I apologize; I'm going to discuss bodily functions.
A nurse looking over my post operative tests offered me a compliment. "Your kidneys are rock stars! I have never seen filtration numbers like this!"
"Well, thanks," I told her.
Talking to my husband later, I was more emphatic. "HA! Vindication!"
My family got to listen to me air my grievance, again, about the time I tried to donate a kidney - I was a healthy match, and they turned me down.
Years ago, a man from our church congregation - I'll refer to him by his initial, S - developed kidney problems. He and his wife had moved to another part of town, but we still saw them occasionally. They're great people. After not seeing them for a few months, I could not believe the change in him. His skin was gray, his teeth and hair were falling out. I wanted to help.
His wife, children and step-children had all been tested for compatibility, but none were a match.
I offered to be tested. What good are healthy organs if you can't share, right? I don't smoke, I've never subjected my kidneys to alcohol, and I only need 1 myself. Right? My husband and kids were on board.
So, I was tested, and the initial blood test showed me to be a match. Huzzah!
I then got a phone call from the university medical center in the next state; they'd be handling the transplant, if all went well. The woman thanked me for my interest in donating. Then, obviously starting to fill out a pre-written questionnaire, said, "We know you're over 18. What do you weigh?" I told her, accurately. It makes no sense to lie to anyone, much less medical personnel. There were more questions, and she took down my address. They sent out a packet that I had to take with me to the doctor's office when I went.
I was sent to a nephrologist, a kidney specialist. When she walked in the room and saw me, she got a look of annoyance on her face. She informed me that she didn't think I'd be a suitable donor. "Generally, patients of your size aren't healthy enough to donate."
"Isn't that why we're running the tests? Isn't that what they'll tell us?" Geez, lady. Work on your bedside manner.
She began speaking to me the way you would to someone not very bright - slowly, with small words and too much explaining. "Generally, patients of your size and age are pre-diabetic. That means that your blood sugar is high, but you're not yet actually diabetic."
"I'm not pre-diabetic or diabetic. My blood sugar actually runs low."
"Even if that's true" - yeah, 'cause I'm a compulsive liar - "once you have only one kidney, your chance of diabetic complications is higher."
"That's why we're running tests, right?"
"I'm going to insist on extra tests for you," she said, detailing four or five extra tests that she would order. I needed heart monitoring, a stress test on a treadmill, and more not normally ordered. She was sure that the tests would show me to be "unsuitable."
All in all, with scheduling, juggling doctors, getting tests, and waiting for results, it was six months before it was all completed. One day, I had 14 vials of blood taken at once. The monitoring electrodes (and accompanying tingles) were a very odd experience. But, guess what? Green lights all around. My primary doctor said, "Everything looks great." I passed all the tests - not just squeaked by, but was certified to be in good health AND a great match, by medical experts.
I was nervous about the surgery, but my biggest concern was whether to travel the 5 hours or so to the transplant center by myself, or whether to bring my husband and kids.
Then I got a letter from the medical center, informing me that I would NOT be able to donate. Why? My weight; using that single criteria, they informed me that persons of my weight were not accepted as donors.
They would consider me for transplant if I could lose over 50 pounds in the next 6 weeks.
WELL.
I wrote a letter back. I write really great letters. I write even better complaint letters.
I pointed out that my weight was quite literally the 1st thing they had asked me in that first phone call. If it was in the unacceptable range, THAT would have been the appropriate time to say something, I said. I would have thought that they were being arbitrary and nitpicky, but hey, rules are rules. That would have been that. But to inform me of this after SIX MONTHS of testing? Oh, no. Not OK.
"You state, repeatedly," I wrote, "that your primary concern is the health of S and myself. This is obviously not the case. S's health cannot be your primary concern, or you would not have spent six months of a terminally ill man's life, and thousands of dollars of his insurance money, paying for tests that you would then disregard. Why would you order tests if their results were not integral to your decision? It seems a waste of resources and time, and S's time is limited.
My health cannot be your primary concern either, because you have ignored all of the tests and medical opinions indicating that I am healthy, in no danger, and a tissue match. Losing weight at the rate you recommended is also going against every medical opinion on weight loss, which states that drastic weight loss should take place gradually, and such drastic weight loss in a short period of time would thus endanger my health and wellbeing.
If all you needed was a single number, my weight, you had that in the first phone call. There would be NO need for any further tests if that is all your decision would be based on, but, in fact, you not only tested me, but ordered extra tests."
I hinted rather broadly that taking six months to do very extensive and very expensive tests, only to ignore the results, amounted to medical malpractice.
Good gravy, people! Do you want a lawsuit? I can do that. So could S, or his family.
Which is probably why I received a phone call as soon as they received the letter. "Hi," said the woman, tentatively. "I understand that you're unhappy. Very unhappy."
I then verbally expressed my unhappiness, saying things like, "You do realize that S's illness is terminal, right? Did having a potential living donor knock him off of, or down on, the waiting list for a cadaver kidney? Because if it did, I will be even MORE unhappy."
"No! No! He's still on the list!"
This left us circling back to the central point. As she attempted to defend their decision by telling me all the risks of obesity, and I kept asking, "So, why did you order any other testing? If you knew the first time that you spoke to me that you wouldn't accept me, why did you spend six months running unnecessary tests?"
"The tests are very necessary! They determine your eligibility."
"And yet, you did not use ANY of their data in making this decision! All you wanted was ONE number, my weight, which I gave to you over half a year ago!"
We were at an impasse.
I'm pretty sure that the answer was, "We don't want to be accused of being weight bigots, so we don't tell you this upfront. We let you be tested because we assumed that the tests would show us that you're wildly unhealthy, and we'd be able to deny you without saying that we don't consider fat people." They won't say that, of course. That would open them up to lawsuits, you know.
Speaking with S on the phone, I growled. "They didn't even ask me about things that would have sounded scary, like the pituitary tumors I was diagnosed with at 24. That, I would have understood."
That gave him pause. "You have tumors, but they didn't ask about them?"
"Yeah. They asked if I'd ever had cancer, but they're totally benign."
"The problem is, anything you have, you might pass to me. I can't afford to take on any more health problems, on top of what I've already been through." Well, that makes sense. I was not offended at all when he said, "Would you mind withdrawing from consideration?"
Not if it's your own decision, based on your preferences and/or information received! In fact, I'd already been removed from consideration, so all I had to do was not contest it. And I see his point. I've had tumors, cysts, fibroids - I grow weird things. (But no cancer. Or diabetes.) If my kidney took that propensity to S, well, that could be a pain in the butt. I understand his reticence.
I learned, though, not to gripe to other people about the weight factor. Mentioning how badly I thought they'd handled everything to another woman at church, all she seemed to hear was, "You're too fat, and you're ignoring medical advice."
"You could lose the weight if you wanted to," she said rather pointedly.
Aside from the fact that I'd just been certified as healthy, at my current weight, the fact that a crash diet is always a bad plan, and the fact that it's none of her business, there's the fact that endocrine and thyroid issues, which I've had all my life, mean that my weight is only sketchily related to what I eat or how much I exercise. A friend with a similar endocrine issue is a professional dancer (obviously in great shape), and once restricted herself to only 1000 calories a day and still gained significant weight. (By "significant" I mean "at least double digit numbers." I can't stand it when people call two pounds "weight gain.") But let's just circle back to "none of her business." So, I don't usually discuss it.
Can I call myself "healthy" with endocrine and thyroid issues? Well, what I can say is that every test the doctors ordered said I was within the success parameters. That's not subjective. And if they aren't asking the right questions, well, maybe World Renowned University Medical Center ought to rethink their questions.
In a way, they did. A few more months passed, and I got a call again. "We've reconsidered your case," World Renowned University Medical Center said. "We've discovered that we can have success with donors your size." All of my tests were too old to use, though - would I mind getting all of the tests done again? Yes. I would mind.
"S has asked that I remove myself from consideration. Thank you."
The good news is that S agreed to a transplant from a cadaver kidney from a donor past the usual age, and the last time I saw him, he looked and felt fantastic. The kidney from the older donor was doing a great job.
So, why am I now going from "don't discuss it" to "put it out on the Internet"?
Because my kidneys are rock stars, with filtration numbers rarely seen. Boo yah.
And yeah, even many years later, my family occasionally has to listen to me whine about "the time I tried to give away one of my organs, and they wouldn't even take it."
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Friday, May 27, 2016
These Feet Were Made For Walkin'
"Point your feet in the direction you want to go, and make sure that your toes are the last thing to leave the ground." My son tried to coach me on how to walk.
Walking sounds so easy. I certainly never anticipated having any trouble walking.
Ironically, the difficulty came after surgery to repair the bone structure in my feet. I'd known that they had problems since the bunions appeared while my age was still in single digits. My big toes turned sharply toward the other toes. My big toe toenail ended up almost dead center of the foot, and the bone in the joint jutted outward in the opposite direction. The other toes were crowded. On my left foot, the big toe actually overlapped the other toes. Plus, it was turned at a 45 degree angle, with the side of the toe facing downward, and the nail facing the other toes.
Naturally, it was hard to find shoes that were wide enough. Having anything even a little tight across the bunions caused sharp pain through the whole foot, getting worse as time passed. Sandal straps were the worst offenders. I could only wear sandals if the knob of bone jutted out between the straps. High heels were horrific.
I never really understood it when people would insist that you should balance on the balls of your feet, because I couldn't. I assumed that it was just bad balance, because if I tried, I did not become stable, I became wobbly and unstable. I couldn't tiptoe more than a few steps, either. Still, I was never going to be an athlete or a dancer, so I didn't think too much about it. Some people are awkward.
I remember asking, as a child, why we had these big, long feet anyway, because the entire front half seemed like a waste. I was assured that without the front half of the foot, humans couldn't walk or balance, but that made no sense to me. I wasn't using mine, and I was walking upright. ("Of course you're using it!" people said.)
My perception was further complicated by having to rock my weight onto my left foot when I was standing. If I tried to put equal weight on my feet, I again got very wobbly and likely to fall over. This was explained in junior high school, when I was found to have scoliosis and uneven hips. Having one hip higher meant one leg was shorter, so the weight had to rest mostly on the shorter leg, with the other one just providing balance. This is also why I tend to stand with one leg out to the side. (Think of how you balance on any chair with uneven legs.)
Still, people kept telling me that I was mistaken when I said that I couldn't have decent balance with equally distributed weight. Or, like my husband, they encouraged me to get shoe lifts for the short side; I figured that would just transfer the strain to my hips and back. Besides, I functioned fine if left to my own devices.
Of course, my feet hurt more than was convenient. Still, that was to be expected, because something was wrong with them. I gritted my teeth when I'd mention pain and someone would immediately say, "Lose weight and exercise!" When I was 12 years old, 5 foot 8 and 125 pounds, they hurt, in the same ways and at the same times as they did decades later.
I became the queen of comfortable shoes, after spending my younger years trying to wear pretty ones.
When I was 28, with great insurance, I finally went to see a podiatrist about getting my feet fixed. My husband pushed me to go, after repeatedly watching me try on shoe after shoe that wouldn't fit. "There's a lot more going on in here than bunions," the doctor said.
He ran a single finger up the back of my ankles. "Does this hurt?"
"Yes."
"Mmm hmm," he said. He ran the finger up the back of my calves. "Does this hurt?"
"Yes."
I was surprised. If you had asked me if those places hurt without him touching them, I would have said "no." But he seemed to have an uncanny ability to create pain with just a touch of his index finger, zeroing in on sore spots I didn't know were there.
After several more simple touches and "How about this?" queries, all answered with "Yes," he had me stand on the x-ray machine. "I thought so," he said.
Among the revelations to me was a diagnosis of collapsed arches. I stared at my foot, looking at its lovely arch. "But I can see the arch, see the curve in my foot."
"Yes, but every time you step, it does this," he said, cupping his hand and then flattening it out. "Every step overextends your bone structure, and stretches the tendons and ligaments over the bone in your heel. That's why these," rubbing the back of my ankle and foot again, "hurt. It pulls everything out of place with every step. Pretty soon, everything is fatigued and swelling. If it's severe enough, eventually it can tear the muscles."
Holy cow; who knew?
I suddenly remembered my dad telling me that men with "flat feet" were excused from military service during the draft, because they couldn't pass the physical, and were unable to march over distances.
The bad news - fixing it would mean "a minimum of four to six weeks off your feet." I had three kids - I had a one year old. I did not have the time or capability to take a month off. My husband went to work at 3 a.m.; how would I do anything? Plus, my house is two stories; what about stairs?
He advised me to buy over the counter arch supports, and put them in my shoes. "After the surgery, you'll need custom supports, but there's no sense getting them now, before it's repaired."
I still thought that he had it wrong. This just sounded too odd. Arch supports were made of foam and plastic, and they were all of 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick - how could that little difference change anything? How could these thin little $5 items make any difference?
So, I bought some flimsy little Dr. Scholl's arch supports and put them in my flimsy canvas shoes before we headed to Disneyland.
Oh, ye of little faith.
It was like the heavens opened and angels sang. I love Disneyland, but it usually left me limping. By evening, I would be in almost blinding amounts of pain, wondering if I could make it back to the hotel room. But with these ridiculous slivers of foam, it didn't hurt. The rest of my body tired out before my feet did, something that had never, ever happened before. I became convinced that the podiatrist was a genius.
I began refusing to wear anything without arch supports. I started living in athletic shoes. Sure, they looked clunky and way too casual, but who cared? They were miraculous. I would have worn them with my dresses to church if I didn't think it would horrify my husband. Cute little ballet flats no longer looked quite so appealing. Nothing had ever mitigated the pain before; now that I knew that it was possible, I was not going to give it up.
I wasn't pain free, just agony free. Pain still happened - it just happened a lot less, and a lot less severely. Having to spend a day - or even an evening - in dress shoes still had me limping, not only that day but through the next, too. And this is with dress shoes that are plain and frankly masculine. Every now and then I can find decent Mary Janes, but usually, I'm in loafers if I have to dress up.
I photograph weddings for a living, and it's so aggravating to me that, in order to be looked at as a competent professional, I have to wear shoes that honestly make me less effective.
Years later, a PA tried to tell me that arch supports were bad for people with collapsed arches. "It'll just feel like walking on a rock." Maybe to some, but I'm not giving mine up!
Anyway, I was in my late 40s before I had the time, money and capability to have the surgery. Discovering that many of the bones in each of my feet were physically incapable of supporting weight was surprising. "Apparently, almost half of the bones in my foot were not load bearing, even though they were designed to be. My podiatrist took hold of my foot and folded it lengthwise, flapping it like a wing. "See that?" he said. "It's not supposed to do that." ("Counting Down," Dec. 2013)
The surgery recovery period kicked my butt, ("Handicapped Access," Dec. 2014) but I was sure that as soon as I was out of the cast, everything would be fabulous. I neglected to really ask myself what building new muscle memory would be like.
After nine weeks in a cast, even the muscles I was used to using were out of practice. The bigger problem was, I couldn't walk the way I was used to. I couldn't even stand the way I was used to. If I tried, my muscles screamed and my ankle burned. I was wobbly. Plus, my foot felt as though it had had hinges installed. I was used to picking up and putting down my foot pretty much as a whole, but suddenly, it wanted to bend. It was really puzzling.
Nothing was instinctive any more. My right foot had not yet been operated on and felt normal, but my left felt entirely different.
I tried to describe its functioning to my husband. "It's like it hits at the heel, then the whole foot rolls forward, and it pushes off from the toes."
He gave me a look. "Congratulations," he said drily. "That's called walking."
"Hey, I've been walking for more than 40 years, and it's never done that before!"
Muscles that had been unused for literally my entire life now screamed at me, as well, as they suddenly had to work. Everything was sore, all the time. Plus, I had to really think every time I stepped. If I got tired or distracted, I rolled to the outside, and my ankle burned. I'm not sure exactly what the support in there is made out of, but I'm assuming it's supposed to help keep me from crushing things.
I'd never been aware of rocking my weight to the outside edge of my foot, even though the soles of my shoes wore out on the outside edge, and stayed pristine on the opposite edge. Now, I very exaggeratedly rolled my weight to the inside of my foot, and tried to balance the weight on the ball of the foot, but my shoes (and the doctor) said I was still rolling to the outside.
After I had the second foot operated on, nothing felt recognizable any more.
Even two years later, my toes still surprise me. Trying to put any weight on the toes, especially the big toe, had always crunched my toes tightly together; it goes without saying that it was unstable, and hurt. Now, putting weight on the toes causes them to SPREAD. I have never, ever experienced this! My toes are misshapen from decades of crowding, and I can't believe that they spread apart now - or that the more weight they take, the farther they spread. It's amazing.
I expected this all to be easy, but I was having to actively think about how I put my feet down, pick them up, do anything, two years later. I'm doing better, continually, but it's slow. My chiropractor, working on knee pain, said, "Of course your knee hurts. You don't know how to stand on your feet." UGH!
Sometimes, I'd tackle largish goals. In Hawaii with my family, I decided to walk three and a half miles, over uneven terrain. I was slow, but I made it. Back at our rental house, I again took ruthless advantage of the fact that my son is in massage therapy school. "Can you work on my knee?" It didn't hurt in any way that made sense. It hurt right across the top of my knee, right at the connection with my thigh.
He'd press certain muscles. "Does that hurt?" After a series of answers like, "No," and, "A little," he pressed on the inside of my knee, and I shrieked like a Banshee.
Trying to discover what I was doing wrong, he asked me to walk. After watching me, he said, "Look down at your feet." I looked down. I guessed. I guessed some more. I could not figure out what was wrong. He had to point it out to me, with a sigh. "Your foot is turned sideways." Well - yeah. Is that a problem? It's only about 25 degrees. And I'm going forward.
Apparently, this is an issue.
I'm trying to correct it, but pointing my foot forward feels like I'm twisting the whole leg. Plus, with knees that bow inward and backward, it's difficult to point my leg forward without my knees hitting each other. Is walking supposed to be this complicated?
My reality is further skewed by decades of apparently unreliable perception. I recently went back to my son for help. "I must be doing something new wrong. It's really weird. Standing still for a long time hurts more than walking."
"That's actually really normal."
"IT IS? How can that be?" I mean, my whole life, FIVE DECADES, walking has been actual work, and standing just, well, standing. Not working as hard. Of course things hurt more when they're working. Right?
Apparently, wrong. Standing is more stress. Who knew? Not me.
On the other hand - go, me, something is reacting normally!
Sometimes, someone will want me to do something like dance. Are you kidding? I'm still learning to walk!
I finally got those custom inserts, though, and I'm telling you, hallelujah! You can't build new muscle memory if you don't know what to do, or do it consistently. These are helping on both counts. I no longer have to think every time I step.
If I'm in a tunnel, I think I see the proverbial light.
Walking sounds so easy. I certainly never anticipated having any trouble walking.
Ironically, the difficulty came after surgery to repair the bone structure in my feet. I'd known that they had problems since the bunions appeared while my age was still in single digits. My big toes turned sharply toward the other toes. My big toe toenail ended up almost dead center of the foot, and the bone in the joint jutted outward in the opposite direction. The other toes were crowded. On my left foot, the big toe actually overlapped the other toes. Plus, it was turned at a 45 degree angle, with the side of the toe facing downward, and the nail facing the other toes.
Naturally, it was hard to find shoes that were wide enough. Having anything even a little tight across the bunions caused sharp pain through the whole foot, getting worse as time passed. Sandal straps were the worst offenders. I could only wear sandals if the knob of bone jutted out between the straps. High heels were horrific.
I never really understood it when people would insist that you should balance on the balls of your feet, because I couldn't. I assumed that it was just bad balance, because if I tried, I did not become stable, I became wobbly and unstable. I couldn't tiptoe more than a few steps, either. Still, I was never going to be an athlete or a dancer, so I didn't think too much about it. Some people are awkward.
I remember asking, as a child, why we had these big, long feet anyway, because the entire front half seemed like a waste. I was assured that without the front half of the foot, humans couldn't walk or balance, but that made no sense to me. I wasn't using mine, and I was walking upright. ("Of course you're using it!" people said.)
My perception was further complicated by having to rock my weight onto my left foot when I was standing. If I tried to put equal weight on my feet, I again got very wobbly and likely to fall over. This was explained in junior high school, when I was found to have scoliosis and uneven hips. Having one hip higher meant one leg was shorter, so the weight had to rest mostly on the shorter leg, with the other one just providing balance. This is also why I tend to stand with one leg out to the side. (Think of how you balance on any chair with uneven legs.)
Still, people kept telling me that I was mistaken when I said that I couldn't have decent balance with equally distributed weight. Or, like my husband, they encouraged me to get shoe lifts for the short side; I figured that would just transfer the strain to my hips and back. Besides, I functioned fine if left to my own devices.
Of course, my feet hurt more than was convenient. Still, that was to be expected, because something was wrong with them. I gritted my teeth when I'd mention pain and someone would immediately say, "Lose weight and exercise!" When I was 12 years old, 5 foot 8 and 125 pounds, they hurt, in the same ways and at the same times as they did decades later.
I became the queen of comfortable shoes, after spending my younger years trying to wear pretty ones.
When I was 28, with great insurance, I finally went to see a podiatrist about getting my feet fixed. My husband pushed me to go, after repeatedly watching me try on shoe after shoe that wouldn't fit. "There's a lot more going on in here than bunions," the doctor said.
He ran a single finger up the back of my ankles. "Does this hurt?"
"Yes."
"Mmm hmm," he said. He ran the finger up the back of my calves. "Does this hurt?"
"Yes."
I was surprised. If you had asked me if those places hurt without him touching them, I would have said "no." But he seemed to have an uncanny ability to create pain with just a touch of his index finger, zeroing in on sore spots I didn't know were there.
After several more simple touches and "How about this?" queries, all answered with "Yes," he had me stand on the x-ray machine. "I thought so," he said.
Among the revelations to me was a diagnosis of collapsed arches. I stared at my foot, looking at its lovely arch. "But I can see the arch, see the curve in my foot."
"Yes, but every time you step, it does this," he said, cupping his hand and then flattening it out. "Every step overextends your bone structure, and stretches the tendons and ligaments over the bone in your heel. That's why these," rubbing the back of my ankle and foot again, "hurt. It pulls everything out of place with every step. Pretty soon, everything is fatigued and swelling. If it's severe enough, eventually it can tear the muscles."
Holy cow; who knew?
I suddenly remembered my dad telling me that men with "flat feet" were excused from military service during the draft, because they couldn't pass the physical, and were unable to march over distances.
The bad news - fixing it would mean "a minimum of four to six weeks off your feet." I had three kids - I had a one year old. I did not have the time or capability to take a month off. My husband went to work at 3 a.m.; how would I do anything? Plus, my house is two stories; what about stairs?
He advised me to buy over the counter arch supports, and put them in my shoes. "After the surgery, you'll need custom supports, but there's no sense getting them now, before it's repaired."
I still thought that he had it wrong. This just sounded too odd. Arch supports were made of foam and plastic, and they were all of 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick - how could that little difference change anything? How could these thin little $5 items make any difference?
So, I bought some flimsy little Dr. Scholl's arch supports and put them in my flimsy canvas shoes before we headed to Disneyland.
Oh, ye of little faith.
It was like the heavens opened and angels sang. I love Disneyland, but it usually left me limping. By evening, I would be in almost blinding amounts of pain, wondering if I could make it back to the hotel room. But with these ridiculous slivers of foam, it didn't hurt. The rest of my body tired out before my feet did, something that had never, ever happened before. I became convinced that the podiatrist was a genius.
I began refusing to wear anything without arch supports. I started living in athletic shoes. Sure, they looked clunky and way too casual, but who cared? They were miraculous. I would have worn them with my dresses to church if I didn't think it would horrify my husband. Cute little ballet flats no longer looked quite so appealing. Nothing had ever mitigated the pain before; now that I knew that it was possible, I was not going to give it up.
I wasn't pain free, just agony free. Pain still happened - it just happened a lot less, and a lot less severely. Having to spend a day - or even an evening - in dress shoes still had me limping, not only that day but through the next, too. And this is with dress shoes that are plain and frankly masculine. Every now and then I can find decent Mary Janes, but usually, I'm in loafers if I have to dress up.
I photograph weddings for a living, and it's so aggravating to me that, in order to be looked at as a competent professional, I have to wear shoes that honestly make me less effective.
Years later, a PA tried to tell me that arch supports were bad for people with collapsed arches. "It'll just feel like walking on a rock." Maybe to some, but I'm not giving mine up!
Anyway, I was in my late 40s before I had the time, money and capability to have the surgery. Discovering that many of the bones in each of my feet were physically incapable of supporting weight was surprising. "Apparently, almost half of the bones in my foot were not load bearing, even though they were designed to be. My podiatrist took hold of my foot and folded it lengthwise, flapping it like a wing. "See that?" he said. "It's not supposed to do that." ("Counting Down," Dec. 2013)
The surgery recovery period kicked my butt, ("Handicapped Access," Dec. 2014) but I was sure that as soon as I was out of the cast, everything would be fabulous. I neglected to really ask myself what building new muscle memory would be like.
After nine weeks in a cast, even the muscles I was used to using were out of practice. The bigger problem was, I couldn't walk the way I was used to. I couldn't even stand the way I was used to. If I tried, my muscles screamed and my ankle burned. I was wobbly. Plus, my foot felt as though it had had hinges installed. I was used to picking up and putting down my foot pretty much as a whole, but suddenly, it wanted to bend. It was really puzzling.
Nothing was instinctive any more. My right foot had not yet been operated on and felt normal, but my left felt entirely different.
I tried to describe its functioning to my husband. "It's like it hits at the heel, then the whole foot rolls forward, and it pushes off from the toes."
He gave me a look. "Congratulations," he said drily. "That's called walking."
"Hey, I've been walking for more than 40 years, and it's never done that before!"
Muscles that had been unused for literally my entire life now screamed at me, as well, as they suddenly had to work. Everything was sore, all the time. Plus, I had to really think every time I stepped. If I got tired or distracted, I rolled to the outside, and my ankle burned. I'm not sure exactly what the support in there is made out of, but I'm assuming it's supposed to help keep me from crushing things.
I'd never been aware of rocking my weight to the outside edge of my foot, even though the soles of my shoes wore out on the outside edge, and stayed pristine on the opposite edge. Now, I very exaggeratedly rolled my weight to the inside of my foot, and tried to balance the weight on the ball of the foot, but my shoes (and the doctor) said I was still rolling to the outside.
After I had the second foot operated on, nothing felt recognizable any more.
Even two years later, my toes still surprise me. Trying to put any weight on the toes, especially the big toe, had always crunched my toes tightly together; it goes without saying that it was unstable, and hurt. Now, putting weight on the toes causes them to SPREAD. I have never, ever experienced this! My toes are misshapen from decades of crowding, and I can't believe that they spread apart now - or that the more weight they take, the farther they spread. It's amazing.
I expected this all to be easy, but I was having to actively think about how I put my feet down, pick them up, do anything, two years later. I'm doing better, continually, but it's slow. My chiropractor, working on knee pain, said, "Of course your knee hurts. You don't know how to stand on your feet." UGH!
Sometimes, I'd tackle largish goals. In Hawaii with my family, I decided to walk three and a half miles, over uneven terrain. I was slow, but I made it. Back at our rental house, I again took ruthless advantage of the fact that my son is in massage therapy school. "Can you work on my knee?" It didn't hurt in any way that made sense. It hurt right across the top of my knee, right at the connection with my thigh.
He'd press certain muscles. "Does that hurt?" After a series of answers like, "No," and, "A little," he pressed on the inside of my knee, and I shrieked like a Banshee.
Trying to discover what I was doing wrong, he asked me to walk. After watching me, he said, "Look down at your feet." I looked down. I guessed. I guessed some more. I could not figure out what was wrong. He had to point it out to me, with a sigh. "Your foot is turned sideways." Well - yeah. Is that a problem? It's only about 25 degrees. And I'm going forward.
Apparently, this is an issue.
I'm trying to correct it, but pointing my foot forward feels like I'm twisting the whole leg. Plus, with knees that bow inward and backward, it's difficult to point my leg forward without my knees hitting each other. Is walking supposed to be this complicated?
My reality is further skewed by decades of apparently unreliable perception. I recently went back to my son for help. "I must be doing something new wrong. It's really weird. Standing still for a long time hurts more than walking."
"That's actually really normal."
"IT IS? How can that be?" I mean, my whole life, FIVE DECADES, walking has been actual work, and standing just, well, standing. Not working as hard. Of course things hurt more when they're working. Right?
Apparently, wrong. Standing is more stress. Who knew? Not me.
On the other hand - go, me, something is reacting normally!
Sometimes, someone will want me to do something like dance. Are you kidding? I'm still learning to walk!
I finally got those custom inserts, though, and I'm telling you, hallelujah! You can't build new muscle memory if you don't know what to do, or do it consistently. These are helping on both counts. I no longer have to think every time I step.
If I'm in a tunnel, I think I see the proverbial light.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Instructions
I've started giving my children instructions that they probably find odd. It's just that, after watching a grandmother with Alzheimer's, losing my parents, and watching my siblings weather a heart attack, bypass surgery and a pacemaker, I've become aware that there are things that your family may need to know, but you might not have thought to tell them.
For instance, I informed my children that "Circle of Life" and "The Rainbow Connection" need to be played at my funeral. "I don't care who might tell you that it's inappropriate," I told them. "I don't care if it's recorded, or if you sing it live, if it's the prelude music, or how you do it. " They just need to be played.
I started thinking, though, about what people would need to know if I was incapacitated. If I were to become senile, especially if I was nonverbal, the irony is that those most capable of coping with me would all have passed away. I'm guessing that I'd need roughly the same things I needed as a child, but no one who remembered my childhood would be available.
I mean, the legal stuff will be spelled out in legal papers, I'm sure. But what about all the other stuff, the nitty gritty of calming me down and getting me to bed and all that sort of thing?
So, I've started giving my kids pointers.
"I know, Mom. Get you a VW van." This is true. If I'm suffering from any kind of dementia, drive me around in a VW van. It doesn't matter where we go. As long as it sounds and smells like a Volkswagen, I'll be happy. Bonus points if the van is yellow and white. (And hey, if I'm still perfectly capable, it still won't hurt to get me a van.)
So, here's some more of my best advice. I'm being very serious here - no attempt to play it for laughs. This is seriously what will help, if I'm incapacitated and you can't ask me.
If you ever get complaints from the nursing home staff that I'm wandering outside at night, it's because I want to sleep outside. They'll balk, but try to convince them to let me sleep outside, at least for a few hours, if the weather is good. Volunteer to stay with me, if you have to.
I've had long hair for my entire life, so this request might seem odd. If I need assistance with basic tasks - eating, getting dressed - I'm telling you, cut the hair. All of it. Cut it to about 2 inches long, all over my head. TRUST ME.
I have never liked having my hair brushed or styled. Never. I was a feral small child, resisting any attempt to brush or comb my hair. It seriously went a week or more without brushing. Even now, I brush it once a day, and that's it. Even as a teen, I hated letting others style my hair. I deeply dislike elaborate styles, or letting someone handle my hair. I just know that some sweet, well meaning nurse or granddaughter would sit and brush my hair, thinking I'd like it, and I'd do something hideously inappropriate, like bite her. It's not about whether or not they're gentle; I hate it anyway.
Plus, I cannot stand hair on my neck when I sleep. I sleep with my hair in a ridiculous whale spout ponytail, so it will be off my neck in my sleep. If I'm not capable of doing this myself, it will not go well for anyone.
If I'm ever bedridden, or needing help with ordinary tasks, CUT THE HAIR ALL OFF. I realize that this will be deeply unflattering. With my thinning hair and round face, I'll probably look like a victim of radiation poisoning. I do not care. If you are afraid that I will frighten my descendants, put a hat or a scarf on me before I have visitors or get photos taken.
TAKE ME OUTSIDE AT LEAST ONCE A DAY. I cannot overstate this. Even if I'm wheelchair bound, and the most exotic place available is a tiny courtyard with a single tree and some potted plants, take me there. I need to feel fresh air. I need to watch insects and birds. If there's somewhere with any kind of water, take me there. I may just sit and stare at it, but trust me, that will make me happy. If I've regressed to my childhood self, I may want to throw endless rocks in the water, just to hear the splash. Fountains are OK; streams, even tiny ones, are better, as are lakes and ponds and rivers. Anywhere that smells of sagebrush or pine is good, as well.
Manicures and pedicures are not my thing. I'll barely let you trim my nails. Don't waste your time trying to do anything else to them.
I need reading material. Electronic reading is OK, but I do better with paper. Make sure that I have actual, physical books and magazines. I will reread old ones for a long time, but I will get unruly without reading material. If it's gotten to the point that I can't read, magazines with big, glossy photos of animals and beautiful places - think National Geographic - will be invaluable.
I may want an animal to take care of; I may even forget that I'm allergic to fur, or insist that I don't care. Do us all a favor and get me stuffed animals, and talk to me about "taking care" of my animals. Trust me.
Art supplies are a must. Simple crafts will keep me happy for hours. Taking me out to gather pinecones, moss, branches and rocks to use in crafts will make me equally happy.
Even if I have lost the ability to write, give me paper and pens.
If I can handle it even a little, give me a camera.
Don't expect me to have long phone conversations. It doesn't mean that I don't love the callers, because I do.
Play Ed Ames music. Often.
Let me watch vintage Disney anything as often as feasible.
Both of my parents were healthy, happy and in their own home, unassisted, until the days they died unexpectedly. I hope that's some sort of family karma that I can cash in, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared for the alternative.
For instance, I informed my children that "Circle of Life" and "The Rainbow Connection" need to be played at my funeral. "I don't care who might tell you that it's inappropriate," I told them. "I don't care if it's recorded, or if you sing it live, if it's the prelude music, or how you do it. " They just need to be played.
I started thinking, though, about what people would need to know if I was incapacitated. If I were to become senile, especially if I was nonverbal, the irony is that those most capable of coping with me would all have passed away. I'm guessing that I'd need roughly the same things I needed as a child, but no one who remembered my childhood would be available.
I mean, the legal stuff will be spelled out in legal papers, I'm sure. But what about all the other stuff, the nitty gritty of calming me down and getting me to bed and all that sort of thing?
So, I've started giving my kids pointers.
"I know, Mom. Get you a VW van." This is true. If I'm suffering from any kind of dementia, drive me around in a VW van. It doesn't matter where we go. As long as it sounds and smells like a Volkswagen, I'll be happy. Bonus points if the van is yellow and white. (And hey, if I'm still perfectly capable, it still won't hurt to get me a van.)
So, here's some more of my best advice. I'm being very serious here - no attempt to play it for laughs. This is seriously what will help, if I'm incapacitated and you can't ask me.
If you ever get complaints from the nursing home staff that I'm wandering outside at night, it's because I want to sleep outside. They'll balk, but try to convince them to let me sleep outside, at least for a few hours, if the weather is good. Volunteer to stay with me, if you have to.
I've had long hair for my entire life, so this request might seem odd. If I need assistance with basic tasks - eating, getting dressed - I'm telling you, cut the hair. All of it. Cut it to about 2 inches long, all over my head. TRUST ME.
I have never liked having my hair brushed or styled. Never. I was a feral small child, resisting any attempt to brush or comb my hair. It seriously went a week or more without brushing. Even now, I brush it once a day, and that's it. Even as a teen, I hated letting others style my hair. I deeply dislike elaborate styles, or letting someone handle my hair. I just know that some sweet, well meaning nurse or granddaughter would sit and brush my hair, thinking I'd like it, and I'd do something hideously inappropriate, like bite her. It's not about whether or not they're gentle; I hate it anyway.
Plus, I cannot stand hair on my neck when I sleep. I sleep with my hair in a ridiculous whale spout ponytail, so it will be off my neck in my sleep. If I'm not capable of doing this myself, it will not go well for anyone.
If I'm ever bedridden, or needing help with ordinary tasks, CUT THE HAIR ALL OFF. I realize that this will be deeply unflattering. With my thinning hair and round face, I'll probably look like a victim of radiation poisoning. I do not care. If you are afraid that I will frighten my descendants, put a hat or a scarf on me before I have visitors or get photos taken.
TAKE ME OUTSIDE AT LEAST ONCE A DAY. I cannot overstate this. Even if I'm wheelchair bound, and the most exotic place available is a tiny courtyard with a single tree and some potted plants, take me there. I need to feel fresh air. I need to watch insects and birds. If there's somewhere with any kind of water, take me there. I may just sit and stare at it, but trust me, that will make me happy. If I've regressed to my childhood self, I may want to throw endless rocks in the water, just to hear the splash. Fountains are OK; streams, even tiny ones, are better, as are lakes and ponds and rivers. Anywhere that smells of sagebrush or pine is good, as well.
Manicures and pedicures are not my thing. I'll barely let you trim my nails. Don't waste your time trying to do anything else to them.
I need reading material. Electronic reading is OK, but I do better with paper. Make sure that I have actual, physical books and magazines. I will reread old ones for a long time, but I will get unruly without reading material. If it's gotten to the point that I can't read, magazines with big, glossy photos of animals and beautiful places - think National Geographic - will be invaluable.
I may want an animal to take care of; I may even forget that I'm allergic to fur, or insist that I don't care. Do us all a favor and get me stuffed animals, and talk to me about "taking care" of my animals. Trust me.
Art supplies are a must. Simple crafts will keep me happy for hours. Taking me out to gather pinecones, moss, branches and rocks to use in crafts will make me equally happy.
Even if I have lost the ability to write, give me paper and pens.
If I can handle it even a little, give me a camera.
Don't expect me to have long phone conversations. It doesn't mean that I don't love the callers, because I do.
Play Ed Ames music. Often.
Let me watch vintage Disney anything as often as feasible.
Both of my parents were healthy, happy and in their own home, unassisted, until the days they died unexpectedly. I hope that's some sort of family karma that I can cash in, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared for the alternative.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Tony's Tree
Whenever someone, usually someone who grew up elsewhere, said to me when I was growing up, "Nothing grows in Nevada!" I'd say only three words: "My mother's yard."
"Well, OK, in your mom's yard," they'd say. My mother could grow anything. She and my dad bought a piece of typically empty Nevada land; their friends told them that they'd "never be able to grow anything there." Mom told, with glee, the story of how their most vocal critic pulled into the back driveway in the spring, when the flowers were blooming, the lawn was velvet, and the trees were filled out. "He stared with his mouth open, then got back in his car and drove away. He never came back, but we never heard any grief from him again."
My mom literally brought home cut branches, stuck them in the ground, and they turned into trees. A now towering cedar came home from a picnic in a styrofoam cup. She had fruit trees, vegetables, more flowers than you can count.
Now, it's been more than three years since she passed away, her yard hasn't been watered even once, and it's an absolute jungle. The shrubs and vines and things have taken over. The flowers are reseeding. There are seedling trees that have to go, because they have no room to grow up where they are. They're burying fences and patios.
Since I was a kid, the largest tree in her front yard has belonged to my friend. I mentioned it in my blog post just after Mom passed away ("Mom"): "Can I build a Swiss Family Robinson tree house in your tree and just live in it?" one of my friends asked her once. "Sure. You just let me know when," she said. Every few years, he'd bring it up - "That tree still there?" and she'd say, "Still waiting for you." "Maybe I'll bring my son over, and we'll build that treehouse," he'd say. "I'll be here," she'd tell him. We've called it Tony's Tree for years. It will always be Tony's Tree.
They talked about his planned treehouse many times. "I want it to have power, plumbing, everything. I want to be able to live in it," Tony would say. "Sure," Mom would answer. After storms, he'd want to know, "How's my tree?"
"You're never going to cut that tree down, are you?" he asked once. "Oh, no," she said, sounding scandalized.
After Mom died, Tony came over to her house for her memorial, and again for Thanksgiving. "Is that tree still mine?" he asked. "Of course! It's always going to be yours!" My whole family knew. It was his; any time he wanted to build a treehouse, he was welcome. His kids were too old to be excited about a treehouse, but he hoped to have grandchildren. Maybe some day, they'd get to use it. "Maybe some day, I'll be homeless, and need to live in it," he joked.
A year and a half after Mom died, Tony died. I was unprepared for it ("Loving Tony"). He was sober, he wasn't sick, he'd recovered from a devastating car accident - everything was supposed to be OK.
Nothing on Earth lasts forever.
The tree comforted me. It stood where it always had. It waited.
I was comforted by the fact that we all knew that it was still Tony's Tree. Some day, when we had the money, I would build the treehouse. Maybe Tony's grandkids would get to use it. When I looked at it, I saw my mother, I saw Tony, I saw possibilities, I saw stability and predictability.
But the tree is old, and the weather is harsh.
"A big branch broke off of Uncle Tony's tree," said my daughter. She lives in her grandmother's house (which is now her Uncle Gary's house).
"Yeah, a lot of branches broke during that storm," I answered. Heavy, wet snow, much needed snow, and high wind had wrought havoc around town. But that tree is older than I am. Its trunk is probably 12 feet or more around. It would be fine, I was sure.
Then I went down and looked at the tree. The broken branch is huge, looking like a decent sized tree by itself. Its base is as big around as a person, and left a deep gash in the trunk as it peeled off. It's the kind of gash that invites insects or disease. Worse, as I looked up into the canopy, I saw what I've been ignoring and denying - dead wood.
Many of Mom's willow trees are showing dead wood in their higher branches. It happens, it's normal. But I have been actively in denial about how much is in Tony's Tree. There's quite a bit.
"That whole tree has to go," said someone behind me. It may have been my husband, or my son; I don't know. I just stared at the tree. "Yeah," I said, but I didn't mean it. That tree will outlive me - won't it? It outlived my mom. It outlived Tony. It'll always be there, won't it?
"It has to go." Someone else said it. It probably does, but I'm not OK with that.
The tree is coming to the end of its life. I have to wrap my head around that.
We puttered around doing yard chores; my daughter isn't a yard person. I kept thinking about the tree. I walked up and put my hand on its trunk. "I know," I said, "I know."
"Who are you talking to?" my son wanted to know.
"The tree." Then the tears came.
As long as the tree was there, I didn't have to let go. There are other trees - willows, apple trees, plum trees, junipers, a cedar, maples, an oak, stumps from long dead poplars. I would be OK losing any of them, even all of them, but not this tree. I was never prepared to lose this tree.
My son hugged me, long and hard.
My daughter came out of the house, saw me, and said, "What's wrong with Mom?"
"Uncle Tony's tree."
I know that I won't love them any less if I don't have their things with me. I know that they love me, with or without their stuff. I know that I haven't failed the tree, or failed my loved ones. I understand all of that. It's simply an intellectual understanding, though, not an emotional response. I will miss this tree more than I can say.
My family has assured me that we will make something with the wood, something great. We will leave the trunk standing. Maybe we'll hire a chainsaw artist. Maybe we'll make it look like the home of fairy tale elves. We will make something, something wonderful, something to honor Tony and my mother. I know that we will.
But change is hard.
"Well, OK, in your mom's yard," they'd say. My mother could grow anything. She and my dad bought a piece of typically empty Nevada land; their friends told them that they'd "never be able to grow anything there." Mom told, with glee, the story of how their most vocal critic pulled into the back driveway in the spring, when the flowers were blooming, the lawn was velvet, and the trees were filled out. "He stared with his mouth open, then got back in his car and drove away. He never came back, but we never heard any grief from him again."
My mom literally brought home cut branches, stuck them in the ground, and they turned into trees. A now towering cedar came home from a picnic in a styrofoam cup. She had fruit trees, vegetables, more flowers than you can count.
Now, it's been more than three years since she passed away, her yard hasn't been watered even once, and it's an absolute jungle. The shrubs and vines and things have taken over. The flowers are reseeding. There are seedling trees that have to go, because they have no room to grow up where they are. They're burying fences and patios.
Since I was a kid, the largest tree in her front yard has belonged to my friend. I mentioned it in my blog post just after Mom passed away ("Mom"): "Can I build a Swiss Family Robinson tree house in your tree and just live in it?" one of my friends asked her once. "Sure. You just let me know when," she said. Every few years, he'd bring it up - "That tree still there?" and she'd say, "Still waiting for you." "Maybe I'll bring my son over, and we'll build that treehouse," he'd say. "I'll be here," she'd tell him. We've called it Tony's Tree for years. It will always be Tony's Tree.
They talked about his planned treehouse many times. "I want it to have power, plumbing, everything. I want to be able to live in it," Tony would say. "Sure," Mom would answer. After storms, he'd want to know, "How's my tree?"
"You're never going to cut that tree down, are you?" he asked once. "Oh, no," she said, sounding scandalized.
After Mom died, Tony came over to her house for her memorial, and again for Thanksgiving. "Is that tree still mine?" he asked. "Of course! It's always going to be yours!" My whole family knew. It was his; any time he wanted to build a treehouse, he was welcome. His kids were too old to be excited about a treehouse, but he hoped to have grandchildren. Maybe some day, they'd get to use it. "Maybe some day, I'll be homeless, and need to live in it," he joked.
A year and a half after Mom died, Tony died. I was unprepared for it ("Loving Tony"). He was sober, he wasn't sick, he'd recovered from a devastating car accident - everything was supposed to be OK.
Nothing on Earth lasts forever.
The tree comforted me. It stood where it always had. It waited.
I was comforted by the fact that we all knew that it was still Tony's Tree. Some day, when we had the money, I would build the treehouse. Maybe Tony's grandkids would get to use it. When I looked at it, I saw my mother, I saw Tony, I saw possibilities, I saw stability and predictability.
But the tree is old, and the weather is harsh.
"A big branch broke off of Uncle Tony's tree," said my daughter. She lives in her grandmother's house (which is now her Uncle Gary's house).
"Yeah, a lot of branches broke during that storm," I answered. Heavy, wet snow, much needed snow, and high wind had wrought havoc around town. But that tree is older than I am. Its trunk is probably 12 feet or more around. It would be fine, I was sure.
Then I went down and looked at the tree. The broken branch is huge, looking like a decent sized tree by itself. Its base is as big around as a person, and left a deep gash in the trunk as it peeled off. It's the kind of gash that invites insects or disease. Worse, as I looked up into the canopy, I saw what I've been ignoring and denying - dead wood.
Many of Mom's willow trees are showing dead wood in their higher branches. It happens, it's normal. But I have been actively in denial about how much is in Tony's Tree. There's quite a bit.
"That whole tree has to go," said someone behind me. It may have been my husband, or my son; I don't know. I just stared at the tree. "Yeah," I said, but I didn't mean it. That tree will outlive me - won't it? It outlived my mom. It outlived Tony. It'll always be there, won't it?
"It has to go." Someone else said it. It probably does, but I'm not OK with that.
The tree is coming to the end of its life. I have to wrap my head around that.
We puttered around doing yard chores; my daughter isn't a yard person. I kept thinking about the tree. I walked up and put my hand on its trunk. "I know," I said, "I know."
"Who are you talking to?" my son wanted to know.
"The tree." Then the tears came.
As long as the tree was there, I didn't have to let go. There are other trees - willows, apple trees, plum trees, junipers, a cedar, maples, an oak, stumps from long dead poplars. I would be OK losing any of them, even all of them, but not this tree. I was never prepared to lose this tree.
My son hugged me, long and hard.
My daughter came out of the house, saw me, and said, "What's wrong with Mom?"
"Uncle Tony's tree."
I know that I won't love them any less if I don't have their things with me. I know that they love me, with or without their stuff. I know that I haven't failed the tree, or failed my loved ones. I understand all of that. It's simply an intellectual understanding, though, not an emotional response. I will miss this tree more than I can say.
My family has assured me that we will make something with the wood, something great. We will leave the trunk standing. Maybe we'll hire a chainsaw artist. Maybe we'll make it look like the home of fairy tale elves. We will make something, something wonderful, something to honor Tony and my mother. I know that we will.
But change is hard.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Goddess Pele
I wanted to see Kilauea for most of my life. I'm lucky enough to live somewhere with access to volcanoes, so the concept of "volcano" wasn't new to me. Mountains with names like Lassen and Shasta are familiar places for me; plus, I've been to Yellowstone. I've walked through lava tubes, seen a hillside of obsidian, watched boiling mud pots. But the idea of an erupting volcano was so exciting, especially an eruption that you could get close enough to safely watch. When Kilauea started erupting, she became a "must do" sight.
My brother can see volcanoes - Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams - from his front porch. He narrowly missed being in the Mt. St. Helens blast zone in 1980, and he brought me a jar of flour-fine ash the next time he came to visit. As a scenic and wildlife photographer, though, he too wanted to see Kilauea.
We both finally got to see her in our middle age years, on separate trips. I was not really prepared for how Hawaiian volcanoes differed from the ones I knew. I was used cone shaped mountains, steeply rising and covered in snow. Sometimes, age and eruption would round the summit, but they still had a recognizable look. I'd been on Oahu before, and thought that the Big Island's volcanoes might look like Oahu's mountains.
Instead, by my frame of reference, they barely looked like mountains. Even Mauna Loa, the distance from her summit to the ocean floor making her the largest mountain on Earth, just looked like a long, gradual, unspectacular rise, ending in more of a plateau than a peak.
Kilauea doesn't even look like a separate mountain to me. I can't see any definition between her and the surrounding area. Plus, her caldera is lower than the surrounding area, not on a peak, like I'd expected.
"It's a steaming pit," said a man close to us, on his first visit there. Well, OK, technically, if you have no poetry in your soul.
It was fascinating, but not what I'd expected.
On our first visit, we were staying about three and a half hours away, so we only saw Hawaii Volcanoes National Park in the daylight. We saw the caldera, participated in a ranger led program, walked through Thurston Lava Tube, saw steam vents. I was happy to see someplace I'd wanted to go for so long.
Then it happened - the first glow of orange in the steam.
Can't see it? Don't worry; it got more and more pronounced as darkness fell.
Then it was dark, and the view went from stunning to magical.
I thought that it couldn't get much better than that.
But we still had our helicopter ride!
Do you see what we're all packing? Of course - cameras. We had wide lenses, telephoto lenses, a GoPro; this would be one well recorded flight.
(That fanny pack kind of thing we're all wearing? That's a parachute. Or, maybe a flotation device. I'm not kidding. They're mandatory.)
We took off from the far side of the island and headed inland, over the "shoulder road" between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, headed for Kilauea. "Are there any active lava flows right now?" my son asked. We're aware that nature doesn't take orders or requests, but we were hoping.
"I'm sure we'll see something exciting. For one thing, the floor of the caldera fell last night," the pilot said. That means that the hard crust on an area had crumbled, and left the flowing lava underneath visible. For the pilot, this was an everyday occurrence, but for mainlanders, it was very exciting.
As we approached the caldera, my husband, shooting with the wide angle lens, was shooting images like this:
When we got closer, my zoom lens allowed me allowed me to shoot straight down into the caldera. The pilot circled over the volcano, one direction and then another.
"They avoided the last few flows. Poor things, they're goners now," the pilot said.
I felt for the trees, but it was fascinating. Shooting through the moving, curved helicopter windows was difficult, but all of us managed to get numerous shots of this truly once in a lifetime experience.
Mahalo, Goddess Pele, for a look into your home.
All photos, copyright 2015, The Reflection Works Photography
My brother can see volcanoes - Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams - from his front porch. He narrowly missed being in the Mt. St. Helens blast zone in 1980, and he brought me a jar of flour-fine ash the next time he came to visit. As a scenic and wildlife photographer, though, he too wanted to see Kilauea.
We both finally got to see her in our middle age years, on separate trips. I was not really prepared for how Hawaiian volcanoes differed from the ones I knew. I was used cone shaped mountains, steeply rising and covered in snow. Sometimes, age and eruption would round the summit, but they still had a recognizable look. I'd been on Oahu before, and thought that the Big Island's volcanoes might look like Oahu's mountains.
Instead, by my frame of reference, they barely looked like mountains. Even Mauna Loa, the distance from her summit to the ocean floor making her the largest mountain on Earth, just looked like a long, gradual, unspectacular rise, ending in more of a plateau than a peak.
It was fascinating, but not what I'd expected.
On our first visit, we were staying about three and a half hours away, so we only saw Hawaii Volcanoes National Park in the daylight. We saw the caldera, participated in a ranger led program, walked through Thurston Lava Tube, saw steam vents. I was happy to see someplace I'd wanted to go for so long.
My brother enjoyed his first trip to the park, but he was on a guided excursion from Oahu, so he had even less time there than we did.
None of us got to see live lava flows, the volcano at night, or (on our wish list) lava flows hitting the sea.
When we came back years later on a family trip, with my husband, most of my children and my brother together, we had wish lists of experiences that we missed the first time. Topping my brother's list were 1. a helicopter tour, and 2. seeing the caldera at night. Those things were on our list, as well.
There were seven of us, all arriving at different times. The first day we were all there, we planned to spend all day in the park. We did everything we'd done before and more, including a drive down the length of Chain of Craters Road.
Before sunset, we staked out spots near the Jagger Museum and waited for dark. For the seven of us, we had 5 regular cameras and 6 cell phone cameras. This spot is the closest observation area to the caldera, and the cameras clicked with regularity.
Can't see it? Don't worry; it got more and more pronounced as darkness fell.
It was just gorgeous. Click, click, click!
But we still had our helicopter ride!
Do you see what we're all packing? Of course - cameras. We had wide lenses, telephoto lenses, a GoPro; this would be one well recorded flight.
(That fanny pack kind of thing we're all wearing? That's a parachute. Or, maybe a flotation device. I'm not kidding. They're mandatory.)
We took off from the far side of the island and headed inland, over the "shoulder road" between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, headed for Kilauea. "Are there any active lava flows right now?" my son asked. We're aware that nature doesn't take orders or requests, but we were hoping.
"I'm sure we'll see something exciting. For one thing, the floor of the caldera fell last night," the pilot said. That means that the hard crust on an area had crumbled, and left the flowing lava underneath visible. For the pilot, this was an everyday occurrence, but for mainlanders, it was very exciting.
As we approached the caldera, my husband, shooting with the wide angle lens, was shooting images like this:
When we got closer, my zoom lens allowed me allowed me to shoot straight down into the caldera. The pilot circled over the volcano, one direction and then another.
OH MY GOODNESS! It was amazing.
As we flew on, the pilot said, "I'll just watch for smoke." That was likely, he said, to indicate something that we'd want to see.
A rising wisp of smoke led to this:
The next led to this:
Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! It looked just like something on the National Geographic Channel. "That's new," the pilot said. "It'll be gone in about 15 minutes."
It's hard to estimate from the air, but I think the drip was about ten feet long. I zoomed out to get a bit of perspective, and in again to watch it ooze.
The next sight of rising smoke was larger. An isolated stand of trees was smoking, then catching fire, from the lava at their feet.
I felt for the trees, but it was fascinating. Shooting through the moving, curved helicopter windows was difficult, but all of us managed to get numerous shots of this truly once in a lifetime experience.
Mahalo, Goddess Pele, for a look into your home.
All photos, copyright 2015, The Reflection Works Photography
Saturday, January 9, 2016
Language Lessons, Part 2: Vowel Sounds
Yes, there are more pressing issues. But this is making me crazy.
I know that language, especially English, is a work in progress. English complicates things by being an assemblage of other languages, and breaking its own rules with regularity. So, things change; I understand.
I can get on board with new words - we had to figure out what to call the Internet after its invention - or new usages (text, anyone?) But we do not need to change or substitute sounds. We really don't.
Here's my problem: the word "yes." It's a perfectly good word. It's succinct and easily understandable. It's one of the first words we learn as infants. We do not need it to be "yass" or "yuss" or "yiss."
I mean, for crying out loud, what IS that? How did it start? For one thing, it sounds like baby talk. How are grown humans OK sounding like toddlers? And WHY in the world have we decided that it's cuter or more acceptable, or... what do people think that it is, anyway? And what mass hysteria is causing so many of us to use it?
My husband has a tendency to mush vowel sounds. You'd think that a man named "Dan" with a father named "Don" would be more attuned to vowel sounds, but somewhere in his elementary schooling (which, he says, did not include phonics or the ubiquitous instruction I often received to "sound it out") some teacher made a passing reference to the schwa, and he internalized the idea that vowels are interchangeable. It makes me crazy. For instance, the word "if" usually comes out of his mouth as "eff." Ugh.
Sometimes, when he mispronounces some vowel sound or other and then rolls his eyes when I correct him, I say, "OK, Dun."
I mean pin, pen, pan, and pun are entirely different words! Vowels - they're important!
The thing is, he's doing it unconsciously, or because he's actually unaware of the correct pronunciation. He hasn't made a conscious choice to mispronounce something because he thinks it's cute or fashionable or somehow, what, more effective than the correct pronunciation. It's an honest mistake, and it still makes me crazy. Imagine how aggravating I find it when someone does it on purpose, for reasons on which I am completely unclear - fashion? Habit? Conformity?
In the name of sanity, when you're enthused, stick with the word we already have - "YES!" Drag out the sound if you want. If you're approximating a Southern US accent, feel free to go with "yay-es!"
Just know that if you write "YUUUUSSSS!" or "YAAAASSSS!!!" or anything similar, on your social media or anywhere else, I think unkind things. I may shave my estimation of your IQ down by several points.
Yes, I know that this makes me a curmudgeon and the language police. I don't care.
We have a perfectly good word. Please use it.
I know that language, especially English, is a work in progress. English complicates things by being an assemblage of other languages, and breaking its own rules with regularity. So, things change; I understand.
I can get on board with new words - we had to figure out what to call the Internet after its invention - or new usages (text, anyone?) But we do not need to change or substitute sounds. We really don't.
Here's my problem: the word "yes." It's a perfectly good word. It's succinct and easily understandable. It's one of the first words we learn as infants. We do not need it to be "yass" or "yuss" or "yiss."
I mean, for crying out loud, what IS that? How did it start? For one thing, it sounds like baby talk. How are grown humans OK sounding like toddlers? And WHY in the world have we decided that it's cuter or more acceptable, or... what do people think that it is, anyway? And what mass hysteria is causing so many of us to use it?
My husband has a tendency to mush vowel sounds. You'd think that a man named "Dan" with a father named "Don" would be more attuned to vowel sounds, but somewhere in his elementary schooling (which, he says, did not include phonics or the ubiquitous instruction I often received to "sound it out") some teacher made a passing reference to the schwa, and he internalized the idea that vowels are interchangeable. It makes me crazy. For instance, the word "if" usually comes out of his mouth as "eff." Ugh.
Sometimes, when he mispronounces some vowel sound or other and then rolls his eyes when I correct him, I say, "OK, Dun."
I mean pin, pen, pan, and pun are entirely different words! Vowels - they're important!
The thing is, he's doing it unconsciously, or because he's actually unaware of the correct pronunciation. He hasn't made a conscious choice to mispronounce something because he thinks it's cute or fashionable or somehow, what, more effective than the correct pronunciation. It's an honest mistake, and it still makes me crazy. Imagine how aggravating I find it when someone does it on purpose, for reasons on which I am completely unclear - fashion? Habit? Conformity?
In the name of sanity, when you're enthused, stick with the word we already have - "YES!" Drag out the sound if you want. If you're approximating a Southern US accent, feel free to go with "yay-es!"
Just know that if you write "YUUUUSSSS!" or "YAAAASSSS!!!" or anything similar, on your social media or anywhere else, I think unkind things. I may shave my estimation of your IQ down by several points.
Yes, I know that this makes me a curmudgeon and the language police. I don't care.
We have a perfectly good word. Please use it.
Monday, January 4, 2016
"What Would You Do If...?"
One of my children has spent a lifetime in experimenting with her ideas of parental affection, and how and why it's bestowed. "Will you still love me if I do this? Will you still love me if I do that? Will you still love me if I'm different from my siblings?"
I knew from reading extensively that this was very normal, and I didn't take it - don't take it - personally. It didn't resonate with me emotionally, though, because I could never recall feeling that way myself. My parents' feelings were a constant, like the mountains. I don't think I felt particularly capable of affecting their affection, one way or another. I didn't either luxuriate in it or long for it.
One of the problems this child and I have in understanding each other is that she's a figurative speaker and thinker, who chooses her words for the effect she thinks they'll have instead of for their accuracy. I am a literal thinker, who chooses my words for accuracy, and understates when in doubt.
This means that she frequently looks for hidden meanings when there aren't any. She also tends to think that I'm being sarcastic when I'm not. When given any household chore as a child, she was likely to ask, "Why do I have to?" The answer was always, "Because you live here." She was sure that this was me being a smart mouth, even after complaining to other adults in her life and being told, "That's honestly why you have to."
(Sometimes, though, she took me at my word. In her early teens she wanted to know, "What would you do if I dyed my hair blue?" I responded, "Nothing. It's hair. It'll grow back." She never did dye it blue; it wasn't as much fun if her parents wouldn't be scandalized.)
She was also convinced, deep in her heart of hearts, that if other people disagreed with us, especially if they were people she liked, or a number of people that she considered to be significant, we were legally and morally obligated to change our minds and our rules. At 13, she was sincerely convinced that if we didn't send her to summer camp, we'd go to jail. ("Don't all kids think that?" she asked as an adult. Um - no, Child, they don't.)
"So-and-so thinks your rule is stupid!" we heard repeatedly. I'd usually reply with something like, "Well, I make the rules in my house," which she thought was both a cop out and "stupid." At 12, after I'd pulled rank and said, "I'm the parent. I get to decide," she said, "So you get to do things just because you're the mom? I thought we were all equal here!" My reply of, "Then you thought wrong" infuriated her.
If she kept at it, I'd say, "So, if they get to make the rules for my family, I get to make the rules for their family, right?"
"NO!"
"Why not? That seems fair."
"Because your rules are STUPID and theirs aren't!"
"All my friends think you're so mean!" she snapped at me, after I'd said no to something.
"Good. That means I'm doing my job right." Like most parents, I would die for my kids, but that doesn't mean I should cave to their every whim. The kids would think I was a fantastic parent if I threw out every rule and let them do whatever they wanted, but that wouldn't be good for them, or create healthy, functioning adults.
After my daughter huffed away, another mother pulled me aside to assure me that she spent time with my daughter's friends, "and none of them think you're mean. They all really like you." It was sweet of her, but she needn't have bothered. I do what I think is right; I don't try to win the approval of children. (Or adults, for that matter.)
Throughout her childhood, we heard a constant litany of, "What would you do if...?" More than once, she asked, "What would you do if I was sent to prison?" The answer was always, "Visit you on visiting day."
She must not have believed me, because she was still asking into her mid-20s - "What would you do if I was in prison?" One day, after getting the usual answer, "Visit you on visiting day," she said, "What if it was for a really terrible crime?"
"Visit you on visiting day."
"What if it was for a really awful, messy, premeditated murder?"
"Visit you on visiting day."
"Really?"
"Are you planning on murdering someone?"
"No. But would you really?"
"If you've done something stupid or violent, I expect you to face the consequences. I'm not going to lie for you. I'm not going to hide you from the police. I'm not going to whisk you away to a country with no extradition. I'm not going to bake a file into a cake and help you escape. But you're still my child, and I will always love you. I will visit you on visiting days, and I will be there on the day that you get out."
She must have finally believed me, because she hasn't asked since. (She has not planned or committed any murders, either.)
I think this is how we treat God sometimes. "Will you still love me if I do this?" "If you're really a loving parent, you'll love me even if I do that." Or, "You can't possibly love me after what I've done." "If you love me, you'll give me what I want. If I don't get it, you must not love me."
Sometimes, I think we sound like small children. Any of us who are parents have faced furious or despondent offspring, just sure that if we love them, we'll let them have candy for breakfast, buy them a pony, abolish bedtimes. They can't believe that we ignore their tears or their feelings or their protests. We're sometimes like that. We're seriously, deeply hurt when things don't go our way. Doesn't God love us? Shouldn't that mean that life is easy and we are always happy, and we get what we want? We recognize that our children don't have our perspective and experience, but we can't imagine that God knows something that we don't.
Or, we go the opposite direction. We decide that God loves other people, but not us. We screwed up. We did stupid, willful, harmful stuff. No one could ever love us after that.
The older I get, the more I see theology as a parent/child relationship. God is the parent. He loves us, more than we will ever know. He always will, no matter what we've done. That does not mean that he should always give us what we want - even if not getting it pains us and makes us sad or angry, and even if other people agree with us and think things should be done our way. He not only knows best, it's his job to do things as HE sees fit, not as we see fit.
Like every parent, he will be disappointed, exasperated, angry. Yet he will be beside us whenever he can, and he will be waiting to help us start over and get it right after we've screwed things up. He will do this even if we hate him or think that he's mean.
Because that's what good parents do.
And if we humans can figure that out, trust me, God knew it long ago, and he's better at it than we could be.
I knew from reading extensively that this was very normal, and I didn't take it - don't take it - personally. It didn't resonate with me emotionally, though, because I could never recall feeling that way myself. My parents' feelings were a constant, like the mountains. I don't think I felt particularly capable of affecting their affection, one way or another. I didn't either luxuriate in it or long for it.
One of the problems this child and I have in understanding each other is that she's a figurative speaker and thinker, who chooses her words for the effect she thinks they'll have instead of for their accuracy. I am a literal thinker, who chooses my words for accuracy, and understates when in doubt.
This means that she frequently looks for hidden meanings when there aren't any. She also tends to think that I'm being sarcastic when I'm not. When given any household chore as a child, she was likely to ask, "Why do I have to?" The answer was always, "Because you live here." She was sure that this was me being a smart mouth, even after complaining to other adults in her life and being told, "That's honestly why you have to."
(Sometimes, though, she took me at my word. In her early teens she wanted to know, "What would you do if I dyed my hair blue?" I responded, "Nothing. It's hair. It'll grow back." She never did dye it blue; it wasn't as much fun if her parents wouldn't be scandalized.)
She was also convinced, deep in her heart of hearts, that if other people disagreed with us, especially if they were people she liked, or a number of people that she considered to be significant, we were legally and morally obligated to change our minds and our rules. At 13, she was sincerely convinced that if we didn't send her to summer camp, we'd go to jail. ("Don't all kids think that?" she asked as an adult. Um - no, Child, they don't.)
"So-and-so thinks your rule is stupid!" we heard repeatedly. I'd usually reply with something like, "Well, I make the rules in my house," which she thought was both a cop out and "stupid." At 12, after I'd pulled rank and said, "I'm the parent. I get to decide," she said, "So you get to do things just because you're the mom? I thought we were all equal here!" My reply of, "Then you thought wrong" infuriated her.
If she kept at it, I'd say, "So, if they get to make the rules for my family, I get to make the rules for their family, right?"
"NO!"
"Why not? That seems fair."
"Because your rules are STUPID and theirs aren't!"
"All my friends think you're so mean!" she snapped at me, after I'd said no to something.
"Good. That means I'm doing my job right." Like most parents, I would die for my kids, but that doesn't mean I should cave to their every whim. The kids would think I was a fantastic parent if I threw out every rule and let them do whatever they wanted, but that wouldn't be good for them, or create healthy, functioning adults.
After my daughter huffed away, another mother pulled me aside to assure me that she spent time with my daughter's friends, "and none of them think you're mean. They all really like you." It was sweet of her, but she needn't have bothered. I do what I think is right; I don't try to win the approval of children. (Or adults, for that matter.)
Throughout her childhood, we heard a constant litany of, "What would you do if...?" More than once, she asked, "What would you do if I was sent to prison?" The answer was always, "Visit you on visiting day."
She must not have believed me, because she was still asking into her mid-20s - "What would you do if I was in prison?" One day, after getting the usual answer, "Visit you on visiting day," she said, "What if it was for a really terrible crime?"
"Visit you on visiting day."
"What if it was for a really awful, messy, premeditated murder?"
"Visit you on visiting day."
"Really?"
"Are you planning on murdering someone?"
"No. But would you really?"
"If you've done something stupid or violent, I expect you to face the consequences. I'm not going to lie for you. I'm not going to hide you from the police. I'm not going to whisk you away to a country with no extradition. I'm not going to bake a file into a cake and help you escape. But you're still my child, and I will always love you. I will visit you on visiting days, and I will be there on the day that you get out."
She must have finally believed me, because she hasn't asked since. (She has not planned or committed any murders, either.)
I think this is how we treat God sometimes. "Will you still love me if I do this?" "If you're really a loving parent, you'll love me even if I do that." Or, "You can't possibly love me after what I've done." "If you love me, you'll give me what I want. If I don't get it, you must not love me."
Sometimes, I think we sound like small children. Any of us who are parents have faced furious or despondent offspring, just sure that if we love them, we'll let them have candy for breakfast, buy them a pony, abolish bedtimes. They can't believe that we ignore their tears or their feelings or their protests. We're sometimes like that. We're seriously, deeply hurt when things don't go our way. Doesn't God love us? Shouldn't that mean that life is easy and we are always happy, and we get what we want? We recognize that our children don't have our perspective and experience, but we can't imagine that God knows something that we don't.
Or, we go the opposite direction. We decide that God loves other people, but not us. We screwed up. We did stupid, willful, harmful stuff. No one could ever love us after that.
The older I get, the more I see theology as a parent/child relationship. God is the parent. He loves us, more than we will ever know. He always will, no matter what we've done. That does not mean that he should always give us what we want - even if not getting it pains us and makes us sad or angry, and even if other people agree with us and think things should be done our way. He not only knows best, it's his job to do things as HE sees fit, not as we see fit.
Like every parent, he will be disappointed, exasperated, angry. Yet he will be beside us whenever he can, and he will be waiting to help us start over and get it right after we've screwed things up. He will do this even if we hate him or think that he's mean.
Because that's what good parents do.
And if we humans can figure that out, trust me, God knew it long ago, and he's better at it than we could be.
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