The tiny paper cup held within its contents 15 mg of Valium. I slugged them back like a professional pill popper using the proverbial shot glass of water provided. If you know me, then you understand the implications of the aforementioned sentence. To successfully swallow A pill, let alone three, is a true sign of my own personal growth and maturity.
Amidst the barrage of vaccinations prior to entering Kindergarten, I distinctly remember being held down by a team of nurses as I refused to allow the enlarged popsicle stick to snake its way down the back of my throat. Feisty at five years of age, my survival instinct left me no choice but to continuously uppercut and block the doctor's hand as he made his way toward my "say Ahhhhhh" positioned mouth. My mother, poised anxiously at the bedside, playing with the strap of her purse, making her best effort at cheering me on with "C'mon Rachel, it will only take a second." But still, I could not succumb on my own. Back up support arrived dressed in brightly patterned scrubs, holding down my limbs.
As a middle schooler, early in the throws of hormonal adjustments and the appalling realization that I could now breed, I forced down countless tablespoons of liquid that tasted like battery acid. Unable to fathom the idea of swallowing an entire aspirin roughly the size of a Tic-Tac, my mother dissolved that nasty little pellet in a swig of Pepsi for my sense of ease. "That was easier?" you may ask; well, I didn't do it for the taste.
As a college student, I continued to refuse the strep test from a physician whose look of incredulity said more than required. Sitting on the table, feverish and lethargic, he shook his head. "You mean to tell me you can have your ears pierced eight times and get a tattoo, but you're too scared for this?!" With utter defiance and determination, I clamped my mouth shut and signaled a curt nod. No way, no how. Not today. But please, please... make me feel better.
It was only years ago that I received a pill crusher from GNC as a gag gift, pun intended. With age and changing medical needs, I soon faced the reality of pills being a part of my daily existence. I slowly but surely grew increasingly comfortable with swallowing something that I was not supposed to chew. If we are talking about vitamins, I'm still a chewables girl. I have yet to find any form of supplement smaller than what seems like a baby's fist.
The thing about pain, though, is it stretches one's limits. I would never have imagined the day where I slammed back a couple of pills at a time like a real grown up. To this day, I remain in awe watching my best friend toss back a blood pressure pill, fluid pill, calcium pill, antihistamine, fried egg, beef tip and glass of wine in one fell swoop. How do you DO that?
But like a good patient, I obeyed the suggested orders prior to the injection. "I'll be back in a few minutes" the nurse said. So I laid back down, my dad sitting in the room with me, waiting for the relaxing effect of the medication to make itself known.
Before long, I was being wheeled down the hall towards the x-ray room. Something akin to a perma-grin settled onto my face, and I was joining in at random to the chorus of the Christmas songs playing overhead. I had no idea where the music was coming from. I only knew that I heard it, and I wanted to be a part of its jolly merry-making.
My eyes were heavy-lidded and oscillated between open and closed frequently. I found myself being rolled along in a gentle cloud on wheels, serenaded by Bing Crosby, traipsing about with mental images of feasting, fires and egg nog. The cloud came to a less-than-smooth stop. I giggled. Silly cloud.
"Okay on the count of the three, you're going to roll over on to the table" the mystery voice cooed.
"Mmmkay" I replied, revving myself up for what seemed to require a lot of effort though in actuality did not. I was surprised to be greeted by a pillow of soft and billowy proportions. Encouraged by the mystery voice to rest my head and relax, I yawned, puffed up the pillow to appropriate comfort, and rested my head.
"How are you feeling?" the mystery voice asked. I peeled my eyes open and saw only a colorful x-ray vest moving about the room. It reminded me of the cartoons of my youth, where the voice and the legs were all that was seen and heard of the character.
"Ohhh, I'm fine." I sighed. And returned to my caroling.
"Do you have a favorite Christmas song?" a new and accented voiced called from above. I was jolted from my revelry for just a moment, and then quickly recalled that I was interrupted from singing, and gave my best Sarah Palin response,
"Ohhh, any and all of them really." I had succumbed to the elation and relaxation of the moment. With eyes closed and grin firmly in place, I continued to my quiet one-person sing-a-long.
The doctor giggled in spite of himself. Clearly, I was high. Clearly, he knew this.
"Okay, just a pinch." I paused in my caroling. Let out a whimper. And returned to "We Wish You A Merry Christmas."
"You good?" asked that doctor.
"Mmmhmmm... and a happy New Year..."
"Okayyyy... just a pinch."
"Oh, ouch. Just hear those sleigh bells ring-a-ling, ting-ting-aling tooooo...."
"You're done. Good job."
"Wow, really? That wasn't bad AT ALL!" I exclaimed like a valley girl straight out of Clueless.
Greeted by my father's goofy grin upon my return to the room, I couldn't help but feel my heart swell up with insurmountable joy. I was just so grateful to be alive, to have my daddy there with me, to have a ride to my mommy's house where I knew there would be all manner of chocolate and pimento cheese and chips and cookies and meatloaf and a soft couch and love and attention and just a good time had by all. I took full advantage of the moment and held tightly onto my daddy's arm as he walked me to the car and entertained my nonsensical rambling.
Upon arrival to my childhood home, I felt like an 8 year old little girl all over again. I felt secure and cared for because of my boo-boo. What was a cloud on wheels became the cloud I walked on. Who knew that being a grown up (i.e. taking medicine) could come full circle to such a youthful and childlike experience? Ah, I suppose sometimes, adulting pays off. Even when you least expect it.
Especially when following doctor's orders.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Lazy Sunday with Charlie
Generally not one for "sitting still", I have reached a whole new level of intimacy with my heating pad. It beckons me to relax and to allow the tingling heat to work a peculiar sort of comforting magic. An otherwise grumpy attitude lengthens into unlabored breathing, heavy eye lids and a general sense of contentment.
The company of Oscar, my 6 month old dumpster kitty, contributes to the euphoria. He models how its done; the lazy grooming, the half-closed lids of his yellow eyes, the permission he grants himself to nap at random and/or attack the balls of yarn that I have tediously created during pauses in my never-ending crocheting ventures. He needs no validation. He exists without apology in his full feline-ness. Oh, to be a cat.
I contemplate going to the store. And then I think of the steps necessary to make that happen. It looks like this:
Pain and narcotics are great appetite suppressants. I realize that my caloric intake over the past few days has been a percentage of my normal habit. Next time I go to the bathroom, I'll be sure to remind myself to take a look. I swear my stomach feels a little flatter. I'm also laying down, but whatever. I'll take it.
The new running shoes peak through my closet door, bright pink, flashy and mocking me. I ignore them and turn the heat up in my heating pad. I pick up my ebook and fall away into its story, forgetting that I have things to do and an epidural injection tomorrow. And before I know it, I will have been "still" for hours on end in spite of myself.
This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation, yet I am grateful that I have the time. I long for the ability to ambulate normally and resent that I cannot. I study the printed image from my MRI, and grow queasy from the reality of it. The effect of the Hydrocodone not only lessens the pain and my appetite, it also lifts my spirits a touch, making it a very dangerous combination. I understand the addictive quality of this drug and others like it, and make myself feel better for taking it because I am, in fact, in pain.
Tomorrow's epidural injection will be my second go-round. My very first one took place in June. It was a traumatic experience, leaving me in a hospital bed, fetal position, wanting to suck my thumb. The five months of normalcy it provided, however, seem to be worth the trauma of a needle digging in my spine for 5 minutes. I resent that I need it. I am also hopeful that it will work as good as the first one. It's a confusing combination.
I decide to name my heating pad "Charlie." There is no rhyme or reason to it. At least, none that I am aware of. Maybe it's the Hydrocodone... and yes, it deserves a capital "H". Charlie sings me sweet lullabies and understands my need for comfort. Charlie baby's me. Charlie tells me it is okay to just be, to lay here and to rest.
I am grateful for Charlie.
The company of Oscar, my 6 month old dumpster kitty, contributes to the euphoria. He models how its done; the lazy grooming, the half-closed lids of his yellow eyes, the permission he grants himself to nap at random and/or attack the balls of yarn that I have tediously created during pauses in my never-ending crocheting ventures. He needs no validation. He exists without apology in his full feline-ness. Oh, to be a cat.
I contemplate going to the store. And then I think of the steps necessary to make that happen. It looks like this:
- Side roll from the bed, gingerly make my way to an upright position with as little discomfort as possible
- Use the toes on my right foot to retrieve the sweatpants previously discarded on the floor
- Donne said pants, lay back on bed to apply socks that I have picked out of my drawer at the foot of my bed
- Flop myself back to an upright position, and decide which shoes are appropriate for public observation while also appropriate for my minimal capacity to bend over
- Bra or baggy sweatshirt, whichever I come to first
- Shuffle my way to my purse, throw it on my shoulder
- Shuffle my way to the kitchen where my car keys reside
- Shuffle my way to my car which includes a total of 4 stairs from my back porch, precarious leaf-covered pits care of my dogs, and a chain link fence that jiggles and invites my sweet Lilly (boxer-mix-bestfriend) to be hopeful that she, too, can come along
- Guilt re: Lilly's hopeful puppy stare and the reality that she must remain where she is upon securing the gate
- Lowering myself in to the drivers seat with concentrated breathing, grunting and sigh upon making contact.
- Gingerly lifting one leg up and over, followed by the second
- Adjusting myself in the car, more concentrated breathing, and application of safety harness
- Making concerted effort to drive carefully and without pain to my destination, being mindful of the potential for nerve pain and a less-than-graceful dismount upon arrival
- Plotting out the closest and most convenient place to park that is legal and as private as possible
- Taking the 4 minutes necessary to turn car off, open door, extract my legs from floor board, brace myself against the back of seat and car door in an effort to make a smooth exit
- Making exit, not so smoothly, adjusting my clothes and attempting to stand upright
- Standing upright is not possible, slight pelvic thrust posture due to pain and inability to straighten spine
- Slow shuffle to store entrance feeling like I am on stage, spot light glaring, everyone staring and growing impatient with my slow gait as they wish to be on about their way
- Inside store, deciding whether I am comfortable enough to walk, pelvic thrust, behind a push cart or take the challenge with the motorized scooter that has the basket attached
- Navigate the store aisles for necessities while also not hitting displays, people or small children
- Making my way to the check out in whatever capacity previously decided
- Transporting groceries back to the legal and private parking spot where my chariot resides while the traffic with basses pumping watch, gawk and rev their engines by just as I am out of the way
- Opening trunk of car and placing groceries into its compartment
- Returning cart and/or scooter to predestined place
- Shuffling my return to car, and repeating the concentrated breathing/grunting/leg pulling fiasco that is now my reality
- See numbers 12 and 13
- Arriving to residence, barking dogs greeting me
- See number 8, but in reverse with groceries in tow
Pain and narcotics are great appetite suppressants. I realize that my caloric intake over the past few days has been a percentage of my normal habit. Next time I go to the bathroom, I'll be sure to remind myself to take a look. I swear my stomach feels a little flatter. I'm also laying down, but whatever. I'll take it.
The new running shoes peak through my closet door, bright pink, flashy and mocking me. I ignore them and turn the heat up in my heating pad. I pick up my ebook and fall away into its story, forgetting that I have things to do and an epidural injection tomorrow. And before I know it, I will have been "still" for hours on end in spite of myself.
This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation, yet I am grateful that I have the time. I long for the ability to ambulate normally and resent that I cannot. I study the printed image from my MRI, and grow queasy from the reality of it. The effect of the Hydrocodone not only lessens the pain and my appetite, it also lifts my spirits a touch, making it a very dangerous combination. I understand the addictive quality of this drug and others like it, and make myself feel better for taking it because I am, in fact, in pain.
Tomorrow's epidural injection will be my second go-round. My very first one took place in June. It was a traumatic experience, leaving me in a hospital bed, fetal position, wanting to suck my thumb. The five months of normalcy it provided, however, seem to be worth the trauma of a needle digging in my spine for 5 minutes. I resent that I need it. I am also hopeful that it will work as good as the first one. It's a confusing combination.
I decide to name my heating pad "Charlie." There is no rhyme or reason to it. At least, none that I am aware of. Maybe it's the Hydrocodone... and yes, it deserves a capital "H". Charlie sings me sweet lullabies and understands my need for comfort. Charlie baby's me. Charlie tells me it is okay to just be, to lay here and to rest.
I am grateful for Charlie.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Back Into Existential Quandries
Once I finally make it to the nurse's station of our Inpatient Unit, I am traipsing about like a gorilla with scoliosis. Already planning my escape following the completion of my chaplain-esque duties, I mercifully spy a vacant wheel chair just outside of the refreshment room. Pride-be-damned, I would make it back to my car one way or another. But first, I must pour my energy into the "humor-guard"; that which tries to make light of the ridiculous posture I now embody. Much like the humpback whale, there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. My spine simply refuses to cooperate in a socially-acceptable manner. At this moment, I serve as the reminder to all homosapiens just how far evolution has brought us.
Almost.
My stride is part waddle, part stomp. The rolling black bag pulled along behind me is the caboose to my own personal train-wreck. My gluteus maximus closely on the verge of cramping in the effort to keep my feet moving in a forward fashion... taking those small, elementary steps towards my final destination.
The warm faces of my colleagues greet me and immediately notice my authentic toddle. Congenial sympathies and greetings are exchanged. I make attempts at humor, though it's that awkward sort of humor in which no one knows for sure whether it is okay to laugh or not. But they do... to appease me.
My backside finally lands in a chair behind the safe confines of the nursing area. I make every effort to hide the beginnings of sweat on my upper lip. Normally, the jaunt from parking deck to the 5th Floor takes approximately 5 minutes to complete. Alas, I find relief from the now twenty minute shuffle thanks to the chair cushioning the bum.
Mondays, in their own right, generally receive a bad reputation for being less than okay after 48 glorious hours of work-week-freedom. Add a Thanksgiving holiday and a back injury into the mix and you have yourself a delicious cornucopia of shite and the desire to take drugs - lots of drugs. This sort of behavior is typically frowned upon by my employer so I refrain and, instead, quietly covet the "comfort kits" designed for patients within our care whose side dishes include the likes of dilauded, morphine and ativan.
God bless the person who invented office chairs with wheels. This made ambulation much more efficient and status quo. I was able to retrieve patient charts without fuss; move to and from my laptop with ease; and appear relatively normal. I smiled and greeted family members walking the halls, charted on phone calls that were made and noted who had needs that I could help meet.
I take several deep breaths before taking off from the launch pad of the office chair, anticipating the anti-climatic descend. As suspected, I groan quietly (I think I was quiet!) at half-mast and utilize my theatric finesse for that "everything is fine" look when it really isn't. I plan out who needs what and attack as efficiently as possible.
Yet the truth always comes out, and I instantly regress into the waddling gorilla who first arrived. I attempt as much grace as any gorilla can muster, and meander my way to various patient rooms to offer support. Carrying oneself like a primate, however, is a bit of a distraction so I visit only those who are either sleeping or without family.
Slowly, I make my return to the landing pad of said office chair and once again dab at the sweat on my lip, making every attempt necessary to unfurrow my brow. I feel defeated. I am in pain. And I submit to the awareness that the best place for me at this time, is home. The support of my coworkers, urging me to take care, validate my pre-meditated retreat via wheelchair. Joe, the angel social worker that he is, whisked me into the elevator to the first floor, and escorted his downtrodden colleague into the wild concrete jungle where my chariot waited. In an effort to cheer me, he shares of his own personal story and offers a gesture of kindness as we depart. I am touched, and grateful for his compassion.
The irony is not lost on me. My last name though Luck it may be, it was ultimately the April Fool's incident that started this whole mess. I suppose I had been without severe discomfort for long enough that I forgot there was an injury to start with. The injection lasted me 5 months. And I am again faced with the reality of being human, that things (I) break, that things (accidents) happen and that I do not, in fact, always have it together (whatever the hell together means). But it's much more comfortable to have the ability for such a façade. And I am left with a new sense of vulnerability when my body betrays it, the façade I mean. Lies. LIES.
So then, what makes more sense than to write a blog about it? It's equal parts impersonal via the use of a computer and personal by way of my extemporaneous rambling. For those of you out there who suffer from chronic pain, I commend you. You fight a quiet battle that no one sees.
This back issue (specifically sciatica and skeletal issues relating to the car accident on April 1 of this year), offends me on every level, starting with my fierce sense of independence right down the 8-year-old little girl's emotional aptitude trapped within a 36 year old woman's body. I oscillate from anger to sadness, resentment to pity, gratitude to anger. Wait, I said anger already.
I am learning that I have this terrible habit of being stubborn and not asking for help, even when others freely offer it. I do not know what it is that keeps me from acquiescing to someone's generous offer to run an errand, pick up groceries or to stop by for a visit. My wonderful support system is such that my need for space is respected and understood. My support system is made up of folks who do not force themselves in any way upon me. And I appreciate that.
Then this leaves the ball in my court. It is up to me... and yet I remain quiet. I do not know why I simply cannot voice my need for emotional support, connection or hand-holding in a time such as this.
Well, that's a lie. I do know... because that would be admitting something to myself as well. It would require me to simply receive the graces of another, to give voice to a need that I generally prescribe to others, when in actuality, I have that need too... and THAT, is the most human and beautiful act of all.
So says the chaplain.
Irony's a bitch.
Almost.
My stride is part waddle, part stomp. The rolling black bag pulled along behind me is the caboose to my own personal train-wreck. My gluteus maximus closely on the verge of cramping in the effort to keep my feet moving in a forward fashion... taking those small, elementary steps towards my final destination.
The warm faces of my colleagues greet me and immediately notice my authentic toddle. Congenial sympathies and greetings are exchanged. I make attempts at humor, though it's that awkward sort of humor in which no one knows for sure whether it is okay to laugh or not. But they do... to appease me.
My backside finally lands in a chair behind the safe confines of the nursing area. I make every effort to hide the beginnings of sweat on my upper lip. Normally, the jaunt from parking deck to the 5th Floor takes approximately 5 minutes to complete. Alas, I find relief from the now twenty minute shuffle thanks to the chair cushioning the bum.
Mondays, in their own right, generally receive a bad reputation for being less than okay after 48 glorious hours of work-week-freedom. Add a Thanksgiving holiday and a back injury into the mix and you have yourself a delicious cornucopia of shite and the desire to take drugs - lots of drugs. This sort of behavior is typically frowned upon by my employer so I refrain and, instead, quietly covet the "comfort kits" designed for patients within our care whose side dishes include the likes of dilauded, morphine and ativan.
God bless the person who invented office chairs with wheels. This made ambulation much more efficient and status quo. I was able to retrieve patient charts without fuss; move to and from my laptop with ease; and appear relatively normal. I smiled and greeted family members walking the halls, charted on phone calls that were made and noted who had needs that I could help meet.
 |
| I do this sometimes. |
Yet the truth always comes out, and I instantly regress into the waddling gorilla who first arrived. I attempt as much grace as any gorilla can muster, and meander my way to various patient rooms to offer support. Carrying oneself like a primate, however, is a bit of a distraction so I visit only those who are either sleeping or without family.
| Nobody puts Rachel in a corner; or this guy. |
The irony is not lost on me. My last name though Luck it may be, it was ultimately the April Fool's incident that started this whole mess. I suppose I had been without severe discomfort for long enough that I forgot there was an injury to start with. The injection lasted me 5 months. And I am again faced with the reality of being human, that things (I) break, that things (accidents) happen and that I do not, in fact, always have it together (whatever the hell together means). But it's much more comfortable to have the ability for such a façade. And I am left with a new sense of vulnerability when my body betrays it, the façade I mean. Lies. LIES.
This back issue (specifically sciatica and skeletal issues relating to the car accident on April 1 of this year), offends me on every level, starting with my fierce sense of independence right down the 8-year-old little girl's emotional aptitude trapped within a 36 year old woman's body. I oscillate from anger to sadness, resentment to pity, gratitude to anger. Wait, I said anger already.
I am learning that I have this terrible habit of being stubborn and not asking for help, even when others freely offer it. I do not know what it is that keeps me from acquiescing to someone's generous offer to run an errand, pick up groceries or to stop by for a visit. My wonderful support system is such that my need for space is respected and understood. My support system is made up of folks who do not force themselves in any way upon me. And I appreciate that.
Then this leaves the ball in my court. It is up to me... and yet I remain quiet. I do not know why I simply cannot voice my need for emotional support, connection or hand-holding in a time such as this.
Well, that's a lie. I do know... because that would be admitting something to myself as well. It would require me to simply receive the graces of another, to give voice to a need that I generally prescribe to others, when in actuality, I have that need too... and THAT, is the most human and beautiful act of all.
So says the chaplain.
Irony's a bitch.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
The Box: It's Soapy (Rachel's Race Relations)
Take a walk with me, for a moment, down memory lane. It's mid-May. I'm wobbling around in physical therapy, being poked and prodded by my knowledgeable (by knowledgeable I really mean "pain-producing") therapist who is twisting me up a like a pretzel for healing purposes. There is a man on the butcher table next to me who is equally being poked and prodded for very different yet similar reasons; Both of us intent on following doctor's orders while also secretly despising the discomfort experienced at the hands of our clinically-trained punishers.
At first glance, it would seem that we have absolutely nothing in common... not age, gender, race, context of why we find ourselves in PT in the first place. At the on-set, we are two perfectly-timed strangers experiencing an instantaneous common-ground at the hands of clinical professionals. This similarity alone elicits a friendly response from me, and it wasn't an entirely selfless one either. It was a sort of an oh dear God, please talk to me to lest I cry in pain situation.
Sam (this is not his real name; less out of concern for the innocent, more because I forgot his real name) was kind enough to acquiesce to my desire for friendly banter. The banter soon became an actual conversation upon the revelation of one fact: Sam is a retired school teacher.
Sam's history of employment sparked a barrage of questions: How long did you work there? When did you retire? What was teaching like for you? Did you enjoy it? Call me nosey if you must, but I do prefer the kinder, gentler adjective: curious. This was only the beginning of Sam's interrogation, however. Eventually, Sam revealed that he was the first African American staff member of this particular high school.
My synapsis lit up like a Christmas tree at this very moment. I've yet to experience the honor of being the first white anything. Thus far in my 36 years of life, the pigmentation of my skin has not yet been a barrier or even a descriptive worth noting. Why? Because it has not been an identifier that qualified me as being something or someone "new".
The cornucopia of genetics that make me Rachel include traces of German, English, Scottish, Irish and Native American descent. I do not have the warm olive undertones of my father. Nor do I have the beautiful porcelain underlay of the fairer kind. I carry the nothing-spectacular pigmentation of the general Caucasian blend complete with residual pock-marks of teenage acne. Granted, Native American ethnicities have their own special box to check in the demographic sections of most paper work, but for the sake of brevity, I'm freaking white.
My gender has come up against some fallout in various circles, most notably of the religious and professional sort. Being a woman has presented its own challenges in society, particularly regarding the art of being an unmarried and childless one. My capacity for rational thought has been questioned without regard to my actual ability to think. But this has nothing to do with my skin color.
Economically, I grew up in a family without excess. The five of us lived in a 999 square foot house which was not large by any means, but it was enough. We didn't "keep up with the Jones'" which made little difference to me as I didn't know who the hell the "Jones'" were. I do recall drawing little blue rectangles on the backs of my shoes to make them look like name brand "Keds." I also remember the overall feel that if the Faded Glory jeans I wore were discovered to be something other than GAP, that I should probably just stick my head in my locker until the bell rang. But again... nothing to do with race.
I dug deep into the wrinkles of my brain to recall if being white was ever a glass ceiling I was forced to break through. For me, it wasn't. It isn't. Was I ever the recipient of anger from other ethnicities? Sure, and it's maddening. Have I ever been discriminated or felt judged because of my skin color? Yes. And it sucks; cuts right to the core. Elicits a general "You don't know me!" from the depths of my Virginian soul.
But I've never been legally prohibited from participating in life because of my race. I have not experienced lawmakers generalizing what a group of folks are allowed to do because of my skin. Not even the Native American part of me... it's not obvious enough. And I was graced with having the "white" box checked on my birth certificate. No issue there.
So I pressed Sam further. He was a native to the area and grew up in this very community. He was a contemporary of things I only read about in history books: mainly, segregation. Here. Right here where I lived and grew up... segregation ACTUALLY happened. This man, who was presently folded in half and standing on his head for PT enjoyment, experienced something that I have not... the prohibition of my person because of my skin color. I. Can't. Even.
Sam did not tell me these things out of anger. I didn't hear any resentment or blame. For Sam, it was an existential fact. He didn't know any different at the time. It's not that white people were necessarily mean to him... just that, they had their place, and he had his. It wasn't until integration happened that, for Sam, things got scary. He shared that some parents did not participate in integration; less because they did not agree with it, more because of fear that their children could come up against aggression by those not sympathetic to the cause.
Sam's parents? Sympathetic. He walked into school that day and was scared to death. It was new territory. He recalled some of the white children taunting him, calling him THE word, inviting him to go back to where he belonged... you get the drift. Sam couldn't get home fast enough those first few weeks. Luckily, for the Sam, the voices of the few eventually got drowned out by the seeming indifference of the many... and the occasional taunting of those who felt superior held less power over him.
I would like to take a moment here to point out something important. As I listened to Sam, not once did he seem to point any fingers. Not once did Sam seem to blame his experience on anyone. For Sam, it was the reality of his day and the result of old legislation that had run its course. I was so enthralled by Sam's story that I forgot about the abuse going at the hands of my physical therapist. I believe she pulled me apart and put me back together a minimum of three times.
Sam would go on to graduate, earn a degree and make it full circle right back to the very school system that once prohibited him from joining his white brothers and sisters. Now he would be teaching them himself... as the first black full time staff member. The irony, is that this honor was not necessarily a reality because Sam aimed to be the first black somebody. The honor was a reality simply because there was no black person who had DONE it before him. It hadn't been all that long ago that a black person COULD, according to the law books.
Today, there are Black Americans in our midst who heard first hand stories from ancestors about being owned. Today, there are Black Americans in our midst who not only remember, but LIVED according to the laws that once, quite literally, divided us. Sure there are those that continue to point fingers. And there are those for whom this was never their reality, even way back when. But it doesn't negate the very real fact that there are those for whom this affected.
Sam, oh wonderful Sam, returned to the very community that once told him that Black is sorta whack. He wasn't angry... he just showed up, followed his passion of teaching young people, happily retired and now found himself still educating "young" people sitting from his new desk known as the "butcher table" in a PT office.
I share this not because I am interested in pushing any one agenda. I share this not because I have any interest in pointing fingers or hanging the past over the heads of us white people. I bring this up because this is a pebble in the stream of our nation's history, whose ripples are still there... whether we like it or not. Sam was... is... continues to be an amazing teacher, race notwithstanding.
I'm not suggesting atonement for the sins of the White people either. What I am advocating for is understanding the bigger picture; Understanding that our history has flaws and injustices and ugly parts that some are still reeling from on many accounts (race, gender, economics, stereotypes, politics, accents, etc). I long for peace and community and the healing of old wounds... and the realization that not everyone is angry, but many live out their days on the anger of others. To be the change, I propose being the presence of acknowledgement, of grace and of getting to the nitty gritty reality that we are all humans with baggage. We are all humans with a story. We are all humans who generally want the best for our families and friends... and that's a good place to start. That's a common ground we can all launch from.
At first glance, it would seem that we have absolutely nothing in common... not age, gender, race, context of why we find ourselves in PT in the first place. At the on-set, we are two perfectly-timed strangers experiencing an instantaneous common-ground at the hands of clinical professionals. This similarity alone elicits a friendly response from me, and it wasn't an entirely selfless one either. It was a sort of an oh dear God, please talk to me to lest I cry in pain situation.
 |
| Winning. |
Sam (this is not his real name; less out of concern for the innocent, more because I forgot his real name) was kind enough to acquiesce to my desire for friendly banter. The banter soon became an actual conversation upon the revelation of one fact: Sam is a retired school teacher.
Sam's history of employment sparked a barrage of questions: How long did you work there? When did you retire? What was teaching like for you? Did you enjoy it? Call me nosey if you must, but I do prefer the kinder, gentler adjective: curious. This was only the beginning of Sam's interrogation, however. Eventually, Sam revealed that he was the first African American staff member of this particular high school.
My synapsis lit up like a Christmas tree at this very moment. I've yet to experience the honor of being the first white anything. Thus far in my 36 years of life, the pigmentation of my skin has not yet been a barrier or even a descriptive worth noting. Why? Because it has not been an identifier that qualified me as being something or someone "new".
The cornucopia of genetics that make me Rachel include traces of German, English, Scottish, Irish and Native American descent. I do not have the warm olive undertones of my father. Nor do I have the beautiful porcelain underlay of the fairer kind. I carry the nothing-spectacular pigmentation of the general Caucasian blend complete with residual pock-marks of teenage acne. Granted, Native American ethnicities have their own special box to check in the demographic sections of most paper work, but for the sake of brevity, I'm freaking white.
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| Wait... I'm white?!? |
My gender has come up against some fallout in various circles, most notably of the religious and professional sort. Being a woman has presented its own challenges in society, particularly regarding the art of being an unmarried and childless one. My capacity for rational thought has been questioned without regard to my actual ability to think. But this has nothing to do with my skin color.
Economically, I grew up in a family without excess. The five of us lived in a 999 square foot house which was not large by any means, but it was enough. We didn't "keep up with the Jones'" which made little difference to me as I didn't know who the hell the "Jones'" were. I do recall drawing little blue rectangles on the backs of my shoes to make them look like name brand "Keds." I also remember the overall feel that if the Faded Glory jeans I wore were discovered to be something other than GAP, that I should probably just stick my head in my locker until the bell rang. But again... nothing to do with race.
I dug deep into the wrinkles of my brain to recall if being white was ever a glass ceiling I was forced to break through. For me, it wasn't. It isn't. Was I ever the recipient of anger from other ethnicities? Sure, and it's maddening. Have I ever been discriminated or felt judged because of my skin color? Yes. And it sucks; cuts right to the core. Elicits a general "You don't know me!" from the depths of my Virginian soul.
But I've never been legally prohibited from participating in life because of my race. I have not experienced lawmakers generalizing what a group of folks are allowed to do because of my skin. Not even the Native American part of me... it's not obvious enough. And I was graced with having the "white" box checked on my birth certificate. No issue there.
So I pressed Sam further. He was a native to the area and grew up in this very community. He was a contemporary of things I only read about in history books: mainly, segregation. Here. Right here where I lived and grew up... segregation ACTUALLY happened. This man, who was presently folded in half and standing on his head for PT enjoyment, experienced something that I have not... the prohibition of my person because of my skin color. I. Can't. Even.
Sam did not tell me these things out of anger. I didn't hear any resentment or blame. For Sam, it was an existential fact. He didn't know any different at the time. It's not that white people were necessarily mean to him... just that, they had their place, and he had his. It wasn't until integration happened that, for Sam, things got scary. He shared that some parents did not participate in integration; less because they did not agree with it, more because of fear that their children could come up against aggression by those not sympathetic to the cause.
Sam's parents? Sympathetic. He walked into school that day and was scared to death. It was new territory. He recalled some of the white children taunting him, calling him THE word, inviting him to go back to where he belonged... you get the drift. Sam couldn't get home fast enough those first few weeks. Luckily, for the Sam, the voices of the few eventually got drowned out by the seeming indifference of the many... and the occasional taunting of those who felt superior held less power over him.
I would like to take a moment here to point out something important. As I listened to Sam, not once did he seem to point any fingers. Not once did Sam seem to blame his experience on anyone. For Sam, it was the reality of his day and the result of old legislation that had run its course. I was so enthralled by Sam's story that I forgot about the abuse going at the hands of my physical therapist. I believe she pulled me apart and put me back together a minimum of three times.
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| Add caption |
Today, there are Black Americans in our midst who heard first hand stories from ancestors about being owned. Today, there are Black Americans in our midst who not only remember, but LIVED according to the laws that once, quite literally, divided us. Sure there are those that continue to point fingers. And there are those for whom this was never their reality, even way back when. But it doesn't negate the very real fact that there are those for whom this affected.
Sam, oh wonderful Sam, returned to the very community that once told him that Black is sorta whack. He wasn't angry... he just showed up, followed his passion of teaching young people, happily retired and now found himself still educating "young" people sitting from his new desk known as the "butcher table" in a PT office.
I share this not because I am interested in pushing any one agenda. I share this not because I have any interest in pointing fingers or hanging the past over the heads of us white people. I bring this up because this is a pebble in the stream of our nation's history, whose ripples are still there... whether we like it or not. Sam was... is... continues to be an amazing teacher, race notwithstanding.
I'm not suggesting atonement for the sins of the White people either. What I am advocating for is understanding the bigger picture; Understanding that our history has flaws and injustices and ugly parts that some are still reeling from on many accounts (race, gender, economics, stereotypes, politics, accents, etc). I long for peace and community and the healing of old wounds... and the realization that not everyone is angry, but many live out their days on the anger of others. To be the change, I propose being the presence of acknowledgement, of grace and of getting to the nitty gritty reality that we are all humans with baggage. We are all humans with a story. We are all humans who generally want the best for our families and friends... and that's a good place to start. That's a common ground we can all launch from.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
One Nation Under Who?
The Nation's pledge reads:
"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
I see the "under God" portion of the pledge used as a reference point to support the idea that the US of A is a "Christian" nation.
Here's another history lesson (I'm SUCH a nerd for this).
The Pledge of Allegiance was written in August 1892 by the socialist (yes, SOCIALIST!) minister Francis Bellamy (1855-1931). It was originally published in The Youth's Companion on September 8, 1892. Bellamy had hoped that the pledge would be used by citizens in ANY country.
In its original form it read:
Personally I don't take a whole lot of the issue with the phrase "under God"... it does not offend me. Though I see the potential for a sticky wicket. God, for me, has the potential to be broad enough that it can mean many things to many different people. For our Jewish brothers and sisters, God may be the same as YHWH (English alliteration of the Hebrew for Yahweh). For our Muslim brothers and sisters, God may be the same as Allah. For our deist or "other" brothers and sisters, God can mean a general concept of the divine. It's when we get to the Atheists that things can get sticky... and requires a touch more consideration. And perhaps, for this reason alone, makes the pledge an exclusive one. I'm not a fan exclusivity.
In that vein, I do not believe the phrase "under God" to be a religious one. It's not a confession of a nation's faith or morality. Rather, it's a confession of a nation's intended unity under a supreme Guide if you will... aaaaaaand in response to the Communist threat (which was also largely driven by fear, let's not kid ourselves here.)
Furthermore, I take no issue with anyone believing whatever they want to about the religious identity of the country they live in... I only take issue when it's pushed on others as the only way to go about doing, seeing, thinking, touching, relating, etc. If what we are taught in school is true, and those before us settled here in this land to flee religious persecution and establish religious freedom, wouldn't it be logical (and true to the foundation of this place we call US of A) to continue that path?
Allowing others to believe as they see fit is not an act of condoning on your part. It's an act of respecting, communing and loving-the-neighbor-as-you-love-yourself-ing. It's not betraying your convictions or beliefs, it's putting some scary-ass back bone behind being in community with people who may need your kindness, your support and friendship. This is the real meat and potatoes of it all. I believe it was St. Francis who said "Preach the gospel at all times; and when necessary, use words." The Bible says that God does not give a spirit of fear.
Go with that. Trust that. I challenge you =)
"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
I see the "under God" portion of the pledge used as a reference point to support the idea that the US of A is a "Christian" nation.
Here's another history lesson (I'm SUCH a nerd for this).
The Pledge of Allegiance was written in August 1892 by the socialist (yes, SOCIALIST!) minister Francis Bellamy (1855-1931). It was originally published in The Youth's Companion on September 8, 1892. Bellamy had hoped that the pledge would be used by citizens in ANY country.
In its original form it read:
"I pledge allegiance to my Flag and the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."In 1923, the words, "the Flag of the United States of America" were added. At this time it read:
"I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."In 1954, in response to the Communist threat of the times (dang Commies), President Eisenhower encouraged Congress to add the words "under God," creating the 31-word pledge we say today. (Interestingly, Bellamy's daughter objected to this alteration though I still can't determine why exactly).
Personally I don't take a whole lot of the issue with the phrase "under God"... it does not offend me. Though I see the potential for a sticky wicket. God, for me, has the potential to be broad enough that it can mean many things to many different people. For our Jewish brothers and sisters, God may be the same as YHWH (English alliteration of the Hebrew for Yahweh). For our Muslim brothers and sisters, God may be the same as Allah. For our deist or "other" brothers and sisters, God can mean a general concept of the divine. It's when we get to the Atheists that things can get sticky... and requires a touch more consideration. And perhaps, for this reason alone, makes the pledge an exclusive one. I'm not a fan exclusivity.
In that vein, I do not believe the phrase "under God" to be a religious one. It's not a confession of a nation's faith or morality. Rather, it's a confession of a nation's intended unity under a supreme Guide if you will... aaaaaaand in response to the Communist threat (which was also largely driven by fear, let's not kid ourselves here.)
Furthermore, I take no issue with anyone believing whatever they want to about the religious identity of the country they live in... I only take issue when it's pushed on others as the only way to go about doing, seeing, thinking, touching, relating, etc. If what we are taught in school is true, and those before us settled here in this land to flee religious persecution and establish religious freedom, wouldn't it be logical (and true to the foundation of this place we call US of A) to continue that path?
Allowing others to believe as they see fit is not an act of condoning on your part. It's an act of respecting, communing and loving-the-neighbor-as-you-love-yourself-ing. It's not betraying your convictions or beliefs, it's putting some scary-ass back bone behind being in community with people who may need your kindness, your support and friendship. This is the real meat and potatoes of it all. I believe it was St. Francis who said "Preach the gospel at all times; and when necessary, use words." The Bible says that God does not give a spirit of fear.
Go with that. Trust that. I challenge you =)
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Ye Olde Ball-n-Chain
I get it... actually I have a lot of compassion for both sides of the marriage equality issue. I don't know if this comes as surprise or not, but whatever the case, I've been on the both sides of this camp. My personal life set aside, I've grappled and chewed and guffawed my way through this stuff while in seminary, and finally arrived at the "who gives a shit" political stance. And here is why...
I am a history enthusiast. I love history... that stuff that makes a lot of folks yawn or wish for a stiff drink... yeah, I flock to that like white on rice (and no, that is not intended to be any sort of racial slur or cultural jab - we've gotten REALLY off track with the offenses lately). During my time in graduate school, I studied theology and church history... the two go really nicely together like french fries and ketchup.
Sparing you the details of EVERYTHING that I learned, my relationship to the church, the bible and denominational hub-bubs changed significantly. And with that change, my understanding of God and relationships and community as a whole shifted.
Hence my compassion and understanding of the more, uh I hate labels but I'm about to use one for the sake of brevity... "conservative" of our brothers and sisters. I get where they are coming from, primarily because I was once in that camp myself. And yes, I realize that I am generalizing based on my own experience which does not necessarily include all view points.
When an individual's relationship (or culture, or identity, or survival, or emotion, or longing for structure of things that cannot be explained, etc) to the world around them is seen through the lenses of Adam and Eve with a creation story and a God Incarnate known as Jesus and a Bible that is considered to be not only holy but, for some, infallible (which particularly frightens me), then that defines how to understand things such as money, service, discipline, family and... dare I say it... marriage. Or at the very least, offers some pretty hefty guidance and boundaries.
Having been there, I get it.
I can also say that whatever frustrations or opinions foisted upon this "conservative" camp, for most the part the intention is not one of bigotry or hate or judgment. Rather, it's an understanding of the "how" and "why" of the world around them... some, I've seen it, are driven by sheer fear that God will smite and destroy if things don't go in the way they feel God has communicated. It can certainly feel like bigotry.
Oh wait, there was that slavery thing... that's a different blog entry.
Oh, and there's that one time I saw the evangelist in the street spit in a dude's face and call him a fag... yeah, this does actually happen. And it doesn't feel very good to see it.
For those who do not have this particular thought process when relating to the world around them, then naturally it seems or appears... um... silly? hateful? blind? The understanding of the world and how to relate to it is based on a different basis... maybe there's a God involved? Maybe there's several or none at all?
In short, we could be thinking the very same thing about each other!
My problem isn't with the "conservatives" or the Christians. My problem is with the idea that marriage is something that is first and foremost defined by the church... and here's why....
In June of 2009, I was authorized to officiate weddings, both civil and religious, within the Commonwealth of VA (and other states who did not require specific permission within their state lines). I was not authorized within the church. I was authorized before the Circuit Court judge.
When applying for a marriage license, couples in Virginia do not go before the church or their pastor for this document right? Right... they go to the clerk of the Circuit Court. It is local government deal man. Not a religious one.
In other words, if gays want to marry, and you have religious opinion on it, that's cool. If you are a pastor and do not support gay marriage, I fully support the freedom to refuse performing the ceremony. I still believe that all should hold tight to the freedom of conscience. (Besides, there are plenty of churches who do.)
I stand up for the church's right to define marriage as they see fit by their own conviction and moral code. I stand up for the church's right to adhere to their own belief system (because there are tons and tons of different churches let me tell ya).
I would caution those of us in the, ugh here I go again, "liberal" camp (I've also been told that I was "progressive", "mislead", "disillusioned", "stupid", "disappointing", "weird", "an abomination", "out there", "sick bitch", "dumbass", "awful sinner", by people that I have loved and respected... the list goes on)... to not exercise the same sort of "intolerance" in reverse. Ya know what I'm saying? Sure I've wanted to throat punch and call names and react because this stuff can cut ya to the quick (therapy helps!)... but isn't that also perpetuating the problem here?
Marriage can be defined as a union between and man and woman if a church wants to do that. But as an entire defining system for a country with a host of non-Christians or "liberal" Christians alike, marriage is not a monopoly. I mean, I know it's scary for our conservative folk... but I promise you, God is way bigger than your fear.
The gays aren't going to hurt your kids or take over the country. They are just going to exist... like they already do... as your neighbors, coworkers, friends, family and yes... deacons, pastors, lawyers, judges, police officers, veterans, soldiers, mechanics, NFL stars, FABULOUS interior decorators, etc. This is a human rights thingy... aaaaaaaaaaand therefore has nothing to do with marrying your dog... let's not be ridiculous people. C'mon. Dogs can't even cook or clean up after themselves. Have you met any gay men? That would never work out.
If you want the ball and chain, go for it. If you have a particular understanding of marriage? Have at it. Humans do as humans do... we love, we're in relationship, in community. Let morality/religion/spirituality or lack thereof, be an individual choice.
Let's challenge one another to love, respect, agree to disagree... and ask yourself before you speak:
Is it kind? Is it necessary?
One of the early Church Father's named Irenaus defined heresy not as difference of opinion; but rather, when that opinion is foisted upon others and creates division.
Whether Christian or not, I would say that's a pretty rad piece of advice to go by. Let ALL of God's the people say... Amen.
I am a history enthusiast. I love history... that stuff that makes a lot of folks yawn or wish for a stiff drink... yeah, I flock to that like white on rice (and no, that is not intended to be any sort of racial slur or cultural jab - we've gotten REALLY off track with the offenses lately). During my time in graduate school, I studied theology and church history... the two go really nicely together like french fries and ketchup.
Sparing you the details of EVERYTHING that I learned, my relationship to the church, the bible and denominational hub-bubs changed significantly. And with that change, my understanding of God and relationships and community as a whole shifted.
Hence my compassion and understanding of the more, uh I hate labels but I'm about to use one for the sake of brevity... "conservative" of our brothers and sisters. I get where they are coming from, primarily because I was once in that camp myself. And yes, I realize that I am generalizing based on my own experience which does not necessarily include all view points.
When an individual's relationship (or culture, or identity, or survival, or emotion, or longing for structure of things that cannot be explained, etc) to the world around them is seen through the lenses of Adam and Eve with a creation story and a God Incarnate known as Jesus and a Bible that is considered to be not only holy but, for some, infallible (which particularly frightens me), then that defines how to understand things such as money, service, discipline, family and... dare I say it... marriage. Or at the very least, offers some pretty hefty guidance and boundaries.
Having been there, I get it.
I can also say that whatever frustrations or opinions foisted upon this "conservative" camp, for most the part the intention is not one of bigotry or hate or judgment. Rather, it's an understanding of the "how" and "why" of the world around them... some, I've seen it, are driven by sheer fear that God will smite and destroy if things don't go in the way they feel God has communicated. It can certainly feel like bigotry.
Oh wait, there was that slavery thing... that's a different blog entry.
Oh, and there's that one time I saw the evangelist in the street spit in a dude's face and call him a fag... yeah, this does actually happen. And it doesn't feel very good to see it.
For those who do not have this particular thought process when relating to the world around them, then naturally it seems or appears... um... silly? hateful? blind? The understanding of the world and how to relate to it is based on a different basis... maybe there's a God involved? Maybe there's several or none at all?
In short, we could be thinking the very same thing about each other!
My problem isn't with the "conservatives" or the Christians. My problem is with the idea that marriage is something that is first and foremost defined by the church... and here's why....
In June of 2009, I was authorized to officiate weddings, both civil and religious, within the Commonwealth of VA (and other states who did not require specific permission within their state lines). I was not authorized within the church. I was authorized before the Circuit Court judge.
When applying for a marriage license, couples in Virginia do not go before the church or their pastor for this document right? Right... they go to the clerk of the Circuit Court. It is local government deal man. Not a religious one.
In other words, if gays want to marry, and you have religious opinion on it, that's cool. If you are a pastor and do not support gay marriage, I fully support the freedom to refuse performing the ceremony. I still believe that all should hold tight to the freedom of conscience. (Besides, there are plenty of churches who do.)
I stand up for the church's right to define marriage as they see fit by their own conviction and moral code. I stand up for the church's right to adhere to their own belief system (because there are tons and tons of different churches let me tell ya).
I would caution those of us in the, ugh here I go again, "liberal" camp (I've also been told that I was "progressive", "mislead", "disillusioned", "stupid", "disappointing", "weird", "an abomination", "out there", "sick bitch", "dumbass", "awful sinner", by people that I have loved and respected... the list goes on)... to not exercise the same sort of "intolerance" in reverse. Ya know what I'm saying? Sure I've wanted to throat punch and call names and react because this stuff can cut ya to the quick (therapy helps!)... but isn't that also perpetuating the problem here?
Marriage can be defined as a union between and man and woman if a church wants to do that. But as an entire defining system for a country with a host of non-Christians or "liberal" Christians alike, marriage is not a monopoly. I mean, I know it's scary for our conservative folk... but I promise you, God is way bigger than your fear.
The gays aren't going to hurt your kids or take over the country. They are just going to exist... like they already do... as your neighbors, coworkers, friends, family and yes... deacons, pastors, lawyers, judges, police officers, veterans, soldiers, mechanics, NFL stars, FABULOUS interior decorators, etc. This is a human rights thingy... aaaaaaaaaaand therefore has nothing to do with marrying your dog... let's not be ridiculous people. C'mon. Dogs can't even cook or clean up after themselves. Have you met any gay men? That would never work out.
If you want the ball and chain, go for it. If you have a particular understanding of marriage? Have at it. Humans do as humans do... we love, we're in relationship, in community. Let morality/religion/spirituality or lack thereof, be an individual choice.
Let's challenge one another to love, respect, agree to disagree... and ask yourself before you speak:
Is it kind? Is it necessary?
One of the early Church Father's named Irenaus defined heresy not as difference of opinion; but rather, when that opinion is foisted upon others and creates division.
Whether Christian or not, I would say that's a pretty rad piece of advice to go by. Let ALL of God's the people say... Amen.
Friday, May 22, 2015
April's Fool
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| How about wine? |
I'm a mover. I do not sit still very well. I enjoy having a task ahead of me... it provides me with a sense of purpose and contribution. Yet this naughty L4 and L5 thingy mocks me on the daily, taunting me with its spasms and stiffness and overall asshat-ed-ness. Movement is minimal.
Here's a confession: I have grown to loathe the question "How are you?"... primarily because the truthful answer hasn't changed since 4/1/15.
How am I? Well, in pain... still. I can sometimes get off the toilet with ease and I've learned how to pick up all manner of small objects with my toes. Walking isn't terrible as long as it's not with my dog or anywhere near potential pitfalls. Sitting is a possibility, but only for brief periods of time lest you wish to watch a 36 year old require 5 minutes to plan out the launch from the edge of the chair. I've also learned that I prefer chairs with arms on them. That way, I have some sort of leverage as the catapult takes place.
As if this wasn't enough to tickle my "I can't stand this" fancy, let's throw a painful cyst in the mix too. Now NOTHING is comfortable... not laying down, not sitting up... not even breathing at this point. A tearful trip to the doctor resulted in additional pills.
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| Hahahaha... uh, no. |
Did you know that my breakfast is a smoothie with a handful of pills now? If you know me, you know how foreign this is for this "I-gag-at-the-thought-of-taking-a-pill" girl. Unless it's a pain pill... I tend to get over the fear quicker.
I wanted to jump for joy when the cyst left my ailing body. Except I can't jump.
So I had a beer instead.
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| The hills are alive... |
I'm actually looking forward to next week's MRI and nerve blocker. Yes, please stick a giant needle in my spine. Please shove me in a coffin-sized tube to take pictures of my innards. I promise I'll remember to smile.
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