Knee-pain Fairy to whack me with her wand and tell me to stop messing around. Whereas I could manage, limping around with a little pain in the front of my right knee, all of a sudden, out of the blue, I got this explosion of pain in the back of my left knee. Completely different in nature from the one that has annoyed me for months, this one was a debilitating rod of fiery torture that made me gasp and made the knee collapse when I tried to walk. WTF??? !!

This appeared the night before our not-to-be-rescheduled, exciting and happy visit to our baby’s new college. Well. Denial went with me in the car, wedged in next to the Knee-pain Fairy. It hurts the worst after sitting for a long time. Like a 2-hour car ride. Four ibuprofen at a time also went with me.   The meds did not touch the pain. I got out of the car and the Fairy assaulted me – BAM! – right in the back of the knee. YOWZA! I cried. I leaned on Gil for support as we started up the hill (goddammit) toward the campus. I had not squeezed his hand that hard since I was in labor with this same daughter 18 years ago. I was so amazed and shocked by the assault that it was all I could do to not cry out and embarrass Seattle as we proceeded to the school. Well, truth be told, I did not entirely keep quiet. I seem to remember shouts of Holy Moly! and something about fireworks. I couldn’t help it. But people couldn’t tell whether I was laughing or crying, so I think it was okay.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to walk too much during the day of meetings and presentations. When I did, it was pure, unadulterated torture. I would get up in my denial-best mind frame, ready to just walk, dammit, and whoa...! there it was again. Grab Gil’s arm, limp slowly, breathe. I was really grateful that Seattle’s day of orientation was separate from ours so that I wouldn’t completely ruin it for her. I did that at the end though, I’m pretty sure, when we joined up again for some last activities (like visiting dorm rooms) before heading home. By that time at the end of the day, the stress of fighting against the pain had worn me down completely. I was exhausted. I was tearful. I was desperate. Mostly, I was just in shock, not understanding where this came from.

I struggled through the next day, a Sunday. I even tried the Vicodin. It made me feel warm and loopy, but didn't help the pain a lot. I called in to work Monday and said I had something to take care of, namely, my ability to walk, and I would not be in. Then, I steeled myself to call the orthopedists’ group again. I called and told them my sob story and that I need to come in right away. Give me any doctor with an opening if Dr. P is on his honeymoon. “Oh, no – he’s back in the office now,” they said. Let me give you his assistant. Before I could yell, “Noooooo!” I was talking to Linda, (she actually picked up the phone!!) and explaining to her my needs. She said she saw an opening and could I come today at 2:30? “YES,” I said emphatically, and arranged to take Seattle with me.

I arrived at their offices with all my paperwork pre-filled-in, and using Seattle as my crutch. I held her hand in a vice grip and as beads of sweat collected on my brow, I approached the front desk and told them I had an appointment to see Dr. P at 2:30. The front desk chickie starts the “I’m looking through this computer screen full of colors and timeslots and dates” look and says, “Did you make this appointment today?” “YES.” “Did you have another appointment…?” “Yes, I did, on the 26th” I interrupt her. Gasp, groan, sweat. “Well, the 2:30 appointment is not for today, it is for Thursday.” “THAT IS A MISTAKE,” I assert, leaning forward, gripping the marble counter top. No way in HELL am I leaving this office without seeing a doctor. “Well, you’ll have to go back through that door and talk to his assistant, Linda.” Seattle assists me as I struggle through the door. I throw myself on Linda’s mercy, tell her I can’t walk, tell her she TOLD me it was today. More excuses and confusion ensued and I leaned on the counter looking pitiful. Finally another nurse-in-charge said they could “work me in” but Dr. P was already an hour behind schedule. I didn’t see as I had any other choice so I went to the waiting room to wait. I only waited a half hour and then I went in and saw Dr. P.

I was really worried that after all this, he too would treat me like a number, or only give me 5 minutes of time. But he was not like that. He was wonderful. He listened to my whole sad story, all my symptoms, my fears, my questions. He took x-rays, explained them to me, gave me treatment choices and let me decide how I wanted to handle the fact that I was leaving on vacation for a week. We decided on a 5-day treatment of oral steroids to calm down the inflammation and that I would schedule an MRI when I got back from Minnesota.

I filled the prescription and started to feel better the first day. The steroids knocked out the debilitating flame of pain behind my left knee, which meant that I could walk again -- with a serious limp from the pain in the other knee, but still, walking like Fred Sanford or Quasimoto was better than not walking at all.

People who see me say, Oh, that must be terrible. I’m sorry to hear you are in so much pain. However, since the steroids calmed down the acute inflammation, I gotta say, I know it could be worse. I don’t have sharp pain or even very, very strong pain. But my body still experiences all the “side effects” you’d think would come along with that kind of severe pain, meaning, I feel weakness, shaking, nausea, out of breath sometimes. It’s more like, if I were hanging off the side of a building just holding onto a knot at the end of a rope, and after awhile, my muscles just couldn’t hold on any more, and they started to hurt and weaken and shake and then I’m feeling like I want to scream a desperate, “Ahhhhhhh. Oh my God!” before I fall off the building to my death – THAT’S what it feels like. Only, that’s all going on inside of me just standing at the bus stop, or in the elevator, or next to someone’s desk. It’s ridiculous.

And, that’s my overarching reaction to all this – surprise, astonishment, confusion. You’d think I’d get used to it. My mom said that some people refer to their constant pain as “an old friend” that they’ve become accustomed to carrying around with them. I don’t think of this so much as an old friend as an unexpected house guest who wouldn’t leave. Because it’s part of my own body, it feels like the house guest is perhaps a relative, at least not someone I can get angry with or deny accommodations. But this guest has invaded me, is messy, unpredictable, loud, rude and really inconsiderate; it clamors for attention and hangs on me, to the point that if my own children or husband go to rest their arm around my shoulder, old visitor Pain, shrugs them off, saying, “Oh no! That puts too much pressure on her.” I am not fond of this guest. I don’t think I invited her, I really don’t. I know I’m overweight, but my doctor says this would have probably happened regardless. And I know that both parents and several siblings suffer from the same thing and have had knee replacements. So, maybe this is just a family tradition for this guest to come set up house in the family’s lives and it is my turn. But I am still reeling at her arrival and still shocked every day that I wake up and she’s still here.

Getting up in the morning is one of the worst times. I do still have the plantar fasciitis, which is most painful on the heel and foot first thing in the morning. Add to that the extreme stiffness and puffy feeling in the knee joints and I wonder why I have not yet bought a cane. I know why: it’s because the foot pain I’ve had before and I know it can go away. And the knee pain I feel sure can go away too.

If the conditions are right, I set to walking and it feels pretty good. It gets better as I take a few steps and loosen up. “Yay,” I think, “I’m walking! Look at me walk. This is great.” And I find I have about 32 good steps in me before it all starts to dissolve in there. If I ignore it and pick up the pace to a normal stride for me, the knees start to protest and wail as if to say, “W-w-w-wait a minute here! What do you think you’re DOING? You’re not trying to walk, are you? Are you crazy or something?!!” And, like two gears whose grease has worn down to nothing, I push, but pretty soon there’s no lubrication at all and the gears grind to a halt. This is not helpful to just stop walking in the middle of the hallway, an intersection or the street. (This is what I referred to in Minnesota as my “minus 5 mph speed” which inconveniently engaged in the Mall of America and down stretches of Nicollet Mall). So I keep going, with an astonished limp, confused and frustrated again. After repeating this nonsense all day, by the end of the day I just want to cry.

I write all this publicly because I bet that there are a lot of folks who can relate, seeing as knee-pain is the most common complaint in an orthopedist’s office.   I want to let you know that I too have a Knee-pain Fairy in my family tree and have had to deal with her moving in and all her rudeness. But this crisis has not been without opportunity and blessing.

At my worst, I was fortunate to read an article in a monthly magazine to which I subscribe. (Shambhala Sun, July 2010, article Questions That Help Us Wake Up, by Ezra Bayda, page 51.) The author told about his visit to Alcatraz prison.

“…it kept all its prisoners isolated in solitary cells. I heard the story of one prisoner, who when put into a pitch-black solitary cell as punishment, ripped a button off his shirt and threw it in the air. He would then get on his knees and look for it, then throw it again – just to avoid going crazy in the dark.

This example may sound like it has nothing to do with us, but the fact is we all have our own ways of avoiding the dark, and our own strategies for throwing buttons. They may look more sane and more productive, but they’re still attempts to push away our difficulties.”

I recognized the “button thrower” in me right away. Other times, I have described it as the “plate spinner” from the Ed Sullivan Show. But, there is certainly a component of my busy, productive, East-Coast paced life that keeps me distracted and unbalanced, throwing buttons in the dark, making busy work I say is to keep up with obligations, but is also to distract me from unbalance and dis-ease.

The article goes on to say that even though we know how to meditate, to bring peace and calm and an “awakened” state to our minds, when we are under severe emotional distress a different part of the brain kicks into gear as we go into cognitive shock. “Cognitive shock” – that’s a good way to describe my state of shock and astonishment concerning the pain that clings to my existence.    He goes on to say,

“During cognitive shock, the “old” brain, which is based on survival and defense, takes over. At this point we’re likely to attack, withdraw, or go numb, none of which is conducive to awareness… we’re fortunate if we can even remember that we want to be awake.

When clarity becomes obscured by the dark and swirling energy of emotional distress, it is useful to have some concise reminders to bring us back to reality…

…It is absolutely fundamental for us to realize that difficult situations and feelings are our opportunity to awaken into a more genuine way of living.”

So, he lists some questions as “concise reminders” to help us apply our conscious, awake brains to the desperate, pain-filled one, to try to bring us into better balance. Questions like, “What is going on right now?” which is an objective, dispassionate look at what’s happening in my life. My answer went something like this:

I’m suffering a breakdown of my knees and my energy and my attention as the pain drags me into a deliberate slowness of both mind and body. This is happening in the context of a life of busy-ness and business. Rising before dawn, 3-hour daily commute, full, crusher-busy days which leave little time or energy for attention to some of the things I value most. Values that are getting short-changed in this busy-ness: healthful eating to lose excess weight; dates and visits and appointments with friends; focused time writing; watching and planning my budget better.

Another clarifying question he poses is, “Can I see this as my path?” Can we see that this pain is “exactly what we need to work with in order to be free”? My answer went something like this:

Well, yeah. I see that, I do. The press and pressure of my daily life is too densely packed to give way to my good intentions. To make headway on those intentions, those neglected values, I have to BREAK the whole apparatus. I have to deconstruct, take apart, chip away, break away and let fall apart, so that there is light between the pieces, so that I can identify elements and be able to shape and move them into a better balanced whole. This pain is completely consistent with the disassembling of my life. I feel like with every limping, stumbling, trembling painful step I take through what was my fast-paced existence, I throw a stick into the spokes of my life wheel. It sputters, it bends, it chokes, it stops. It’s not pretty and it is painful, but it is a glorious path and an answer to prayer. How else would I have penetrated the dense material of my work-a-day existence? This is the way my soul chose, as an answer to my pitiful prayers of desire and good intentions. As I painfully fall apart, and my brain lapses into defensiveness, pity and tears, sometimes I remember that this IS my path, and I think of how beautifully this is breaking all the things that need to be broken in my life. And then I feel really grateful. And happy, and strong.

Another question he asks us to ask ourselves is, “Can I let this experience just BE?” One of the central outcomes of meditation is the ability to let things just be, without layering on our own prejudicial judgments that something is good or bad, worthy or not. We allow ourselves to just see the situation as it is. He says that letting this experience just be

“… also allows the quality of mercy or loving-kindness to come forth, because we’re no longer judging ourselves or our experience as defective. We’re finally willing to experience our life within the spaciousness of the heart, rather than through the self-limiting judgments of the mind.”

To which, I answer, “Of course.” Of course I can let this experience just be. I can let this be my path. It continues to be an effective dismantling of my life. I move slower; I ask for help; I listen more, because I’m too exhausted and distracted to be thinking about what I need to say; my routine is broken. This is all good.

So, when I have mentioned to you, in the midst of my whining and complaining and huffing and puffing against this pain, that I know that this is not without opportunity and blessing and good, well, this is what I meant. I am awake. So be it.

Copyright (c) 2010